(A.D. 394.)
[There were two Macarii. Both are commemorated together by the
Greeks, on Jan. 19th; but the Latins commemorate S. Macarius of
Alexandria, on Jan. 2nd; and S. Macarius the Egyptian, on Jan.
15th. The history of this S. Macarius is perfectly authentic,
having been written by S. Palladius (B. 368,) in the year 421; the
writer knew S. Macarius personally, having been nine years in "the
cells," of which S. Macarius was priest. Three of these years
Macarius and Palladius lived together; so that, as the author says,
he had every opportunity of judging of his manner of life and
actions.]
Saint Macarius the younger was born in Alexandria, of poor parents, and
followed the trade of confectioner. Desirous of serving God with his
whole heart, he forsook the world in the flower of his age, and spent
upwards of sixty years in the deserts, in the exercise of fervent
penance and prayer. He first retired into the Thebaid, or Upper Egypt,
about the year 335; then, aiming at greater disengagement, he descended
to Lower Egypt, in or about the year 373. Here there were three deserts
almost adjoining each other; that of Scété; that of the Cells, so called
because of the multitude of cells wherewith its rocks were honey-combed;
and a third, which reached the western bank of the Nile, called the
Nitrian desert. S. Macarius had a cell in each of these deserts. When he
was in Nitria he gave advice to those who sought him. But his chief
residence was in the desert of the Cells. There each hermit lived
separate, assembling only on Saturday and Sunday, in the church, to
celebrate the divine mysteries, and to partake of the Holy Communion.
All the brothers were employed at some handicraft, generally they
platted baskets or mats. All in the burning desert was still; in their
cells the hermits worked, and prayed, and cooked their scanty victuals,
till the red ball of the sun went down behind the sandy plain to the
west; then from all that region rose a hum of voices, the rise and fall
of song, as the evening psalms and hymns were being chanted by that
great multitude of solitaries in dens and caves of the earth.
Palladius has recorded an instance of the great self-denial observed by
these hermits. A present was made to S. Macarius of a bunch of grapes,
newly gathered. The holy man carried it to a neighbouring solitary who
was sick; he sent it to another, and each wishing that some dear brother
should enjoy the fruit rather than himself, passed it on to another; and
thus the bunch of grapes made the circuit of the cells, and was brought
back to Macarius.
The severity of life practised by these hermits was great. For seven
years together S. Macarius lived on raw herbs and pulse, and for the
three following years contented himself with four or five ounces of
bread a day. His watchings were not less surprising. He told Palladius
that it had been his great desire to fix his mind on God alone for five
days and nights continuously. And when he supposed he was in the proper
mood, he closed his cell, and stood up, and said, "Now thou hast angels
and archangels, and all the heavenly host in company with thee. Be in
heaven, and forget earthly things." And so he continued for two nights
and days, wrapped in heavenly contemplations, but then his hut seemed to
flame about him, even the mat on which he stood, and his mind was
diverted to earth. "But it was as well," said he; "for I might have
fallen into pride."
The reputation of the monastery of Tabenna, under S. Pachomius, drew him
to it in disguise. S. Pachomius told him he seemed too far advanced in
years to begin to practise the austerities undergone by himself and his
monks; nevertheless, on his earnest entreaty, he admitted him. Then Lent
drew on, and the aged Macarius saw the monks fasting, some two whole
days, others five, some standing all night, and sitting at their work
during the day. Then he, having soaked some palm leaves, as material for
his work, went apart into a corner, and till Easter came, he neither ate
nor drank, nor sat down, nor bowed his knee, nor lay down, and sustained
life on a few raw cabbage leaves which he ate on Sundays; and when he
went forth for any need he returned silently to his work, and occupied
his hands in platting, and his heart in prayer. But when the others saw
this, they were astonished, and remonstrated with S. Pachomius, saying,
"Why hast thou brought this fleshless man here to confound us with his
austerities. Send him away, or we will desert this place." Then the
abbot went to Macarius, and asked him who he was, and when he told his
name, Pachomius was glad, and cried, "Many years have I desired to see
thee. I thank thee that thou hast humbled my sons; but now, go thy way,
sufficiently hast thou edified us; go, and pray for us." Macarius, on
one occasion, to subdue his flesh, filled two great baskets with sand,
and laying them on his shoulders, walked over the hot desert, bowed
beneath them. A friend meeting him, offered to ease him of his burden,
but "No," said the old hermit, "I have to torment my tormentor;" meaning
his body.
One day, a gnat stung him in his cell, and he killed it. Then, ashamed
that he had allowed himself to be irritated by the petty insect, and to
have lost an opportunity of enduring mortification with equanimity, he
went to the marshes of Scété, and stayed there six months, suffering
greatly from the stings of the insects. When he returned, he was so
disfigured by their bites, that he was only recognized by his voice.
The terrible severity with which these Egyptian hermits punished
themselves is perhaps startling, but it was something needed at a time
when the civilized world was sunk in luxury, profligacy, and
indifference. That was a time which called for a startling and vivid
contrast to lead minds into self-inspection. "Private profligacy among
all ranks was such as cannot be described in any modern pages. The
clergy of the cities, though not of profligate lives, and for the most
part unmarried, were able to make no stand against the general
corruption of the age, because--at least if we are to trust such writers
as Jerome and Chrysostom--they were giving themselves up to ambition and
avarice, intrigue and party spirit. No wonder if, in such a state of
things, the minds of men were stirred by a passion akin to despair. It
would have ended often, but for Christianity, in such an actual despair
as that which had led, in past ages, more than one noble Roman to slay
himself, when he lost all hope for the Republic. Christianity taught
those who despaired of society, of the world--in one word, of the Roman
empire, and all that it had done for men--to hope at last for a Kingdom
of God after death. It taught those, who, had they been heathens and
brave enough, would have slain themselves to escape out of a world which
was no place for honest men, that the body must be kept alive, at least,
for the sake of the immortal soul, doomed, according to its works, to
endless bliss or endless torment. But that the world--such, at least, as
they saw it then--was doomed, Scripture and their own reason taught
them. They did not merely believe, but see, in the misery and confusion,
the desolation, and degradation around them, that all that was in the
world, the lust of the flesh, the lust of the eye, and the pride of
life, was not of the Father, but of the world; that the world was
passing away, and the lust thereof, and that only he who did the will of
God could abide for ever. They did not merely believe, but saw, that the
wrath of God was revealed from heaven against all unrighteousness of
men; and that the world in general was treasuring up to themselves
wrath, tribulation, and anguish, against a day of wrath and revelation
of the righteous judgment of God, who would render to every man
according to his works. That they were correct in their judgment of the
world about them, contemporary history proves abundantly. That they were
correct, likewise, in believing that some fearful judgment was about to
fall on man, is proved by the fact that it did fall; that the first half
of the fifth century saw, not only the sack of Rome, but the conquest
and desolation of the greater part of the civilized world, amid
bloodshed, misery, and misrule, which seemed to turn Europe into a
chaos, which would have turned it into a chaos, had there not been a
few men left who still felt it possible and necessary to believe in God,
and to work righteousness. Under these terrible forebodings, men began
to flee from a doomed world, and try to be alone with God, if by any
means they might save each man his own soul in that dread day."[16]
S. Macarius, of Alexandria, and his namesake, the Egyptian, lived much
together. They were both exiled in 375, at the instigation of the Arian
patriarch of Alexandria, who dreaded their influence over the people,
and zeal for the orthodox faith. They crossed the Nile together in a
ferryboat, when they encountered two military tribunes, accompanied by a
great array of horses, with decorated bridles, of equipages, soldiers,
and pages covered with ornaments. The officers looked long at the two
monks in their old dresses, humbly seated in a corner of the bark. They
might well look at them, for in that bark two worlds stood face to face;
old Rome, degraded by the emperors, and the new Christian republic, of
which the monks were the precursors. As they approached the shore, one
of the tribunes said to the cenobites, "You are happy, for you despise
the world." "It is true," answered the Alexandrine, "we despise the
world, and the world despises you. You have spoken more truly than you
intended; we are happy in fact, and happy in name, for we are called
Macarius, which means in Greek happy."
The tribune made no answer, but, returning to his house, renounced all
his wealth and rank, and went to seek happiness in solitude.
In art, S. Macarius is represented with wallets of sand on his
shoulders; sometimes with a hyaena and its young, because the story is
told that one day a hyaena brought her young one and laid it at the feet
of the hermit. He looked at the animal, and saw that it was blind,
therefore he pitied the poor whelp, and prayed to God; then he touched
the eyes of the young hyaena, and it saw plain. Next day, the mother
brought a sheepskin and laid it at his feet, and this the hermit wore
continually afterwards, till he gave it to S. Melania.