Unarmed Before the Kingdom

A Geography of the Heart According to St. Isaac the Syrian

Synopsis of Tonight's Group on The Ascetical Homilies of St. Isaac the Syrian Homily 6 paragraphs 7 and 8:

Here St. Isaac does not define virtues as behaviors but as states of being before God. He strips away external markers and leaves the soul alone with truth. What he offers is not a ladder of accomplishments but a geography of the heart.

A stranger, he says, is not one who has left a place, but one whose mind has been estranged from all things of life. This is the quiet violence of the Gospel: “They are not of the world, even as I am not of the world” (Jn 17:16). Estrangement here is not contempt for creation but freedom from possession. Abba Arsenius fled Rome, but what he truly fled was the tyranny of relevance. To become a stranger is to consent to being unnecessary. It is to let the world continue without you and discover that God remains.

The mourner is not a melancholic soul but a hungry one. He lives, Isaac says, in hunger and thirst for the sake of his hope in good things to come. This is the blessed mourning of the Beatitudes, the ache that refuses consolation because it has tasted something eternal. St. John Climacus calls mourning “a sorrow that is glad,” because it is oriented toward the Kingdom. It is grief baptized by hope. Such a soul does not despise joy; it waits for the only joy that cannot be taken away.

Then Isaac dares to say what a monk truly is. Not one who has taken vows, not one who wears a habit, but one who remains outside the world and is ever supplicating God to receive future blessings. The monk stands at the edge of time and begs. His posture is eschatological. He lives as though the promises are real. This is why the monk’s wealth is not visible. It is the comfort that comes of mourning and the joy that comes of faith, shining secretly in the mind’s hidden chambers. Christ Himself names this hiddenness when He says, “Your Father who sees in secret will reward you” (Mt 6:6). The true treasure does not announce itself. It warms quietly.

Mercy, too, is redefined. A merciful man is not one who performs selective kindness but one who has lost the ability to divide the world mentally into worthy and unworthy. This is the mercy of God Himself, who “makes His sun rise on the evil and on the good” (Mt 5:45). St. Isaac elsewhere says that a merciful heart burns for all creation: for humans, animals, demons, even for the enemies of God. Such mercy is not sentimental. It is cruciform. It is the heart stretched until it resembles Christ’s own.

And then Isaac turns to chastity, and again he refuses reduction. Virginity is not merely bodily restraint but an interior reverence. One who feels shame before himself even when alone. This is a startling phrase. It speaks of a soul that lives before God even when no one is watching. Shame here is not self-loathing but awe. It is the trembling awareness that one’s thoughts are already prayers, or blasphemies, before the face of God.

Therefore Isaac is unsparing: chastity cannot survive without reading and prolonged prayer. Without immersion in the Word, the imagination becomes a wilderness of unguarded images. Without prayer, the heart has no shelter. Abba Evagrius taught that thoughts are not defeated by force but by replacement—by filling the mind with divine fire. The Jesus Prayer, Scripture read slowly, the psalms murmured in weakness, these do not merely resist impurity; they transfigure desire itself.

What unites all these sayings is this: St. Isaac is describing a soul that has accepted vulnerability. God has permitted the soul to be susceptible to accidents: not as punishment, but as mercy. Weakness becomes the doorway. Hunger becomes the guide. Shame becomes watchfulness. Mourning becomes wealth. Nothing here is safe, and nothing here is superficial.

This is not an ethic for the strong. It is a path for those who have consented to be poor before God.

In the end, St. Isaac is teaching us how to stand unarmed in the presence of the Kingdom; estranged from the world, aching for God, clothed in quiet prayer, and guarded not by our strength but by grace that shines unseen in the depths of the heart.