Trained by Leopards

The School of Disillusionment and the Freedom of Christ

“The better you treat them, the worse they become. I am more and more trained in discipleship by their ill usage of me.”

— St. Ignatius of Antioch

There are certain passages in the Fathers that are so fierce we are tempted to place them behind glass.

We admire them.

We quote them.

We call them heroic.

Then we quietly move on before they ask anything of us.

This passage from Ignatius is one of them.

Most of us can understand his willingness to suffer for Christ. We can understand courage in the face of death. What is harder to understand is his statement that he was being trained by the cruelty of the soldiers who guarded him.

Not merely enduring them.

Not tolerating them.

Being trained by them.

The image is startling.

Ignatius is chained to men he compares to leopards. They are not noble persecutors. They are not worthy adversaries. They are petty, cruel, and abusive. He notes something that every person who has tried to love difficult people eventually discovers:

“The better you treat them, the worse they become.”

There is an honesty here that is almost shocking.

Ignatius does not romanticize them.

He does not pretend they are misunderstood.

He does not tell us that kindness immediately transforms them.

In fact, he says precisely the opposite.

The more kindness he shows, the more abuse he receives.

The Desert Fathers would have understood this immediately.

One of the great illusions of the spiritual life is the belief that virtue guarantees favorable treatment.

It does not.

Sometimes kindness softens hearts.

Sometimes it provokes hostility.

Sometimes gentleness awakens gratitude.

Sometimes it awakens contempt.

The Fathers never promised otherwise.

Abba Macarius did not become holy because everyone appreciated him.

Abba Moses did not become a saint because everyone recognized his goodness.

Christ Himself did not ascend Golgotha surrounded by admirers.

The deeper one enters into love, the more one discovers that love is not a technique for controlling outcomes.

It is a way of participating in God.

That realization is devastating to the religious ego.

Part of us always believes that if we pray correctly, forgive generously, remain patient, and act with integrity, people will eventually respond appropriately.

And when they do not, bitterness begins to grow.

The heart starts keeping score.

“I was kind.”

“I was patient.”

“I sacrificed.”

“I did everything right.”

Why are they treating me this way?

Ignatius reveals that he has moved beyond this calculation.

He is no longer measuring his treatment by others.

He is measuring his conformity to Christ.

That is why he can say he is being trained.

The soldiers are not teaching him cruelty.

They are exposing the places where his own will still seeks protection, recognition, fairness, and control.

Every insult becomes a revelation.

Every act of ingratitude uncovers another hidden attachment.

Every disappointment becomes a mirror.

The leopards are becoming unwilling spiritual directors.

Not because they are holy.

Because Christ is using them.

The modern elders speak often about this.

St. Silouan says that the soul learns humility through insults and afflictions.

Elder Sophrony writes that God permits humiliations because without them we remain trapped in fantasy about ourselves.

Elder Aimilianos speaks of the circumstances of life becoming the very material through which God fashions the heart.

None of this means abuse is good.

None of it means injustice becomes justice.

None of it means evil ceases to be evil.

It means that Christ remains sovereign even in the presence of evil.

The remarkable thing about Ignatius is that he is no longer primarily occupied with what others are doing to him.

He is occupied with what Christ is doing within him.

That is a very different way of living.

Most of our suffering comes not simply from what happens to us but from our demand that it should not be happening.

Ignatius is not negotiating with reality anymore.

He has surrendered.

Not in defeat.

In freedom.

This is why he says something even more startling:

“Now as a prisoner I am learning to give up my own wishes.”

That may be the most important sentence in the entire passage.

The real prison is not the chain.

The real prison is self-will.

The chain merely revealed it.

The soldiers merely exposed it.

The coming beasts would merely complete the lesson.

The Desert Fathers repeatedly taught that the greatest martyrdom is not always the shedding of blood.

It is the crucifixion of self-will.

Most of us will never face lions.

Most of us will never stand in an arena.

But all of us will face people who misunderstand us.

All of us will encounter ingratitude.

All of us will be treated unfairly.

All of us will discover that kindness is sometimes repaid with hostility.

The question is what we will do then.

Will we become bitter?

Will we harden?

Will we withdraw into self-protection?

Or will we allow these encounters to train us?

Not because the people are right.

Not because the treatment is deserved.

But because Christ can use even leopards to teach freedom.

The astonishing thing about Ignatius is that he no longer sees Rome as the place where he will meet Christ.

He is already meeting Him.

In the chains.

In the humiliation.

In the disappointment.

In the daily surrender of his own wishes.

That is why he can say, “Now I am beginning to be a disciple.”

Not after the beasts.

Not after the martyrdom.

Now.

The saints understand something we spend years resisting.

The greatest obstacle between ourselves and God is rarely the cruelty of others.

It is our determination to remain ourselves.

And so God permits circumstances that slowly dismantle the fortress of self-will.

Sometimes He even uses leopards.