After the death of St. Antony, St. Sisoes was one of the most shining
lights of the Egyptian deserts. He was an Egyptian by birth. Having
quitted the world from his youth, he retired to the desert of Sceté,
and lived some time under the direction of abbot Hor. The desire of
finding a retreat yet more unfrequented induced him to cross the
Nile and hide himself in the mountain where Saint Antony died some
time before. The memory of that great man’s virtues being still
fresh, wonderfully supported his fervor. He imagined he saw him,
and heard the instructions he was wont to deliver to his disciples;
and he strained every nerve to imitate his most heroic exercises,
the austerity of his penance, the rigor of his silence, the almost
unremitting ardor of his prayer, insomuch that the reputation of his
sanctity became so illustrious as to merit the full confidence of all
the neighboring solitaries. Some even came a great distance to be
guided in the interior ways of perfection; and, in spite of the pains
he took, he was forced to submit his love of silence and retreat
to the greater duty of charity. He often passed two days without
eating, and was so rapt in God that he forgot his food, so that it
was necessary for his disciple Abraham to remind him that it was
time to break his fast. He would sometimes be even surprised at the
notice, and contend that he had already made his meal; so small was
the attention he paid to the wants of his body.[30] His prayer was so
fervent that it often passed into ecstasy. At other times his heart
was so inflamed with divine love, that, scarce able to support its
violence, he only obtained relief from his sighs, which frequently
escaped without his knowledge, and even against his will.[31] It was
a maxim with him, that a solitary ought not to choose the manual
labor which is most pleasing to him.[32] His ordinary work was making
baskets. He was tempted one day as he was selling them, to anger;
instantly he threw the baskets away and ran off. By efforts like
these to command his temper he acquired a meekness which nothing
could disturb. His zeal against vice was without bitterness; and
when his monks fell into faults, far from affecting astonishment
or the language of reproach, he helped them to rise again with a
tenderness truly paternal.[33] When he once recommended patience
and the exact observance of rules, he told the following anecdote:
“Twelve monks, benighted on the road, observed that their guide was
going astray. This, for fear of breaking their rule of silence, they
forbore to notice, thinking within themselves that at daybreak he
would see his mistake and put them in the right road. Accordingly,
the guide discovering his error, with much confusion, was making many
apologies; when the monks being now at liberty to speak, only said,
with the greatest good humor, ‘Friend, we saw very well that you
went out of your road; but we were then bound to silence.’ The man
was struck with astonishment, and very much edified at this answer
expressive of such patience and strictness of observance.”[34]
Some Arians had the impudence to come to his mount, and utter their
heresy before his disciples. The saint, instead of an answer, desired
one of the monks to read St. Athanasius’s treatise against Arianism,
which at once stopped their mouths and confounded them. He then
dismissed them with his usual good temper. St. Sisoes was singularly
devoted to humility; and in all his advices and instructions to
others, held constantly before their eyes this most necessary
virtue. A recluse saying to him one day, “Father, I always place
myself in the presence of God;” he replied, “It would be much more
your advantage to place yourself below every creature, in order to
be securely humble.” Thus, while he never lost sight of the divine
presence, it was ever accompanied with the consciousness of his
own nothingness and misery.[35] “Make yourself little,” said he to
a monk, “renounce all sensual satisfactions, disengage yourself
from the empty cares of the world, and you will find true peace of
mind.”[36] To another, who complained that he had not yet arrived at
the perfection of St. Antony, he said, “Ah! if I had but one only
of that great man’s feelings, I would be all one flame of divine
love.”[37] Notwithstanding his extraordinary mortifications, they
appeared so trifling in his mind, that he called himself a sensual
man, and would have every one else to be of the same opinion.[38]
If charity for strangers sometimes constrained him to anticipate
dinner-hour, at another season, by way of indemnification, he
protracted his fast, as if his body were indebted to so laudable
a condescension.[39] He dreaded praise so much, that in prayer,
as was his custom, with hands lifted up to heaven, when sometimes
he apprehended observation, he would suddenly drop them down. He
was always ready to blame himself, and saw nothing praiseworthy in
others which did not serve him for an occasion to censure his own
lukewarmness.[40] On a visit of three solitaries wanting instruction,
one of them said, “Father, what shall I do to shun hell-fire?” He
made no reply. “And for my part,” added another, “how shall I escape
the gnashing of teeth, and the worm that never dies?” “What also
will become of me,” concluded the third, “for every time I think on
utter darkness I am ready to die with fear?” Then the saint breaking
silence, answered, “I confess that these are subjects which never
employ my thoughts, and as I know that God is merciful, I trust he
will have compassion on me. You are happy,” he added, “and I envy
your virtue. You speak of the torments of hell, and your fears on
this account must be powerful guards against the admission of sin.
Alas! then, it is I should exclaim, What shall become of me? I, who
am so insensible as never even to reflect on the place of torments
destined to punish the wicked after death. Undoubtedly this is the
reason I am guilty of so much sin.” The solitaries retired much
edified with this humble reply.[41] The saint said one time, “I am
now thirty years praying daily that my Lord Jesus may preserve me
from saying an idle word, and yet I am always relapsing.” This could
only be the language which humility dictates; for he was singularly
observant of the times of retirement and silence, and kept his cell
constantly locked to avoid interruption, and always gave his answers
to those who asked his advice in the fewest words.[42] The servant
of God, worn out with sickness and old age, yielded at last to his
disciple Abraham’s advice, and went to reside a while at Clysma,
a town on the border, or at least in the neighborhood of the Red
Sea.[43] Here he received a visit from Ammon, or Amun, abbot of
Raithe, who, observing his affliction for being absent from his
retreat, endeavored to comfort him by representing that his present
ill state of health wanted the remedies which could not be applied in
the desert. “What do you say,” returned the saint, with a countenance
full of grief, “was not the ease of mind I enjoyed there everything
for my comfort?” He was not at ease till he returned to his retreat,
where he finished his holy course. The solitaries of the desert
assisting at his agony, heard him, as Rufinus relates, cry out,
“Behold, abbot Antony, the choir of prophets and the angels come to
take my soul.” At the same time his countenance shone, and being some
time interiorly recollected with God, he cried out anew, “Behold! our
Lord comes for me.” At the instant he expired, his cell was perfumed
with a heavenly odor.[44] He died about the year 429, after a retreat
of at least sixty-two years in St. Antony’s Mount. His feast is
inserted in the Greek Menologies on the 6th of July; and in some
of the Latin Calendars on the 4th of the same month. See Rosweide,
Cotelier, Tillemont, t. 12, p. 453, and the Bollandists ad diem 6
Julii, t. 2, p. 280.
* * * * *
This saint must not be confounded with two other Sisoes, who lived
in the same age. One, surnamed the Theban, lived at Calamon, in
the territory of Arsinoe. Another had his cell at Petra. It is of
Sisoes the Theban that the following passage is related, though some
authors by mistake have ascribed it to St. Sisoes of Sceté. A certain
recluse having received some offence, went to Sisoes to tell him
that he must have revenge. The holy old man conjured him to leave
his revenge to God, to pardon his brother, and forget the injury he
had received. But seeing that his advice had no weight with him,
“At least,” said he, “let us both join in an address to God,” then
standing up, he prayed thus aloud: “Lord, we no longer want your
care of our interests or your protection, since this monk maintains
that we can and ought to be our own avengers.” This extraordinary
petition exceedingly moved the poor recluse, and throwing himself at
the saint’s feet, he begged his pardon, protesting that from that
moment he would forget he had ever been injured.[45] This holy man
loved retirement so much that he delayed not a moment even in the
church after the mass to hasten to his cell. This was not to indulge
self-love or an affected singularity, but to shun the danger of
dissipation, and enjoy in silence and prayer the sweet conversation
of God. For at proper seasons, especially when charity required it,
he was far from being backward in giving himself to the duties of
society. Such was his self-denial that he seldom or ever eat bread.
However, being invited one time by the neighboring solitaries to a
small repast, in condescension, and to show how little he was guided
by self-will, observing that it would be agreeable, “I will eat,”
said he, “bread, or anything you lay before me.”[46] See Bulteau,
Hist. Mon. d’Orient, l. 1, c. 3, n. 7, p. 56. Tillemont, t. 12, and
Pinius, one of the continuators of Bollandus, on the 6th of July.