Stillness, Saints, and the Holy Balancing Act

Stillness, Saints, and the Holy Balancing Act: A Bit of Gospel Wisdom with a Twist of Tea.

Ah, now gather in close, pull up a chair by the fire, and let me spin you a tale that’s equal parts confusion, contemplation, and divine craic. You see, once upon a prayerful moment, I stumbled upon a holy homily that gave me such a spiritual whack across the brow, I had to sit down and take a proper think. It’s from none other than the venerable St. Isaac the Syrian—a man who thought silence was golden and neighbours were, well… perhaps better appreciated from a respectful distance. And sure, while I’m no stranger to the occasional raised brow for following Christ, this bit of spiritual wisdom from St. Isaac had me twisting and turning like a sheepdog in a field full of rabbits. So let’s unpack it together, in five full hearty servings, with a generous side of Irish sense and a dollop of humour for good measure.

The Fool’s Honour

Now, don’t get me wrong—I’ve no bone to pick with being called a fool for following Christ. In fact, it’d be more suspicious if folk weren’t giving you odd looks now and again. Sure, didn’t Himself say, “In the world you will have tribulation,” as if it were a weather forecast? The saints, God bless them, have always been a strange breed in the world’s eyes. Walk into a room with a rosary and a grin, and half the people think you're daft and the other half think you're judging them. But the harshest looks and the sharpest words? Oh, they often come from the pew two rows behind you—the very ones who claim to be walking the same road. You’d swear they thought holiness was a game of musical chairs, and they’re not about to let you nab the last seat.

The Sting in Stillness

Now here’s where things get a bit sticky. St. Isaac, in his homily, puts such a holy premium on stillness that he’d have you thinking the Good Samaritan should’ve just stayed home and written a thoughtful note. He talks of saints who avoided their kin like a dog avoids a bath, all in the name of keeping their hearts pure. Abba Arsenius, bless him, wouldn’t even lift his head to give a man a blessing. Another saint, whose own brother was knocking on death’s door, wouldn’t go see him for fear of tainting his inner peace. You’d be tempted to shout, “Would ya ever give over!” from the back pew. But this isn’t just cranky reclusion—no, it’s meant to be spiritual discipline, and St. Isaac holds it up like the finest of virtues. And sure, doesn’t that just bake your head?

The Tug of the Heart

I’ll admit, I wanted to soften those words straight away—wrap them in a nice theological blanket and tell myself, “Ah, he didn’t mean it like that.” I do it often, you see. I hear a hard word from Scripture, or from someone wiser than meself, and I reach for the spiritual Vaseline. But then comes the voice inside me—the big fella, full of pride, all puffed up and saying, “Don’t you dare soften it! Take it like a proper disciple.” Trouble is, that voice may not be the Holy Spirit at all. It could just be me trying to look holy while skipping the humility part. Because sometimes, the only way from where I am to where God wants me to be is through a little bit of softening, a bit of give, a bit of understanding that not all hard words are one-size-fits-all.

A Word for the World-Weary

St. Isaac, mind you, wasn’t talking to us folk who live in the world, juggling the dinner, the kids, the job, and the endless WhatsApps. He was writing to another hermit, a man who probably hadn’t heard a kettle boil in years. And while the proud spirit in me still wants fairness—one Gospel rule for all—it’s time to admit life’s more like a jigsaw than a blueprint. My calling may not be silence in the desert, but I still need moments of stillness—real, nourishing, holy quiet. And if I’m going to find it, it’ll be in early mornings, unplugged evenings, or while digging spuds in the back garden. The trick is to say no to the world now and again, so I can say yes to God. Stillness isn’t about shunning your neighbour—it’s about showing up better for them when you do.

The Little Exceptions

And there's more, the final twist in St. Isaac’s holy tale: right at the end, he admits that the hermit should still “see the faces of his neighbours on fixed days.” Would you look at that? After all the dramatic shunning and saintly solitude, we find he’s not talking about permanent ghosting at all—just a kind of spiritual boundary setting. It’s not “never see your neighbour,” but more like “don’t let them barge in whenever they fancy.” A bit of structure, a bit of balance—sure, even saints need a calendar. And isn’t that a grand lesson for us all? We can’t love everyone all the time, everywhere. But we can love the ones close to us, the ones God puts in our path, and sometimes loving them best means stepping back to fill our own cup. For as any good Irish mammy will tell you: you can’t pour from an empty teapot.