The church has aureoled and sainted the men and women who have fought
the Cosmic Urge. To do nothing and to be nothing was regarded as a
virtue.
As the traveler journeys through Southern Italy, Sicily and certain
parts of what was Ancient Greece, he will see broken arches, parts of
viaducts, and now and again a beautiful column pointing to the sky.
All about is the desert, or solitary pastures, and only this white
milestone marking the path of the centuries and telling in its own
silent, solemn and impressive way of a day that is dead.
In the Fifth Century a monk called Simeon the Syrian, and known to us
as Simeon Stylites, having taken the vow of chastity, poverty and
obedience, began to fear greatly lest he might not be true to his
pledge. And that he might live absolutely beyond reproach, always in
public view, free from temptation, and free from the tongue of
scandal, he decided to live in the world, and still not be of it. To
this end he climbed to the top of a marble column, sixty feet high,
and there on the capstone he began to live a life beyond reproach.
Simeon was then twenty-four years old.
The environment was circumscribed, but there were outlook, sunshine,
ventilation--three good things. But beyond these the place had certain
disadvantages. The capstone was a little less than three feet square,
so Simeon could not lie down. He slept sitting, with his head bowed
between his knees, and, indeed, in this posture he passed most of his
time. Any recklessness in movement, and he would have slipped from his
perilous position and been dashed to death upon the stones beneath.
As the sun arose he stood up, just for a few moments, and held out his
arms in greeting, blessing and in prayer. Three times during the day
did he thus stretch his cramped limbs, and pray with his face to the
East. At such times, those who stood near shared in his prayers, and
went away blessed and refreshed.
How did Simeon get to the top of the column?
Well, his companions at the monastery, a mile away, said he was
carried there in the night by a miraculous power; that he went to
sleep in his stone cell and awoke on the pillar. Other monks said that
Simeon had gone to pay his respects to a fair lady, and in wrath God
had caught him and placed him on high. The probabilities are, however,
Terese, as viewed by an unbeliever, that he shot a line over the
column with a bow and arrow and then drew up a rope ladder and
ascended with ease.
However, in the morning the simple people of the scattered village saw
the man on the column.
All day he stayed there.
And the next day he was still there.
The days passed, with the scorching heat of the midday sun, and the
cool winds of the night.
Still Simeon kept his place.
The rainy season came on. When the nights were cold and dark, Simeon
sat there with bowed head, and drew the folds of his single garment, a
black robe, over his face.
Another season passed; the sun again grew warm, then hot, and the
sandstorms raged and blew, when the people below almost lost sight of
the man on the column. Some prophesied he would be blown off, but the
morning light revealed his form, naked from the waist up, standing
with hands outstretched to greet the rising sun.
Once each day, as darkness gathered, a monk came with a basket
containing a bottle of goat's milk and a little loaf of black bread,
and Simeon dropped down a rope and drew up the basket.
Simeon never spoke, for words are folly, and to the calls of saint or
sinner he made no reply. He lived in a perpetual attitude of
adoration.
Did he suffer? During those first weeks he must have suffered terribly
and horribly. There was no respite nor rest from the hard surface of
the rock, and aching muscles could find no change from the cramped and
perilous position. If he fell, it was damnation for his soul--all were
agreed as to this.
But man's body and mind accommodate themselves to almost any
condition. One thing at least, Simeon was free from economic
responsibilities, free from social cares and intrusion. Bores with sad
stories of unappreciated lives and fond hopes unrealized, never broke
in upon his peace. He was not pressed for time. No frivolous dame of
tarnished fame sought to share with him his perilous perch. The people
on a slow schedule, ten minutes late, never irritated his temper. His
correspondence never got in a heap.
Simeon kept no track of the days, having no engagements to meet, nor
offices to perform, beyond the prayers at morn, midday and night.
Memory died in him, the hurts became callouses, the world-pain died
out of his heart, and to cling became a habit.
Language was lost in disuse.
The food he ate was minimum in quantity; sensation ceased, and the
dry, hot winds reduced bodily tissue to a dessicated something called
a saint--loved, feared and reverenced for his fortitude.
This pillar, which had once graced the portal of a pagan temple, again
became a place of pious pilgrimage, and people flocked to Simeon's
rock, so that they might be near when he stretched out his black, bony
hands to the East, and the spirit of Almighty God, for a space,
hovered close around.
So much attention did the abnegation of Simeon attract that various
other pillars, marking the ruins of art and greatness gone, in that
vicinity, were crowned with pious monks. The thought of these monks
was to show how Christianity had triumphed over heathenism. Imitators
were numerous. About then the Bishops in assembly asked, "Is Simeon
sincere?" To test the matter of Simeon's pride, he was ordered to come
down from his retreat.
As to his chastity, there was little doubt, his poverty was beyond
question, but how about obedience to his superiors?
The order was shouted up to him in a Bishop's voice--he must let down
his rope, draw up a ladder, and descend.
Straightway Simeon made preparation to obey. And then the Bishops
relented and cried, "We have changed our minds, and now order you to
remain!"
Simeon lifted his hands in adoration and thankfulness and renewed his
lease.
And so he lived on and on and on--he lived on the top of that pillar,
never once descending for thirty years.
All his former companions grew aweary, and one by one died, and the
monastery bells tolled their requiem as they were laid to rest. Did
Simeon hear the bells and say, "Soon it will be my turn"?
Probably not. His senses had flown, for what good were they! The young
monk who now at eventide brought the basket with the bottle of goat's
milk and the loaf of brown bread was born since Simeon had taken his
place on the pillar.
"He has always been there," the people said, and crossed themselves
hurriedly.
But one evening when the young monk came with his basket, no line was
dropped down from above. He waited and then called aloud, but all in
vain.
When sunrise came, there sat the monk, his face between his knees, the
folds of his black robe drawn over his head. But he did not rise and
lift his hands in prayer.
All day he sat there, motionless.
The people watched in whispered silence. Would he arise at sundown and
pray, and with outstretched hands bless the assembled pilgrims?
And as they watched, a vulture came sailing slowly through the blue
ether, and circled nearer and nearer; and off on the horizon was
another--and still another, circling nearer and ever nearer.
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I would write across the sky in letters of light this
undisputed truth, proven by every annal of history,
that the only way to help yourself is through loyalty
to those who trust and employ you.