by Winston Hottman

In hindsight it was no coincidence that I picked up Athanasius’s Life of Antony during the time of the virus. The reading had been previously assigned to me as part of my doctoral studies, and though I had intended to get around to it for a while I had repeatedly put it off. As with many students of the Church Fathers, early Christian spirituality had taken a backseat to “headier” subjects like patristic theology and exegesis. But as it turns out, I picked up Antony’s story at just the right time.

As Peter Leithart has recently argued, crises are apocalyptic in their capacity to expose what is truly in the heart. Tests that shake our world sift between what is merely professed with the mouth and what is confessed in faith. As such, they cut through theological clichés and doctrinal superficiality to reveal what is truly believed, showcasing where our certainties and confidence really reside. But as Leithart explains, our test will not end with the current crisis. “We will come through this, and that reprieve will be as critical a test as the crisis has been. What will we do when things return to ‘normal’? Will we recognize the decadent abnormality of our pre-pandemic norms?”[1]

This line of questioning pierced the conscious of the desert fathers in the decades following the cessation of imperially authorized persecution against the Church. As the Church exited crisis mode and began the historical procession to its coronation as the empire’s official religion, Christian ascetics like Antony reminded believers that the glory of the faith is the cross. Their austere existences poignantly contrasted the decadent abnormality of courtier Christianity as their teachings called the Church back to faithfulness through cruciformity. They regarded prosperity as a far greater threat to the church than destitution. Rather than running from crisis, they pressed into it. For them, to not perceive the perpetual crisis of human existence or to believe that one could avoid it was to have a fundamentally distorted view of reality.

Consider, for example, Antony’s spiritual advice to those who came to him seeking to know how to follow in his way of life. Recalling the words of the Apostle Paul about dying daily, he reminds his audience that the fragility of human existence ought to be a perpetual object of contemplation.

Similarly, if we bear in mind the unpredictability of our human condition, we will not sin. For when we wake from sleep, we must be doubtful as to whether we will reach evening and when we lie down to rest, we should not be confident that daylight will return. We should everywhere be mindful of the uncertainty of our nature and our life and understand that we are governed by God’s providence. Not only will we not go astray nor be swept away by some flimsy desire, but neither will we be angry with anyone nor strive to accumulate earthly treasures. Instead, fearing death each day and always thinking of our separation from the body, we will trample upon all that is transitory.[2]

For Antony, such words were no mere lip service. After all, Antony is not remembered primarily for his teaching but for his life. The real power of Athanasius’s biography resides in its graphic portrayal of Antony’s radical conformity to the cross of Christ. If the Son of Man had no place to lay his head, why should Antony? If the Son of God was led by the Spirit into the wilderness, why shouldn’t Antony? While we might disagree with aspects of this monastic ideal (and certainly it was not regarded by its practitioners or advocates as a universal template for Christians), it would be a mistake to ignore the challenge it issues in its contrast to our own decadent abnormality. The life of Antony reminds us that the cross is not an event confined to the past nor is it an exception or an inconvenient interruption to our lives. It is our perpetual crisis. As it has done over the centuries, the life of Antony foists the question: What will we do when things return to “normal?”

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[1] Peter Leithart, https://www.firstthings.com/web-exclusives/2020/03/apocalypse-now

[2] Athanasius, Life of Antony, 19 (in Early Christian Lives, trans. and ed. Carolinne White [New York: Penguin Books, 1998.])