Obedience as a virtue
Did the 'vow of obedience' appear with the first monastic Rule of Life? What of the wild, autonomous spirit of obedience among the hermits?
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Part 18 of our Ulterior Lives series: A Slow Research Project into The Outsider Politics of Monasticism. Read the introduction here.
In his book Christian Monasticism, the historian David Knowles points out that the first Rule of Life brought into being the third part of that well known triad: poverty, chastity and obedience. Among the desert hermits, poverty and chastity were assumed monastic virtues and practiced by all. But only with the birth of the Rule, with its hierarchy and its codes of conduct, was there a chain of command and a written code to which one must be obedient. As it says in the Rule of St Pachomius:
“Those who spurn the precepts of the Superiors and the rules of the monastery, which have been established by God’s precept, and who make light of the counsels of the elders, shall be punished…”
Is it true that obedience only came with the Rule? Yes, in a way. In another way, perhaps not. There’s a paradox to consider here which is, I think, illuminating.
Among the hermits, and apart from any Rule of Life, obedience was certainly considered a virtue. There is a tale in the Sayings of the Desert Fathers that runs like so:
“They said of John, the disciple of Paul, that he was full of the virtue of obedience. There was a tomb in which lived a dangerous lioness. Paul saw the dung of the lioness lying round and said to John, ‘Go and fetch that dung.’”
I have no idea why Paul would ask him to fetch the dung. Was it useful? Was it fuel? Was it an arbitrary test of John’s obedience? Anyway:
“‘What shall I do, abba, about the lioness?’ The hermit said, as a joke, ‘If she comes at you, tie her up and bring her here.’ So John went in the evening, and the lioness rushed at him. He obeyed the hermit and ran to catch her, so the lioness turned and fled.
John chased her, shouting ‘Wait! My abba told me to tie you up.’ He caught her and tied her up. The hermit sat a long time waiting for him, and was getting anxious because he was late. But at last John came, and brought the lioness with him, tied up. Paul marvelled at the sight. But wanting to humble him, he beat him and said, ‘You fool, why have you brought me that silly dog?’ and he immediately untied her, and drove her away.”
What does this story say about obedience? It seems to say various completely different things at once. It says that John was so full of the virtue of obedience that he would fulfil the most absurd demands, whatever they may be. But then he is actually beaten by old Paul, as though his excess of obedience was not in fact virtuous, but foolish.
But then again, it says that Paul beat John in order to humble him, as though his virtue of obedience was a little too brilliant, and so the hermit was worried it would go to the monk’s head. And having considered all this, we should note that there wasn’t really anything to be obedient to, as far as tying up lions was concerned, since Paul only asked him to do it as a joke. Here is the virtue of obedience: comical in its excess and magnificent even in its being utterly misplaced.
Since the tale resists any simplistic moral, perhaps it’s better to just stand back and take in the picture. It is the most wonderful thing. A common joy that defies neat analysis: virtue, at play amid the complex space of a good relationship.
In the context of the monastic Rule, obedience is a simpler matter, and its function is exactly this: to keep things simple, to reduce ambiguities, to clarify expectations, to maintain social order. These are very often excellent things and they become more necessary as the scale of a community grows.
We might argue, however, that where there is a penal code in play, obedience as virtue becomes impossible. One is no longer exercising virtue where one is simply avoiding punishment. You cannot produce a system that produces the virtue of obedience by force. It would destroy the virtue by forcing it.
To put it differently, wherever there is a rule, people will be drawn toward the threshold of what is permissible. In the anomalous desert, however, where there was no rule, the hermits were drawn inward toward virtue in their comedic contest of self-denial. Prohibitive boundaries might effectively reverse something elemental to the spirit of hermetic life.
Similarly the language of punishment brings into question the idea of penance. Among the hermits there was an accord regarding monastic virtue and conduct. They watched themselves with severe scrutiny, while preferring not to pass judgement on one another. They did not practice punishment, but penance. Though they did indeed sometimes consult one another about what a suitable penance might look like, ultimately they paid for their own perceived wrongs of their own free will.
The Rule, however, in formalising what was prohibited, gave birth to a penal code. Penance here is in danger of sliding into punishment: not something freely given by the individual to God, but something taken by force, exacted by law. It is entirely possible that the individual might willingly engage in the process; they might still be a willing giver of their penance. Or, they might not. Either way, it was obligatory, and this was new. Through the Rule, they gained social stability within the bounds of realistic expectations. What was lost was a degree of disciplined autonomy and the kind of authenticity and truthfulness that might grow in the rare and perhaps mythic soil of unmanaged life.
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