Homilies on Ephesians 15

'Let all bitterness and wrath, and anger, and clamour, and blasphemy be put away from you, with all malice.'

Just as bees would never settle themselves in an unclean vessel—

for this reason those skilled in these matters sprinkle the place with incense and perfumes and sweet odors, and with fragrant wines and all else besprinkle the little baskets in which the swarms, just now issuing from the hives, are to alight, so that no unpleasant smell may vex them and drive them away again—

even so is it also with the Holy Spirit.

Our soul is a vessel and a little basket, able to receive the swarms of the spiritual gifts;

but if within there be gall and bitterness and wrath, the swarms fly away.

For this reason this blessed and wise husbandman thoroughly cleanses our vessels, holding neither pruning-hook nor any other iron implement;

and He calls us to this spiritual swarm, and gathering it, He cleanses it thoroughly with prayers and labors and all the rest.

See, then, how He cleanses out our heart;

He drove out falsehood, He drove out anger.

Again He shows how the evil might rather be torn up by the very roots;

namely, if we be not, he says, bitter in mind.

For just as it is wont to happen with our bile: if it chance to be small in quantity, the disturbance also is slight when its storehouse bursts;

but when the vehemence and the corrosive sharpness of such a quality increases, the vessel that formerly held it can no longer contain it, but as though eaten through by a fierce fire, is no longer able to keep and hold it within its appointed bounds; rather, being burst apart by the immoderate acridity, it lets it forth to ravage the whole body;

and just as with a most savage and unbearable wild beast brought into a city—so long as it is kept within the enclosures made for it, though it rage and roar, it will be able to harm no one;

but when it is mastered by its fury, and having broken through the bars set across the midst, is able to leap forth, it fills the whole city with uproar and confusion, and drives all before it;

even so is it with the nature of bile;

so long as it is kept within its own bounds, it works us no great evil;

but when, the membrane that encloses it having burst, there is nothing left to hinder it from being poured out over the whole constitution, then indeed, then—although it be so very small in quantity—by reason of its surpassing power in quality it stains all the other elements with its own vice.

For then, finding blood near it in place and in quality, and making the heat in that blood more acrid, and causing all that is close by—overstepping the bounds of its proper moisture-balance and turning into bile—thereupon it advances with this against the other members also; and so, casting all things into its own corruption, it renders the man speechless, and makes him expire, driving out the soul.

Why then have all these things been thus

spoken by us with such exactness? In order that, from the bitterness that is perceptible to sense, we may perceive the unbearable malice of the bitterness that is spiritual, and how—like the bodily bile—it first ravages entire the very soul that gives it birth, throwing everything into confusion up and down; and so may flee the experience of it.

For just as the former sets on fire the whole element, so the latter, having inflamed the reasonings, leads him who is taken captive into the pit of hell.

In order, then, that by searching these things out with care we may flee this evil, and bridle the beast—or rather tear it up by the roots—let us obey Paul when he says:

'Let all bitterness'—not, be purged, but—'be put away from you.'

For what need have I of trouble and of confinement? And why should I keep guard over a wild beast, when it is possible to banish it from the soul and remove it, and lead it away into some exile? Let us therefore obey Paul when he says:

'Let all bitterness be put away from you.'

But alas for the perversity that holds us fast!

Whereas we ought to do all things to this end, some are so utterly senseless that they even count themselves happy in this, and pride themselves on the evil.

and to preen oneself, and to be envied by others.

'So-and-so is a bitter man,' one says; 'he is a scorpion, he is a serpent, he is a viper.'

Why do you dread the bitter man, O fellow? 'Lest he do me harm,' you say, 'lest he injure me.'

'I,' you say, 'am unversed in his malice;

I fear that, taking me for a simple man who foresees none of his devices, he may cast me into his own snares, and entangle us in the nets he has prepared for our deception.'

Why then? Because these are the words of children, who fear things that are not fearful.

Indeed there is no one whom one ought so to despise, no one whom one ought so to laugh to scorn, as a bitter and wicked man.

For nothing is so weak as bitterness.

It makes men foolish and senseless.

Or do you not see that malice is blind? Or have you not heard that he who digs a pit for his neighbor digs it for himself? How then ought one to fear a soul filled with turmoil? If therefore one must fear the bitter as one fears demons and madmen, and as one fears fools (for those too do everything at random), then I too say the same.

But if it be as men clever at managing affairs, then this is no longer so.

For nothing is so suited to the management of affairs as understanding.

Nothing is so great a hindrance to understanding as wickedness and malice and duplicity.

Do you not see the bodies of the bilious, how unsightly they are, every bloom having withered within them? how weak and thin they are, and unfit for anything? Such too are souls of that kind.

For the jaundice of the soul is nothing else but wickedness.

Wickedness therefore is not strong; it is not.

Would you have me make what I say plain once more by an example, setting before you the images of a knave and of a guileless man? Absalom was a knave, and he sought to make everyone his own.

See then how great was his cunning.

Going about, it says, he would say, 'Have you no cause?'—wishing to attach each one to himself.

What then? Behold the end of both; behold how full of folly that man was.

For since he looked only to the harm of his father, in all else he was blinded.

For he that walks in simplicity walks securely.

That is to say, he who meddles in nothing, who contrives no evil.

Let us then obey the blessed Paul, and let us pity and weep over the bitter, and do and perform everything so as to drain the wickedness from out of their soul.

For how is it not absurd, that when gall is within us (and yet this element is useful,

for without gall it is impossible for a man to exist—I mean this elemental gall)—

how is it not absurd that we empty this out so far as we can, although we derive great benefit from it;

yet the gall that is in the soul we do nothing, nor make any effort, to empty out—the gall that is nowhere useful, but does us the greatest wrong? 'He that would be wise among you,' it says, 'let him become a fool, that he may become wise.'

Hear again also Luke saying:

'They partook of food with gladness and singleness of heart, praising God, and having favor with all the people.'

Or do we not see even now that the guileless and the unfeigned enjoy common honor from all? No one envies such a man when he prospers, no one tramples on him when he fares ill;

but all rejoice with him when he does well, and grieve with him when he stumbles.

But if a bitter man should ever prosper, all groan, as though some evil had befallen;

and if again he fares ill, all rejoice.

For they have common enemies going about everywhere.

Jacob was guileless, yet he overcame the crafty Esau;

for 'into a malicious soul wisdom will not enter.'

'Let all bitterness be put away from you.'

For he knows that this, once stirred, like from some spark, is able to make a whole conflagration within.

Let us then consider accurately what bitterness is.

Such as the insidious man, the deceitful, the one prepared to do evil, the malignantly suspicious;

from this, then, wrath and anger are ever begotten.

For such a soul cannot be in calm;

for bitterness is the root of wrath and anger.

Such a man is also heavy-tempered, and never relaxes his soul, being ever gloomy in thought, ever sullen.

For, as I said, they themselves are the first to reap the fruits of their own doings.

Why then? Do you also take away clamor? For the gentle man ought to be such.

For clamor is like a horse bearing a rider—anger;

hobble the horse, and you have overthrown the rider.

Let women especially hear these things—they who in every matter cry out and bawl.

In one thing only is crying out useful, in preaching and teaching; but nowhere else, not even in prayer.

And if you would learn it by facts—never cry out, and you will never grow angry;

for just as it is impossible for one who does not cry out to be angry, so it is impossible for one who cries out not to be angry.

For do not tell me of the deeply resentful man, the vindictive, bitterness itself and gall itself;

we are now discoursing about the sudden seizure of passion.

So that it contributes not a little to this end, to train the soul never to cry out and bawl.

You clip the wings of anger by taking away the clamor; you allay the swelling of the heart.

For just as it is not possible to wrestle without raising the hands, so it is not possible to be hobbled while not crying out.

Bind the boxer's hands, and bid him box—but he will not be able.

But clamor rouses up even the one who was not roused;

and from this especially is the race of women quickly caught, who, when they are angry with their maidservants, fill the whole house with their own clamor;

and often, if the house happens to have been built beside a narrow lane, the passers-by too—

all hear her bawling, and the maidservant shrieking.

What could ever be more unseemly than to hear such wailings? For all the women, at once peering out, ask, 'What then has happened there?' 'So-and-so,' comes the answer, 'is beating her slave-girl.'

What could be more shameless than this? What then—ought one not to beat? I do not say this;

for it is indeed needful, yet neither continually, nor immoderately, nor for one's own wrongs (as I always say), nor if any service be lacking, but if she harms her own soul;

if you beat for such a cause, all will approve, and there will be none to blame you;

but if for your own sakes, all will condemn you for cruelty and harshness.

And what is most shameful of all, there are some so savage and harsh as to scourge to such a degree that the welts are not even quenched the same day.

For having stripped the girls, and having called the husband to this, they often bind them to the bedposts.

Alas! Does no remembrance of that day of hell come upon you at such a moment, tell me? Yet you strip the servant-girl naked and expose her to your husband? And are you not ashamed lest he condemn you? Nay, you provoke him still further, and threaten to have her bound, having first heaped a thousand insults upon the wretched and miserable creature, calling her a Thessalian witch, a runaway, a brazen hussy.

For anger does not even allow one to spare one's own mouth, but looks to one thing only—how to take revenge on her—even if in doing so one puts oneself to shame.

And after all this, she sits enthroned like some tyrant, and summons her slaves, and having stationed her foolish husband beside her, uses him as though he were an executioner.

Ought these things to happen in Christian households? 'But the race of slaves,' says someone, 'is wicked, insolent, shameless, and incorrigible.'

But it is possible to regulate them otherwise—by fears, by threats, by words that can sting her more sharply, and yet deliver you from disgrace.

You have uttered shameful words, though you are free-born, and do you not disgrace yourself more than her? Then, if you must go forth to the bath, she carries about upon her back, stripped bare, the welts and the tokens of your cruelty.

'But it is unbearable,' she says, 'the tribe of slaves, should they meet with any indulgence.'

But turn her another way, as I said—not by whips only nor by fear, but also by kindly persuasion and by doing good.

She has become your sister, if she is a believer.

Consider that you are the mistress, and she ministers to you.

If she is given to drink, remove the occasions of her drunkenness; call your husband and admonish her.

Or do you not see how shameful a thing it is for a woman to be beaten? Those, at any rate, who enacted countless punishments against men—burnings and tortures—rarely hung up a woman, but stopped their anger at a mere slap. Such great forbearance have they shown.

toward this nature out of respect, in that they did not hang her up even when there was pressing need, and especially when she happened to be with child.

For it is a shame to a man to strike a woman;

and if it is a shame toward a woman, much more toward one of your own sex.

From such conduct women also become hateful to their husbands.

'What then,' she says, 'when she commits fornication?' Join her to a husband, remove the occasions of the fornication, do not allow her to grow rank with excess.

'What then, if she steals?' Guard and watch over her. 'Oh, the excess of it!'

Why, I pray, will you not be a watcher? Does she not partake of the same soul as you? Has she not been deemed worthy of the same things by God? Does she not enjoy the same table? Does she not share the same nobility with you? 'What then,' she says, 'if she is abusive, and a chatterer, and a drunkard?' But how many free women are such? Yet God has commanded husbands to bear all the faults of their wives.

'Only let not the wife be a fornicatress,' he says, 'and bear all the rest of her faults.'

Even if she is a drunkard, even if abusive, even if a chatterer, even if envious, even if extravagant, even if squandering your substance, you have her as a partner of your life.

Therefore set her right; do your own part.

And even if she remains incorrigible, even if she steals, guard your possessions;

do not punish her so severely.

This is the mark of the loftiest wisdom.

But as it is, some come to such a pitch of absurdity that they uncover their heads and drag their handmaids by the hair.

Why have you all blushed? Our word is not addressed to all of you;

but to those who are dragged down into this brutish behavior.

'Let not the woman be unveiled,' says Paul;

yet you strip off the head-covering altogether? Do you see how you insult yourself? Now if she appears before you with her head bare, you call the thing an outrage;

yet when you strip her bare, you say it is nothing dreadful? Then she says:

'What if she is not set right?' Bring her to her senses with the rod and with blows.

But how many faults have you yourself, and are not corrected? These things have now been said by us not on their behalf, but on behalf of you free women, that you may do nothing unseemly, nothing shameful, that you may not harm your own selves.

If in your household you are trained in these things toward your handmaid, and are gentle and not harsh, much more will you be such toward your husband.

For if, while you have the power, you are shown to do nothing of the kind, much more where there is that which restrains you will you do no such thing.

So that this wisdom shown toward handmaids benefits you greatly in gaining the goodwill of your husbands.

'For with what measure you mete,' he says, 'it shall be measured to you again.'

and if you are trained to bear nobly a handmaid who vexes you, you will not be vexed at your equal even when she insults you;

and by not being vexed, you have attained the highest wisdom.

But there are some women who even add oaths to it;

and nothing is more shameful than a woman thus enraged.

'What then,' she says, 'if she adorns herself?' Forbid this, and I too agree;

but forbid it by beginning with yourself, not so much by fear as by example;

be in all things an archetypal image.

'And let blasphemy,' he says, 'be put away from you.'

Bitterness gave birth to wrath, wrath to anger, anger to clamor, clamor to blasphemy—that is, to reviling;

then blasphemy to blows, blows to wounds, wounds to death.

But Paul was not willing to name any of these; only this alone: 'Let it be put away, with all malice.'

What is it—'with all malice'? For all malice comes to this end.

For there are some like those dogs that bite in secret, which do not bark at all at those who approach, nor show any displeasure;

but fawning and showing a gentle demeanor, they catch them off their guard and fix their teeth in them;

these are more dangerous than those who take up their enmity openly.

Since, then, there are also men who are dogs, and who neither cry out, nor grow angry, nor show displeasure in threatening, but secretly weave their snares and contrive countless evils and take revenge by deeds—these too he hinted at.

'Let it be put away from you,' he says, 'with all malice.'

Do not merely spare your words while taking revenge by your deeds.

I have on this account chastened the tongue, and cut short its clamor, that it may not kindle the fire more fiercely;

but if even without clamor you do the same things

and inwardly nourish the flame and the coals, what profit is there in your silence? Or do you not know that those conflagrations are the most grievous of all which, being nourished within, are not visible to those standing round about outside? And those wounds which do not break out to the surface? And those fevers which burn up the inward parts? So too is this anger more grievous, which feeds upon the soul.

But let this too be put away, he says, with all malice, both small and great.

Let us therefore obey him, and remove all bitterness and all malice, that we may not grieve the Holy Spirit.

Let us root out bitterness from its very root; let us cut it away;

Nothing good could ever come from a bitter soul, nothing sound; all is calamity, all tears, all lamentations and wailings.

Do you not see that, of the beasts also, those which cry out we turn away from—

such as the lion, the bear—but not the sheep? For there is no clamor there, but a gentle voice.

And of musical instruments too, those which are loud are the more unpleasant in their sound, such as drums and trumpets;

but those that are not so, but soothing, these are sweet, such as the flute and the lyre and the pipes.

Let us then so compose our soul that it may not cry out;

and thus we shall be able also to get the better of anger;

and having cut this out, we ourselves shall be the first to enjoy the calm, and shall sail into the serene harbor;

which may it be granted us all to attain, in Christ Jesus our Lord, with whom, to the Father together with the Holy Spirit, be glory, might, and honor, now and ever, and unto the ages of ages. Amen.