Only Jesus: The Solitude, Death, and Glory of St. Paul of Thebes

I have forgotten my name.

Not lost; forgotten, like a cloak shed when winter breaks.

I no longer need it here.

Names are for men who must distinguish themselves from other men.

I have lived so long alone that there is no one to call me.

Here in this cave, only God calls and He calls without sound.

I did not always know this peace.

When I came to the desert I carried the world inside me:

faces like wounds, memories like fire, cravings like wolves.

I walked into silence and found noise.

I fled men and found myself.

I sought God and found everything that was not Him

rising up in me like a tide.

At first the solitude tasted of hunger.

My heart howled for human warmth.

The mind, starved of distraction, devoured itself:

chewed old injuries, replayed old loves,

wrestled with shadows long dead.

But slowly, oh so slowly,

memory ceased to bleed.

Longing softened to prayer.

Thought grew transparent, like water in winter.

And the man I once was faded

like a star at dawn.

I have not spoken a human word in decades,

yet my heart has never ceased speaking to God.

Lord Jesus Christ.

Lord Jesus Christ.

Lord Jesus Christ.

Prayer is no longer something I do.

It is what I am.

As breath belongs to lungs,

so the Name belongs to my very being.

⸻

There were nights when demons circled like jackals,

not with horns, not with monsters’ faces,

but with temptation subtle as thirst.

They whispered of bread,

of company,

of life remembered.

They showed me the world I had left,

soft beds, warm voices, full tables, familiar hands.

They struck at the tender place of memory

until tears soaked the sand beneath me.

I did not conquer them.

I endured them.

You do not kill darkness;

you wait for the sun.

And in the waiting,

darkness thinned.

Now temptation knocks only faintly;

a traveler who knows the door will not open.

The self I was, passionate, afraid, longing, has dissolved.

A new self stands in its place;

not mine, but His.

I am no longer Paul as men remember.

I am the silence in which God speaks.

⸻

The senses have changed.

I do not see trees; I see the praise they breathe.

I do not hear wind; I hear the Spirit passing by.

I do not taste dates; I taste sweetness God hid in fruit.

Even the scorpion is sacrament,

reminding flesh that death is only a veil.

Time has unraveled.

Days are no longer counted.

The sun rises.

Prayer continues.

The sun sets.

Prayer continues.

Time is a garment I no longer wear.

This is poverty.

This is wealth.

This is freedom.

⸻

Then, one morning, I felt it.

Death approached like evening breeze, cool and gentle.

My limbs grew light, as if my bones were filled with wind.

My breath thinned to a thread.

The desert held its breath with me.

And in that stillness a light gathered:

not cast by sun or fire,

but born from within.

Not vision,

revelation.

The cave fell away.

The desert shrank to a grain of sand in God’s palm.

And I heard a voice that was no voice:

Beloved,

you are mine.

Come.

I saw nothing with eyes,

yet I saw everything with soul.

A great procession of light,

ten thousand upon ten thousand,

angels like living flame,

their silence louder than thunder.

They needed no wings,

light itself bore them.

They drew near not to frighten but to welcome,

not to seize but to gather,

like brothers long separated.

And one, shining like the first morning,

knelt beside me,

his face joy itself.

He touched my hand,

and where flesh once was,

spirit answered.

My final breath rose like incense from the heart:

Lord Jesus Christ,

receive me.

I have nothing,

give me only You.

Let me be lost in Your light

as a spark in flame.

Only Jesus.

Only Jesus.

Forever Jesus.

And the word forever was already happening.

The angel smiled,

or perhaps smile itself was created anew in that moment,

and I felt myself lifted without movement,

carried without being carried,

drawn like breath returning to its Source.

⸻

If one had entered the cave at that hour

he would have found a body,

thin, worn, peaceful as water in a still pool.

But he would have seen something stranger still:

A lion standing guard:

gentle, watchful,

as though creation itself refused to disturb the holy.

And above the body,

though no mortal eye could see it,

a soul rising like dawn.

Not leaving earth

but entering its true depth.

Not departing life

but finishing it.

And heaven opened

not with sound

but with recognition.

A child had come home.

⸻

What remains of Paul?

Not name.

Not history.

Not flesh.

Only this:

A soul emptied of everything

and filled with God.

This is the end of solitude.

This is the meaning of poverty.

This is the purpose of all prayer:

Not that man find God,

but that man become nothing

so God may become All.

Only Jesus.

Now and forever Jesus.

⸻

Prayer After the Life of St. Paul

Lord Jesus Christ,

You who received Paul when he had nothing left to lose,

receive me now in my uncertainty.

I do not ask for the solitude of a cave

or the visions of the saints.

I ask only for a heart that waits like his,

stripped of everything but You.

Teach me to endure the wilderness within,

to stand where desire burns

and clarity does not come,

to feel the tearing of choice

without fleeing into false resolution.

If you are asking me to wait,

let me wait without bitterness.

If you are asking me to lose,

let me lose without despair.

If you are asking me to walk blind,

let blindness become faith,

not failure.

Let the silence in Paul’s cave

become the silence in my heart.

Let the angel who closed his eyes

teach me how to surrender mine.

Let the lion who guarded his rest

guard my love for You

from doubt, panic, and self-will.

Lord, I do not want certainty;

I want You.

Only You.

Whether I remain,

or cross the threshold into a new land,

or wander still in the place between,

let every step be prayer,

every hesitation surrender,

every ache worship.

Make me empty enough to be filled.

Make me poor enough to be Yours.

Make waiting itself a holy ground.

And when the day comes,

whether in peace or in cost,

to say yes or no, go or stay,

let my heart answer freely, faithfully:

Only Jesus.

Always Jesus.

Forever Jesus.

Amen.

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Note: This post is a reflection on the experience of St. Paul the Hermit and the impact upon him spiritually and psychologically of the extended silence in the desert. It is also rooted in the experiences and ascents of a humble unknown ascetic on Mt. Athos recorded in 1851 in the book The Watchful Mind. For a brief introduction to the life of St. Paul the Hermit please view the docudrama The Kingdom Within - The Way of the Desert Fathers at:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6RewuOICglM