Twelve Principles of Anba Bola – Paul of Thebes
I am Anba Bola known as Paul of Thebes, the first hermit, the one they call the Anchorite.
Where time folds like desert sand dunes and the light of the Uncreated never dims, I speak to you now.
Do not seek me in tombs or relics alone. My cave still breathes in the Eastern Desert, but my Soul wanders the fertile gardens of the Father. I come not to boast, for pride was the serpent I fled long ago. I come as a witness, a simple voice from the beyond the sands, to tell you my story as it truly was, and as it remains, an open door for any Soul weary of the world’s clamour.
I was born in the Thebaid (Thebes) region of Egypt, in the year of our Lord A.D. 227, into a house of wealth and learning. Greek tutors filled my ears with philosophy; Egyptian scribes taught me the ancient tongues of my ancestors. My parents departed this life while I was yet a youth, leaving me and my sister heirs to comfort and ease. Yet comfort proved a gilded cage. When the Emperor Decius unleashed his fury upon the followers of Christ—around the year A.D. 250, I saw the true face of the world. My brother-in-law, driven by greed for our inheritance, plotted to betray me to the authorities. In that hour, the Lord whispered to my heart: “Leave all behind and follow Me into the silence.”
I fled at sixteen summers, carrying nothing but the clothes on my back and a burning love for the Crucified One. I sought no fame, no followers—only the vast, empty desert where God alone could fill me. In a hidden cave near a spring and a solitary palm, I made my home. There I remained for ninety-three years, until my one hundred and thirteenth winter. The palm gave me its fruit for food and its leaves for covering. For decades I ate only dates and drank from the spring. Then, in my forty-third year, a raven came daily at noon, bearing half a loaf of bread in its beak, the Lord’s own provision, teaching me that even the birds obey the Creator who feeds the ravens.
My days were woven of prayer, Scripture, and silence. At dawn I rose to praise the Trinity. Through the heat of noon I meditated on the Psalms. At dusk I gave thanks, my voice echoing off the cave walls like incense. I wove simple baskets from palm fibres when my hands needed occupation, but my true life’s work was the Crucifixion of the Self. No crowds came. No bishops sought me out in my youth. I desired none of it. My only companion was the wind and the occasional wild creature. In that solitude I learned the first and hardest truth: the soul must be stripped bare before it can be clothed in glory.
Humility and sacrifice were not virtues I studied in books—they were the very air I breathed. I renounced my wealth not once, but every morning when I awoke hungry yet grateful. I sacrificed the praise of men for the embrace of the Unseen. When temptation whispered of return to Alexandria—of soft beds, fine meals, and human company, I answered with the words of my Lord: “What does it profit a man to gain the whole world and lose his soul?” I offered my body to the sun, the cold, and the scorpions as a living sacrifice.
In return, the Lord granted me peace that the palaces of emperors could never buy.
Near the end of my earthly days, in the year A.D 341, a vision came to the great Anthony, the father of monks. He crossed the burning mountains to find me. I, as an old man bent with years, received him as a brother. We broke bread together—the raven brought a whole loaf that day, a sign of heavenly joy. I spoke to him of the narrow path, and he wept. Two lions later dug my grave with their paws, for even the beasts honoured the servant of the Most High. Anthony wrapped me in the cloak given him by Athanasius and returned to his own labours, carrying my story as a torch for generations.
Other holy ones came in spirit, though few in the flesh. In visions, I communed with the prophets of old, Elijah who dwelt alone on Carmel, John the Baptist who cried in the wilderness. Church fathers yet unborn visited me in dreams: Jerome, who would one day write my life; the desert mothers and fathers who would follow. Each confirmed what the Spirit had already engraved on my heart: the solitary life is not escape but the highest embrace of Christ.
My beloved children of the latter days, I am not a relic of the past but a living invitation. The desert still calls, not with sand and wind alone, but with the quiet urging of the Holy Spirit. Come aside. Strip away what weighs you down. Let the raven of heaven feed your soul. In the cave of your own heart, you too may meet the One who called me and who calls you still.
From the light that knows no setting, I, Anba Bola, bless you. Go in peace, and remember: the greatest works are often done in hidden places, where only God and the soul converse.
Amen.
Now, from the Afterlife, where all veils are torn away, I offer you twelve divine principles distilled from my cave, my hunger, my silence, and my joy. These are not commandments carved on stone but living seeds planted in the soil of my own soul. Guard them, and they will bloom even in the busiest cities or the loneliest hearts.
