On the Priesthood 5

That the public homilies need much labor and diligence. How much experience the teacher needs for the contests on behalf of the truth has been sufficiently shown by us;

but I have yet another thing besides these to mention, a cause of ten thousand dangers.

Or rather, I for my part would not say that thing was the cause, but those who do not know how to use it well, since the matter itself becomes the occasion of salvation and of many good things, whenever it finds those who are ministered to to be earnest and good men.

What then is this? The great labor that is spent upon the discourses delivered publicly to the people.

For first, the greater part of those ruled do not wish to be disposed toward the speakers as toward teachers, but, overstepping the rank of disciples, they take up the rank of spectators such as sit in the contests of the world without.

And just as there the multitude is divided, and some attach themselves to this one, others to that, so indeed here too, being divided, some become of this party, others of that, hearing what is said with favor or with enmity.

And not only is this the hard thing, but also another no less than this;

for if it should happen that one of the speakers weaves into his discourses some portion of the labors of others, he incurs more reproaches than those who steal money, and often, though he has taken nothing from anyone, but is merely suspected, he suffers the fate of those caught in the act.

And why do I speak of the labors of others? It is not possible for him continually to use his own discoveries;

for the many have been accustomed to listen not for benefit, but for pleasure, sitting as judges of tragedians or harpers, and the power of speech which we cast out just now becomes here so longed for as it is not even with the sophists when they are compelled to contend against one another.

There is need, then, here too of a noble soul, one far surpassing our littleness, that it may chasten the disorderly and unprofitable pleasure of the multitude, and may be able to transfer their hearing

to what is more profitable, so that the people follow and yield to him, and that he be not led by their desires.

That the one appointed to this must despise praises and be able to speak. But this is in no way possible to attain, except through these two things—both the disdain of praises and the power in speaking.

For even if the one be absent, the remaining one becomes useless through the severance of the other;

for if, disdaining praises, he does not bring forward teaching seasoned with grace and salt, he becomes despised by the many, gaining nothing from that greatness of soul;

And even if he succeeds well in this respect, should he fall captive to the love of glory that comes from applause, the loss falls back upon the very same place—upon himself and upon the many—since, through his craving for praise, he practices speaking to gratify his hearers rather than to benefit them.

Just as the man who is neither moved by praises nor knows how to speak, who yields to the pleasures of the crowd but can do no worthwhile good because he has nothing to say—so too the man drawn by the longing for encomiums, who has it in his power to make the many better, gives them instead what can merely delight, purchasing thereby the noisy uproar of applause.

If he does not possess both qualities, he will be useless to the multitude. The best ruler, therefore, must be strong on both sides, lest the one undo the other.

For when he stands up in the midst and speaks words that could rouse those who live carelessly, and then stumbles and breaks off, and is forced to blush from his deficiency, the profit of what was said immediately drains away.

For those who have been rebuked, stung by what was said and unable to retaliate against him in any other way, pelt him with taunts about his ignorance, supposing that by these they can cover over their own disgrace.

Therefore he must, like some excellent charioteer, attain to precision in both these accomplishments, so that he may be able to handle both as the occasion requires.

For when he himself becomes blameless in the sight of all, then he will be able, with all the authority he wishes, both to punish and to give relief to all who are ranked under him.

But before that, this is not easy to do.

Yet magnanimity must be shown not only to the point of despising praises, but must be carried still further, lest again the gain be left incomplete.

That above all he must despise envy. What else, then, must he also despise? Envy and jealousy.

As for untimely accusations—for the one who presides must necessarily endure unreasonable reproaches—it is good neither to fear and tremble at them beyond measure, nor simply to disregard them; rather, even if they happen to be false, even if they are brought against us by any chance person, we must try to extinguish them quickly.

For nothing so swells a report, whether evil or good, as the disorderly multitude.

For accustomed to hearing and repeating things without scrutiny, it utters indiscriminately whatever comes to mind, taking no account at all of the truth.

For this reason one must not despise the many, but cut off the wicked suspicions at their very outset, persuading the accusers—even if they be the most unreasonable of all—and leaving nothing undone of what can dispel an unfavorable reputation; but if, when we have done everything, those who blame us are unwilling to be persuaded, then, in that case, to despise them.

For if one is overcome and humbled by these mishaps, he will never be able to bring forth anything noble or admirable—for despondency and continual anxieties are terribly apt to cast down the soul's strength and reduce it to the utmost weakness. So, then, the priest ought to be disposed toward those he governs just as a father would be disposed toward his very young children.

And just as we are not disturbed by them, whether they insult us, or strike us, or weep—nor, again, when they laugh and rejoice over us do we

ever take great pride in this—so too with these people we must neither be puffed up by their praises nor cast down by their reproaches whenever these come unseasonably from them.

But this is hard, O blessed one, and perhaps, I think, even impossible.

For not to rejoice when praised—I do not know whether any human being has ever achieved it; and one who rejoices is likely also to desire to enjoy praises; and one who desires to enjoy them must, when they fail him, inevitably grieve and feel pain.

For just as those who delight in being rich are distressed when they fall into poverty, and those accustomed to luxury could not endure to live frugally, so too those who love encomiums waste away in soul as if by some famine, not only when they are reproached without cause, but even when they are not continually praised—and especially when they have been nurtured on praise, or hear others being praised.

How many troubles and how many pains do you think the man has who has entered into the contest of teaching with this kind of desire? Neither can the sea ever be free of waves, nor his soul of cares and grief.

That the man who knows how to speak needs greater diligence than the unlearned. For even when he has great power in speaking—a thing one might find in but few—not even so is he set free from toiling continually.

For since speaking is not a matter of nature but of learning, even if one attains the summit of it, it then leaves him desolate, unless he tends this faculty with continual diligence and practice; so that the labor is greater for the wiser than for the more unlearned.

For the loss when they are negligent is not the same for these and for those; rather, it is greater by just as much as the difference between the two possessions.

And no one would even bring a charge against the latter, since they offer nothing worth mentioning;

but the former, unless they always produce something greater than the reputation which everyone holds about them, incur many accusations from all.

Besides this, the former might obtain great praises even for small things;

but the works of the latter, unless they be exceedingly admirable and astonishing, are not only deprived of encomiums but also have many to blame them.

For the hearers sit in judgment not so much upon what is said as upon the reputations of those who speak; so that whenever someone surpasses all in speaking, then most of all does he need painstaking diligence.

For not even this—which is common to human nature, namely not to succeed in everything—is he allowed to suffer; rather, unless what he says is, throughout, in keeping with the greatness of the opinion held of him, he goes off with countless taunts and reproaches received from the many.

And no one reckons in his favor that despondency, anxiety, and care—and often anger too—have darkened the clearness of his mind and not allowed what was conceived to come forth unmixed; and that, being human, it is impossible always to be the same, nor to be successful in all things, but it is likely that he should sometimes fail and be shown to fall short of his own power.

None of these things, as I said, are they willing to consider; but they bring their charges as though they were sitting in judgment on an angel.

And in other respects, too, man is naturally disposed to overlook his neighbor's good deeds, even when they are many and great;

but if some failing appears anywhere, even if it be a trivial one, even if it occurred after a long interval, he both perceives it quickly and lays hold of it readily and remembers it forever; and this small and trifling thing has often diminished the reputation built on many great deeds.

That one must neither wholly despise nor wholly heed the irrational verdict of the many. You see, noble friend, that the one able to speak needs greater diligence, and besides diligence, also so great a forbearance as none of all those I previously described to you required;

for many fasten upon him continually, in vain and at random, and having nothing to charge him with except that he is held in good esteem by all, they hate him.

He must bear nobly the bitter envy of these people;

for this accursed hatred which they heap up without cause, unable to keep it hidden, they both revile and blame and slander in secret and act maliciously in the open.

And a soul that begins to grieve and be exasperated at each of these things would be destroyed by sorrow before long;

for they avenge themselves on him not only by their own means, but also undertake to do so through others; and often, having picked out some person who can say nothing of worth, they exalt him with praises and admire him beyond his desert—some doing this out of madness, others out of ignorance and envy—in order to pull down his reputation, not in order to show admirable one who is not such.

But that noble man's struggle is not against these alone, but often also against the inexperience of a whole congregation;

for since it is not possible that all who assemble should be gathered from men of repute, but it happens that the greater part of the Church is made up of laymen, while the rest, though more intelligent than these, fall far short—far more than all the rest fall short of these—of those able to judge discourses, and only one or two are seated who possess this discernment, it is inevitable that he who has spoken better should carry off less applause, and sometimes even depart without any praise at all.

And one must be nobly prepared for these inequities, both to pardon those who suffer this through ignorance, and to weep over those who endure it through envy as being wretched and pitiable;

and not, on account of either of these, to consider that his own power has become less.

For not even if a man, being an excellent painter and surpassing all in his art, saw the picture he had drawn with great precision derided by those inexperienced in the art, ought he to be downcast and, by the judgment of those who do not know, to consider his painting poor—just as he ought not to consider the truly poor one admirable and lovely on account of the astonishment of those without skill.

That one must shape his discourses only with a view to pleasing God. For let the excellent craftsman himself be the judge of his own works, and let him reckon the things produced as good or poor in this way: when the mind that fashioned them casts these votes; but as for the opinion of those outside—the erring and unskilled opinion—let him never so much as take it into his mind.

Therefore let neither the one who has taken up the contest of teaching pay heed to the acclamations of those outside, nor let him cast down his own soul on their account; but, working out his discourses so as to please God—for let this be his only rule and standard for the best fashioning of them, not applause nor acclamations—if indeed he be praised also by men, let him not reject the encomiums; but if his hearers do not offer them, let him neither seek them nor grieve.

For sufficient consolation for his labors, and greater than all, is when he can be conscious within himself that he composes and shapes his teaching for the pleasing of God.

That the one who does not despise praises will endure many terrible things. For if he be caught beforehand by the desire for irrational praises, there is no benefit to him from his many labors, nor from his power in speaking;

for the soul, unable to bear the senseless censures of the many, slackens and casts away its zeal for speaking.

On this account one must above all things be trained to despise praises;

for it is not enough to know how to speak in order to guard this faculty, unless this too be present.

And if one should wish to examine accurately also the man who is in want of this virtue, he will find that he needs to despise praises no less than this other man.

For he will be compelled to sin much, having become inferior to the opinion of the many;

for being too weak to be put on a level with those well-reputed in the virtue of speaking, he will not refuse to plot against them and to be jealous of them, and

to blame them in vain and to behave disgracefully in many such ways; rather, he will dare everything—even if he must lose his very soul—in order to drag down their reputation to the lowliness of his own worthlessness.

Besides these things, he will also withdraw from the sweat of toiling, as if some numbness had been poured over his soul;

for the fact that one toiling much reaps fewer encomiums is enough to cast down and turn to deep sleep the man who cannot despise praises—since even a farmer, when he labors over thin, poor soil and is forced to cultivate rocks, quickly desists from toiling, unless he has acquired great eagerness for the matter, or has the fear of famine pressing upon him.

For if those who can speak with great fluency need so much exercise to guard their possession, how much difficulty, how much commotion, how much turmoil will the man undergo who has gathered nothing at all but is compelled to perform in the contests, in order that with much toil he may be able to gather some little thing? And if any of those ranked after him and allotted the lower position should be able to shine forth in this very part more than he, there is need here of some godlike soul so as not to be caught by envy nor to be cast down by despondency;

for to be outshone by his inferiors while he himself is established in the higher rank, and to bear it nobly, would belong not to a commonplace soul, nor to ours, but to some adamantine one.

And if the one who outshines him be very fair and moderate, the affliction becomes somehow bearable;

but if he be also bold and arrogant and ambitious for glory, death must be prayed for daily by that man, so bitter will the other make his life—trampling on him openly, mocking him in secret, wresting much of his authority from him, wishing to be everything himself.

But the greatest security in all these things is the boldness of speech he has acquired, and the zeal of the multitude toward him, and being loved by all those he governs.

Or do you not know how great a love of discourses has now burst into the souls of Christians, and that, most of all, those who practice this art are held in honor, not only among those outside, but also among the household of the faith? How then could anyone bear so great a shame, when, while he himself is speaking, all are silent and think themselves troubled and await the end of the discourse as some respite from toils, but listen to another, even when he speaks at length, with patience, and are vexed when he is about to stop, and are exasperated when he wishes to be silent? For these things, even if they now seem to you small and contemptible, because of your inexperience, are yet sufficient to quench zeal and paralyze the soul's strength, unless one, having drawn himself away from all human passions, has practiced to be disposed like the bodiless powers, which are hunted neither by envy, nor by love of glory, nor by any other such malady.

If, then, there be any man so disposed as to be able to trample down this hard-to-hunt, unconquerable, and savage beast—the opinion of the many—and to cut off its many heads, or rather not to allow it to grow up at all from the beginning, he will be able easily to repel these many assaults and to enjoy some calm harbor;

but he who is not freed from it scatters over his own soul a war of many forms, a continual tumult, and the throng of despondency and the rest of the passions.

Why need I recount the rest of the difficulties, which no one will be able either to tell or to learn, unless he has come into the midst of the affairs themselves?