When I first began these weekly Inspirations over a decade ago, one of my favorite sources for mining meaningful stories was William J. Bennett’s The Moral Compass (Simon & Schuster). Over the years, as I have read and re-read this collection, I have discovered that with the passage of time certain stories have different impacts. This is one of them. Originally, I just passed it over; this week, however, it jumped out and grabbed me.
I suppose that one gift of age is that we discover that time, though always marching forward as it passes us by, it continually whispers back to us that our purpose, our mission, our greatness, will not to be revealed by us living cloistered within ourselves, no matter how devout our constraint. Interaction is the key to unlocking our spiritual significance.
I do not wish to imply that those that choose to immerse themselves in prayer and contemplation are not spiritually powerful. Rather, that that the mundane life of the here and now, our attention to our family, friends, and our community also offers a path to spiritual power.
There once was a hermit, living in a cave in the desert. His only sustenance consisted of roots and acorns and a little bread that passing peasants gave him. He spent all his days praying and reading the holy Scriptures, and every hour of the night he would get up and offer a short prayer.
He did this because he loved the Lord and wanted to live a life acceptable to Him and to be a true saint—one of the greatest and best the world has ever known.
Finally, when he grew to be an old man, and had been faithful in his prayers, fasting, and vigils for many years, He asked the Lord to show him what progress he had made in his spiritual life.
“Oh God,” he prayed, “show me one who has attained more sanctity than I, that I may see how I can improve my life.” And immediately his prayer was answered.
A white robed angel came to him and said: “Tomorrow go to the nearest town, and in the marketplace, you will find a clown performing tricks and making people laugh. He is the man to seek.”
The hermit was astonished and humbled, for he had a suspicion that there were none better than he. But he did as the angel bid him, and in the public square he encountered a man who would first play a tune, then sing a song, then perform a few tricks of magic, after which he would pass his fool’s cap around for pennies.
The hermit watched him with disgust, but, after the performance was over, he drew him aside and asked if he had always been a clown, what good deeds he had done, and what prayers and penances had he performed which made him beloved by God.
The grin on the clown’s face vanished and he said, “Do not mock me, Holy Father. I am ashamed to confess I have forgotten how to pray. I don’t remember ever having done any good works. All I do is play my flute and laugh and sing, for the few pennies I can earn, even when my heart is sad.”
But the hermit would not accept this answer, for the angel had told him the clown was a greater saint than he. So, he insisted, “Remember! Sometime you must have performed some great act of goodness.”
But the minstrel replied, “No, I cannot remember doing any good act. I never deserved any praise from God or man.”
“But” persisted the hermit, “have you always been a vagabond? Have you always been a beggar, as you are now?”
“Oh, no,” answered the clown. “I will tell you how I became poor.
Years ago, when I was a young man, and had just received my share of my father’s estate, in the far-off city where I lived. As I was riding, I spied a woman by the roadside, tired out and weeping, as though pursued by enemies. I asked her what the matter was, and she said her husband and children had been sold into slavery for debt. Not only was she homeless and poor but evil men were after her to carry her away. Of course, there was nothing else to do but to buy her freedom and that of her family, which took all the money I had. This explains my poverty. There was no special merit in it. Anybody would have done the same, and I had almost forgotten about it.”
The hermit, however, now understood why the Lord thought the clown a greater saint than he.
“All my life I have been striving to save myself, and men call me a saint. But this poor piper, by one good deed, has far outstripped me in the heavenly race. He may forget what he had once, but God does not.”
Then the hermit returned to his cave, a sadder but a wiser person, for he knew that true saintliness could not be selfish. He added to his prayers and fasting a desire to help others all he could, but still he lived alone in his cave.
Ten years passed, and the hermit once again prayed for God to show him a greater saint than he, so that he might imitate him in righteousness.
Immediately the angel came, as before, and told him that on a small farm nearby, two women lived, and in them he would find two souls who could show him the higher call of duty and saintliness.
So, he made a second pilgrimage. When he reached the little farm, the two women received him warmly. They were greatly honored to receive a visit from so perfect a saint. His fame had traveled to them well before he arrived. They brought him food and drink and entertained him as lavishly as their small stores would permit.
The hermit could hardly wait to find out from them the secret of their acceptableness to God, so he asked them about their lives. “We have no history,” they replied. “We have always worked hard in the house and the fields, with our husbands. We have many beloved children, for whom we have cared. We have seen poverty and sickness, and death, but so have all the families about us, so we are no different from the rest.”
“Yes,” said the hermit, “but what about your good deeds? What have you done for God?”
“Why, nothing,” they answered. “We have no money to give away. We were too poor. We had no time to do much of anything for other people, for our families kept us busy from morning until night, but we are very happy and contented.”
With all his questioning, the hermit could not get any other answer, so he gave up, and was going away disappointed, when he thought to call at a neighbor’s house and ask there about the two women.
“Why,” they said, “they are the best people you ever saw. They have lived here for twenty-five years, and no one ever heard an angry word from either of them, and they have had many crosses to bear, I can tell you. They mind their own affairs, and they have a kind word and a pleasant smile for all.”
Then a great light seemed to break upon the mind of the hermit.
He saw how many ways there are of serving God. Some serve Him in churches and hermits’ cells by praise and prayer. Some serve Him on the highway, helping strangers in desperate need. Some live faithfully and gently in humble homes, working, raising up children, remaining kind and cheerful. Some bear pain patiently, for His sake. Endless, endless ways there are, that only the Heavenly Father sees.
And the hermit thought: “I have lived all alone these many years, and kept my temper, and been patient and uncomplaining. But could I have done the same with the worries of family life? I can get along with very little, but how would I be in poverty when others suffer besides myself? The strain and stress of bread winning for others might have been too much for me. I understand now what God meant to tell me. It is harder to be a saint in the home than in the desert, and to those who faithfully follow the harder way the greater credit belongs.
Perhaps it is wrong and selfish of me to go into the desert when the common life would have furnished me all I ought to ask—room to deny myself and a road to lead me daily nearer to God.”
It is one thing to utter a happy phrase from a protected cloister, another to think under fire—to think for action upon which great interests depend. The great problems are questions of here and now.
– Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes
Have an AWE-full weekend!
William “Bill” Bacque