Discourse 17

On the paths near to God that are revealed to a person from the labors of the night vigil. And those who labor in it through the practice of vigil: their whole days are sweetened by it. 17. Do not suppose, O human, that there is among all the labors of the ascetics a practice greater and more excellent than the labor of vigil. Truly I say: that even if by day the ascetic has no distraction from bodily desires and a passing thought, yet a slight separation from the world and a small engagement with vigil would not be difficult for me to say to you this truth: that as with wings his thoughts fly in a short time and ascend to God for his delight. And in it praise is easily found, and in it high knowledge from contemplation washes away in its brevity. The solitary of vigil is confirmed in the distinction of the air: do not regard him as one who is evil in appearance. Truly: this is the order that the angels perform. For even those who labor in this practice cannot be left without great spiritual gifts from God, because of the wakefulness and clarity of their hearts, and because of the steadfast thought of their minds directed toward him.

The soul, then, that labors in this practice of the vigil is met: the eyes of the cherubim become hers in the subtlety of the air and its sharpness, to gaze at all times upon the heavenly visions. But do not suppose, O human, that one who, by great knowledge and discernment, chooses for himself this great and divine labor, when all this weight is removed for him to enjoy, by this glorious practice which he has chosen, is not also concerned that by day he guard his soul from the confusion of affairs and the tumult of deeds, so that he not be empty even of the wondrous fruits and great fragrances which are destined to be plucked from it. And as for one for whom this is easy, I am confident to say, without lying, that he does not even know for what purpose this entire labor—the vigils, the rising from sleep, the great toil, the weariness of the tongue, and the standing on his feet all night—is, if his end is not there where he sings and prays, but in a fixed habit, and as if without discernment. And if it were not so, as I say, how would he be able to be hidden and remain from what is possible, from the thought that is fixed on the fruits of his labor that are superior?

But instead of this, he would be laboring at the holy task of reading the Scriptures, which is the sweetener of the air, and especially it is a bath for prayer, and a helper of the vigil and its companion, and a light for the mind, and a guide for the path, and a sower of the fullness of theory in prayer. And it binds the thought from wandering, and from going to roam in empty spaces. And it sows in the soul the remembrance of God and the ways of the saints that are pleasing to him. And to the air, it imparts wisdom and chastity. For what reason, then, O hasty man, do you not conduct your affairs with discernment? For you show upon yourself by such folly that you stand all night on your feet and exercise your limbs in hymns, psalms, and prayers. It is too little for you that in a short hour of the day you should be equal to the grace from God, because of your bodily weakness. Why do you exercise yourself and sow by night, and scatter your labors by day, and become without fruit? And you frighten away that wakefulness and warmth of the vigil that stands before you, by the disturbed practices of man and the work of the flesh, and you lose your profit in the confusion of nothing.

If you were to attach the night’s meditation, or a person, to the work of the day, and that warmth of the heart’s members, you would not make a break in the middle; in a short time you would meet the joy of Jesus. But from this you know that you are sick without discernment. And you are no longer aware that the moon follows the clouds because of its nature. You suppose, therefore, that it is because of weariness alone, and not because of anything else that is seen to be born from it. What, then, is the grace that is small in its worth? And know for what reason the wise ones urge hope against old age. And behold, all this is difficult for the sick one: that when they are awake in their vessels and in their thoughts, they offer prayers throughout the whole night, he knew, and also the strength that comes from the guard of the day. And what kind of help it gives to the mind in that direction of the night, within its vigil, that of separation; and what kind of authority of thoughtlessness and vigilance and sobriety that silence gives him, so that without hindrance and disturbance, freely he may gather. A multitude of words in their abundance.

But this also the same author says: that the body becomes weak from remaining because of its feebleness from the labor of fasting, and because of its great love, it is able, indeed, by the vigil alone, through the solitude of its labor, to make up for that steadfastness of prayer, and for the heart to receive consolation in order to know the spiritual powers. Only if during the night it does not enter into the causes of the day. Truly, I say to you, O solitary one of the cell, to acquire the wakefulness of that which is with God and the knowledge of new life, so that throughout your whole life you may not be satiated with this manner of vigil, from which your eyes are opened to see the whole glory of the manner and the power of the path of righteousness.

And if there is also a time when the thought of laxity overcomes you, as from experience—that helper of yours who teaches and makes you wise in changes such as these, through coldness and also through trembling, or from events and circumstances, or because of the dryness or weakness of your body—and because of this it comes to this: that you wish to hang up the body, you compel yourself to sleep from the evening. I ask of you with love that you also desist from all that weariness of chanting and the labors of service, and the many blessings of prayer as is customary. Sit alone, if there is sufficient capacity. It says: when you are awake, do not chant and do not prostrate. And if you are able, pray in your heart alone. And as for sleep: do not sleep. And pass all the watches of the night while you are seated, in the beautiful meditation of the customary practice. And to your heart alone, do not be troubled and darkened by drowsiness. And again, that lightness which from before, and strength and trembling come to you from grace, and you rejoice and exult, and you give thanks to God. For heaviness and lightness such as this are left upon a person as if for a test. Now then, a person stirs his seat warmly and shakes off the dust from it, and chastises his soul a little; immediately grace approaches as if in a moment.

Then another power comes, in which the multitude of good things and changes of assistance are hidden. And the human being is astonished and marvels when he recalls the former heaviness and the lightness and ease of that time, how he was able to receive such a change as this. And from here he learns by experience that even in other times, when that heaviness comes, it will be recognized. And if in the first times he had not been hasty, he would not have attained this knowledge. See how wise the human being becomes when he is lightly roused against himself and grows strong in the time of battles; but if it is only a natural condition that remains with him constantly, and it is not a battle but an illness or a weakness of afflictions, against which it is not profitable to contend, then it remains for him to afflict himself, being harmed in everything. A silent stillness with reading, and a patient endurance that anoints, easily stirs up the mind’s passion for the will concerning the virtues, if by causes it does not become a place of silent stillness in the midst. The thoughts from labors are stirred up in stillness; they themselves, without the occasion of their being able, produce these two fountains and a flood of baptism, by means of tears that flow and moisten the cheeks in their abundance.

When your body is humbled in prostration by means of vigilant silence, you will perceive in your body the sharp, pressing pain of the tremor of motion, beyond the deep trembling of the customary prayer of the pure, which was established in your thought by the raising up. Mix your sustenance with ashes, and let your belly cleave to the dust, and bind up your mind from wandering. And know the changes of your prayer and your labor which is above your nature, until God has mercy on you and sends you light to know how to humble yourself, so that you do not perish by your own evil. Do not cease from diligence until you find in your heart the sweetness of repentance, and discover humility, and your heart is expanded in God.