Letters 1 part 3/11

These things I write both to the clergy and to the monastics, and to those of the official and senatorial order, and to the whole people.

If, then, this should meet with common approval and our vote should prevail, being thus right and sound, as cast together with God, I am present in spirit and shall be present—or rather, I have already laid my hand upon it and take courage in the Spirit.

But if something else and not this should meet with approval, and such matters should be judged according to factions and kinships, and the tumultuous hand should again sweep away precision, then do among yourselves what pleases you, but we shall withdraw.

TO EUSEBIUS OF SAMOSATA. Who will give me wings like a dove's? Or how might my old age be renewed, so that I might be able to cross over to your love, and to give rest to the longing I have for you, and to recount the griefs of my soul, and through you to find some consolation for my afflictions? For at the falling asleep of the blessed bishop Eusebius, no small fear seized us, lest those who have long lain in wait for the Church of our metropolis, wishing to fill it with heretical tares, now seizing the occasion, should uproot by their own teachings the piety sown with much toil in the souls of men, and cut apart its unity—which indeed they have already done in many Churches.

And since letters from the clergy also reached us, entreating that we not be overlooked in such a time, looking about on every side I called to mind your love and your right faith and the zeal which you always have on behalf of the Churches of God;

and for this reason I have sent the beloved Eustathius, our fellow deacon, to entreat your reverend dignity, and to prevail upon you by all the labors undertaken on behalf of the Churches, to add this present labor also, both giving rest to my old age by your visit, and setting right for the orthodox Church its renowned piety, granting her, together with us (if indeed we should be deemed worthy to take part with you in this good work), a shepherd according to the will of the Lord, able to guide his people aright.

For we have before our eyes a man whom you yourselves also do not fail to know;

and we shall lay up the greatest benefaction for the people who have called upon us.

But I entreat again and repeatedly that, laying aside all hesitation, you come to meet this need and forestall the difficulties arising from the winter season.

TO THE BISHOPS. How agreeable you are, and humane, and exceptional in love!

You have called us to the metropolis, as I suppose, intending to deliberate about a bishop—for this is what I perceive from you—men who, without announcing beforehand either that we must be present, or for what purpose, or when, have suddenly declared to us that you have set out; as though you were men who had resolved not to honor us, or were eager to have us as partners, but were rather anxious to avoid our presence, so that you might not fall in with us even unwillingly.

Such, then, is your conduct, and we shall bear being insulted;

but as for our own conduct, we shall set it forth as it stands.

Different men will evidently put forward different candidates, each according to his own manner or means, which is wont to happen in such matters.

But we are unable to prefer anyone—for it would not even be pious—above our most honored son Basil the presbyter.

For whom of those we know do we find more approved in life, or more powerful in word, and trained in every respect to the beauty of virtue? But if infirmity is the pretext—you are not, after all, putting forward an athlete but a teacher, and moreover there is somewhere the power of him who strengthens and supports the infirm, if indeed they are such.

If you accept this vote, we shall both be present and shall assist, whether spiritually or even bodily.

But if the way is determined by stated terms, and recommendations are going to prevail contrary to what is just, we are content to be overlooked.

Let the work be yours; but pray earnestly on our behalf.

TO EUSEBIUS OF SAMOSATA. Where shall I begin your praises? And by addressing you with what title might I properly name you? Pillar and foundation of the Church, or luminary in the world, uttering the same words as the Apostle; or crown of boasting for the saved portion of Christians; or gift of God; or bulwark of the fatherland; or rule of faith; or ambassador of truth; or all these things together and more than these? And I shall confirm the excess of these praises by what is seen.

What rain so timely ever came to thirsting earth? What water from the rock ever overflowed so for those in the desert? What man ever ate such bread of angels? To whom did Jesus, the common Lord, so appear in season to his own disciples as they were being tossed by waves, that he might both calm the sea and save those in peril, as you appeared to us laboring and grieving, and as it were already shipwrecked? What need is there to speak of the rest—how much cheerfulness and pleasure you filled the souls of the orthodox with, and how many you released from despair? But our mother the Church—I mean that of the Caesareans—now truly puts off the garments of widowhood at the sight of you, and takes up the robe of gladness, and will shine forth yet more brightly when she obtains a shepherd worthy of herself, and of those who went before, and of your hands.

For as to our affairs, you yourself see of what sort they are, and how much your zeal and toil and your godly boldness have wrought as a wonder;

old age is renewed, and infirmity is conquered, and those upon their beds leap up, and the ailing gird themselves with strength.

By these signs I conjecture that our own affairs too will turn out according to our mind.

You have, then, our father, both in his own stead and in ours, who is about to set a good end upon his whole life and upon his venerable gray hairs, in this present contest on behalf of the Church.

And we shall receive him, I know well, through your prayers, stronger and more vigorous—prayers in which one must confidently trust for all things;

but even if he should end his life in the midst of this care, it is no loss to obtain such an end, and upon such matters.

As for me, I beg you, have forgiveness, if, having withdrawn a little on account of the tongues of the wicked, I should a little later both run to you and embrace you, and myself add in person whatever praises are now omitted.

TO BASIL. When I learned that you had been set upon the lofty throne, and that the Spirit had prevailed, publishing abroad the lamp upon the lampstand—one which did not even shine dimly before—I rejoiced indeed, I confess.

...being in a bad state and in need of such guidance. But I did not hasten to you at once, nor shall I hasten;

nor indeed should you yourself demand this.

First, so that I may guard your dignity, and so that you may not seem to have gathered together your admirers out of a kind of tastelessness and overheated zeal, as those who slander might say;

When, then, will you come, you will perhaps say, and until when will you hold back? Until God commands, and until the shadows of those now assailing and envying us pass away.

TO THE SAME. How are your words a mere gleaning-cluster to us, O divine and sacred head? What sort of word escaped you, past the barrier of your teeth? Or how did you dare to say this, so that I too might dare something small myself? How did either your mind set out upon it, or the ink write it, or the paper receive it? O eloquence, and Athens, and virtues, and the sweat of studies!

for by what you write you all but make a tragic actor of me too.

Do you fail to know either us or yourself—you, the eye of the inhabited world, the great voice and trumpet, the very kingdom of eloquence? Are your words small to Gregory? What else, then, among things on earth would anyone admire, if not you—Gregory? There is one spring among the seasons, one sun among the stars, one heaven encompassing all things, and one voice above all others—yours, if indeed I am at all competent to judge such things, and if affection does not deceive me, which I do not think it does.

If you charge this against us—that we do not admire you according to your worth—then bring the charge also against all mankind;

for indeed no one else either has admired or will admire you worthily, except you yourself and your own grand eloquence—if it were possible to praise oneself, and if the law of rhetoric permitted us this.

TO THE SAME. I learn that you are being disturbed by the new innovation, and are having troubles from a certain sophistical and habitual officiousness of those in power;

for I was not ignorant of envy, and that many of those around you, tending to their own interests through you, and kindling the spark of small-mindedness...

Now, I am not afraid of this: that you might suffer something unphilosophical amid these griefs, unworthy both of yourself and of us.

But I think that now especially my Basil will be recognized, and that the philosophy you have gathered throughout all this time will be displayed, and that you will rise above these insults as on a lofty wave, and remain unshaken while others are shaken.

And if it seems good, I myself will also be present, perhaps even to share some counsel (if indeed the sea has need of water, and you of one to advise you)—

but in any case, that I myself may be benefited, and may practice philosophy in sharing the outrage with you.

To the Same. Will you not stop reviling us as uneducated, boorish, friendless, and unworthy even to live, because we have dared to understand what we have suffered? For we do no other wrong—you yourself would say so—nor are we conscious of anything, small or great, in which we have done you harm, that should not be forgiven.

except that this alone we have come to know, having been deceived—late indeed, all too late, but we have come to know it.

And we blame the throne, for having suddenly made you higher than us.

And we grow weary, being accused on your account and defending ourselves before those who clearly know both our former conduct and our present.

for this is the most ridiculous, or most pitiable, of all we suffer—that the same persons should be both wronged and accused, which is precisely what has now happened to us.

Different people accuse us of different things, whatever each one wishes, according to his own temper or the measure of his indignation on our behalf;

but the most kindly among them speak of contempt and disdain, and of our having been cast aside after our usefulness, like the most dishonored of vessels and things worth nothing, or like those supports on which the arches rest, which are removed and thrown away once the structure is set.

Let us then bid these people farewell, and let them say whatever they will;

no one shall restrain the tongue's license.

—insulting, under the guise of honor, us who are fickle and prone to such things.

But I will declare my own view as it stands, and do not be at all angry with me.

For I will say what I declared even at the very moment of my suffering, not so overcome either by anger boiling within me or by consternation at what had happened, that my reasoning was stolen away and I did not know what I was saying.

I will neither acquire arms, nor learn tactics which I did not learn before, when it seemed rather more the right occasion, while everyone was arming and raging (you know the maladies of the weak); nor will I withstand the warlike Anthimus, unseasoned warrior though he is, since I am unarmed and unwarlike, and better suited to receiving wounds than inflicting them.

But do you yourself make war on him, if this is pleasing to you (for necessity often makes warriors even of the weak), or seek out those who will fight, whenever he seizes your mules, guarding the narrow passes and, like that Amalek of old, barring Israel's way.

But grant to us, instead of all this, quietness.

For why should one fight over sucking-pigs and fowls—and, what is more, other people's fowls—as though it were a matter of souls and canons? And why deprive the metropolis of splendid Sasima, or strip bare and expose the secret of one's intention, when it ought rather to be concealed? But go on, play the man, be strong, and draw everything toward your own glory, as rivers draw the torrents, preferring neither friendship nor the customary regard for the good and for piety, nor caring what sort of person you will be thought to be from doing these things, but being wholly possessed by a single passion.

But we will gain only this from your friendship: not to trust in friends, nor to hold anything more precious than God.

To the Same. You accuse us of idleness and indolence, because we have not taken possession of your Sasima, nor bestir ourselves in episcopal fashion, nor arm you against one another, like food thrown down in the midst of dogs;

but for me the greatest action is inaction.

And, that you may know something of my virtues, I take such pride in my inactivity that I think this magnanimity in such matters ought to be a law for everyone.

And I think that if everyone imitated us, there would be no trouble for the Churches, nor would the faith be dragged along, serving as a weapon for each man's private contentiousness.

To the Same. How hot-tempered and colt-like you are in your letters!

and it is no wonder that, having just now tasted glory, you wish to display to us whatever glory you have found, so that you may thereby make yourself more solemn, like those painters who paint the Seasons.

As for me, to narrate everything in detail—the affairs of the bishops and of the letter at which you take offense, whence we began, how far we proceeded, and where we ended up—seems to be too long for a letter, and a task not so much of a defense as of a history.

But to state it briefly: the most noble Anthimus came with some bishops, either to visit my father (for this too was thought to be the case), or eager to accomplish what he did in fact accomplish.

Having made many attempts concerning many matters—the parishes, Sasima, Limnae, our ordination—now granting favors, now making requests, now threatening, now pleading his case, now blaming, now praising, he marked out boundaries for himself, as though we ought to look to him alone, and to the new metropolis, since it was greater.

Why do you enclose our city within your boundaries, when we too regard our own Church as truly a mother of Churches, and from of old? In the end, he departed having accomplished nothing, though he had blustered a great deal, and he charged us with 'royalism,' as one might charge someone with 'Philippizing.'

Do we seem to you to be doing wrong in this? I think not.

Consider also the matter of the letter, how it stood at the hands of those who insulted us.

They drew up a synodal summons to us;

but when I objected and declared it an insult, they then asked, at least on this second occasion, that you be invited through me to deliberate concerning these matters.

This I undertook, so that the former thing might not happen, leaving the whole matter to you—whether you wished to gather them, and where, and when;

which was the act of one showing honor, not of one insulting.

Since, then, we do no wrong even in this, tell me what remains.

the letter which, when he took possession of Limnae, though we forbade it and threatened, he sent to us—insulting and reproaching us, and as it were singing a hymn of victory over us as though we had been defeated.

Yet what sense does it make to offend him for your sake, and yet displease you, as though we were currying favor with him? These things you ought to have learned beforehand, my good sir, and not have insulted us then—if for no other reason, at least as your elders.

But if you are excessively given to display and ambition, and address us from a position of superiority, as a metropolitan speaking to petty townsmen, or even to men without a city at all, we too have a brow which we shall hold up.

For this is the easiest thing for anyone, and perhaps the more reasonable.

To Nicobulus. Of those who write letters (since you ask this of me too), some write at greater length than is fitting, others far too meagerly;

and both miss the proper measure, just as archers miss their mark, whether they shoot short of it or overshoot it;

for missing the mark is the same, even if it happens from opposite causes.

The measure of letters is need;

one must neither write at greater length where the matters are not many, nor be sparing of words where they are many.

This, then, is what I know concerning brevity;

concerning clarity, this is well known: that one must, as far as possible, avoid the oratorical style, and incline rather toward the conversational.

and, to put it briefly, that letter is best and finest which can persuade both the layman and the educated person—the one, because it is on the level of ordinary people, the other, because it rises above the many—and which is immediately intelligible;

for it is equally inappropriate for a riddle to be pondered over as for a letter to need interpreting.

The third quality of letters is grace.

We shall preserve this if we neither write things altogether dry and graceless and unadorned, unembellished and—as the saying goes—'ungarlanded,' devoid of maxims, proverbs, and pointed sayings, and also of witticisms and riddles, by which discourse is sweetened;

nor, on the other hand, should we appear to overuse these excessively;

for the one is boorish, the other insatiable.

And these devices should be used to the same extent as purple dye is used in woven fabrics.

We will admit figures of speech, but only a few, and these not shameless.

Antitheses, and balanced clauses, and equal-membered periods, we shall cast off to the sophists;

but if we should adopt them anywhere, we shall do so more in jest than in earnest.

To conclude my discourse: what I heard from a certain witty person, speaking about the eagle—when the birds were being judged for the kingship, and each came adorned in his own fashion—was that the eagle's finest quality was that he did not think himself fine.

This same quality—the unadorned, and that which is nearest to the natural—must above all be preserved also in letters.

So much, then, from me to you concerning letters, conveyed through a letter;

and perhaps these are not even fitting matters for us, for whom greater things are the object of earnest pursuit;

but as for the rest, you yourself, being quick to learn, will work diligently at it, and those skilled in these matters will teach you.

To the Same. You ask for flowers from the meadow in autumn, and you arm an aged Nestor, in now demanding of me something skillful in the way of words—I who long ago have bid farewell to all delight, both of discourse and of life.

Nevertheless (for you are not imposing on me some Eurystheus-like or Heraclean labor, but one quite gentle and fitting for us—that I should gather together for you as many of my letters as possible)—

here now, take this girdle and lay it up among your books—not an amatory one, but a rational one, not so much for display as useful, and belonging to our own household.

and take whatever is instructive in our discourses, both in maxims and in doctrines, wherever it might be fitting.

And just as in a nobly-born child, the father is always manifest together with it, so likewise in one's words;

no less than those who begat them are manifest, for the most part, in their children's bodily features.

Such, then, is our part.

But may you grant us in return both the writing itself and the benefit that comes from what we write.

For we can neither ask for nor demand a better reward than this — one more profitable to those who ask it, or more fitting for the one who grants it.

To the Same. Having always preferred the great Basil to myself, even if he himself thought otherwise, I now prefer him no less on account of truth than of friendship.

For indeed I desire that we be joined to one another everywhere, and at the same time offer others a model of moderation and deference.

To the Same. To speak laconically is not, as you suppose, to write in few syllables, but to write few words about very many things.

Thus I call Homer the most concise of writers, and Antimachus the most verbose.

How so? By judging length according to the subject matter, not according to the words.

To the Same. Perhaps you flee those who pursue you, by the laws of love, so as to make yourself the more esteemed.

Come, then, now also, and make up to us for the loss of this long time.

And if something there should detain you, you will let us go again, that you may once more be held the more esteemed for being longed for anew.

To Thecla. Your small addition to the letter I received as though it were a great epistle.

For I am yours, and you are mine, the Spirit having thus joined us together.

Knowing this, both pray for us, and be confident in every respect, since you will find no one more genuine than us, nor anyone who shares more fully in your concerns — even if as yet neither much familiarity nor experience has taught you this.

But concerning our griefs, what need is there to write, except that I wish you, considering this a season for the highest philosophy, to endure your sufferings with fortitude, and thus to contend against those who grieve you, since otherwise it is neither possible nor holy? To the Same Woman. The year now past brought a heavy frost upon our homeland, and checked the tender buds of the vines, which were already opening toward their birth-pangs of blossom.

And those that remained, being barren, produced dry and unwatered wine-vats.

Why, then, have I been led to lament so tragically to you the fruitlessness of the plants? So that you yourself might become for us, according to Solomon, both a blossoming vine of henna and a fruit-laden vine-branch — not one that merely puts forth a cluster in blossom, but one that presses out from the clusters dew for the thirsty.

And who are the thirsty? Those who build the wall around the enclosure of the community.

Since I have no mountain wine to give these men to drink, I have turned to your hand, rich in many clusters, that you may bid your streams flow to us as from a river.

For by doing this quickly you will heal the parched mouths of many, and above all you will gladden, as much as possible, even me, the Attic-speaking beggar.

To Basil. I have always set you up, from the beginning, and now still set you up, as both a guide of life and a teacher of doctrine, and whatever else good one might name.

And if there is any other admirer of your qualities, he is certainly either with me, or after me.

So utterly have I been overcome by your reverent piety, and so purely am I yours.

For where there is more companionship, there is also more experience.

And where experience is more abundant, testimony is also more complete.

And if there is any other benefit to my life, it is your friendship and companionship.

Thus I stand regarding these matters, and thus may I ever stand.

But what I now write, I write unwillingly, yet I write it nonetheless.

Otherwise I myself shall be greatly distressed, if I am not believed to say and write these things to you out of good will.

Many have condemned us as not being firm in the faith — as many as, doing well, make our affairs known to all.

Some openly charge us with impiety, others with cowardice.

Impiety — those who believe we do not hold sound doctrine; cowardice — those who blame our reticence.

And why need I speak of what others say? But I will relate to you what recently occurred.

...of distinguished men who are also friends of ours, and among them also a certain man clothed with the name and outward guise of piety.

The drinking had not yet begun, and talk arose about us, as is wont to happen at banquets when this is proposed as one topic in place of another digression.

While all were admiring your qualities, and adding that we practiced philosophy alike, and speaking of our friendship, and of Athens, and of the concord and harmony in all things between us, the so-called philosopher took the matter with indignation.

"And what is this," he said, "gentlemen?" — crying out something quite impetuous — "How utterly false and flattering you are!"

"Let the men be praised for other things, if you please — I myself do not object to that."

"But why is it, my good sir," he said, looking at me, "that you already so openly proclaim doctrine concerning the Spirit?" (And he recalled a certain saying of mine, how, having spoken theologically in a crowded assembly, I then added concerning the Spirit that famous saying:

"How long shall we hide the lamp under the bushel?" — while he only faintly hints at, and, as it were, merely sketches in outline, the doctrine, and does not proclaim the truth with boldness, inundating the ear more politically than piously, and veiling the ambiguity with the force of his rhetoric." To this I replied that I, lying in obscurity and unknown to the many, and scarcely recognized either for what I say or even that I say anything at all, philosophize without danger;

but his words carry greater weight, since he is more conspicuous, both in himself and before the Church.

And everything he says is public, and there is great conflict surrounding him, as the heretics seek to seize upon some unqualified statement even from Basil himself, so that he might be cast out of the Church — he who is almost the sole remaining spark of the truth and its living power, now that all things round about have been overrun — and so that evil might take root in the city, and, as from some base of operations, might overrun the whole inhabited world from this very Church.

It is better, then, that the truth be managed with discretion, we yielding a little, as it were, to the cloud of the present circumstance, than that it be overthrown by the openness of proclamation.

For there is no harm to us in knowing the Spirit to be God even through other expressions that lead to this same conclusion (for truth lies not so much in the sound as in the sense);

but it would be a great loss to the Church for the truth to be driven out on account of one man.

Those present did not accept this economy, as though it were a stale device trifling with them;

but they even cried out against us, as though we were managing our cowardice rather than sound doctrine.

For it was much better, they said, to guard our own teaching by means of the truth, than to render it useless and, by this so-called economy, fail to win over what belongs to others.

Now to recount in detail the particulars — both what I said and what I heard, and how I grew indignant against those who opposed me, almost beyond due measure and beyond my own accustomed manner — would take long to relate now, and is perhaps unnecessary.

At the end of the discussion, I dismissed them in this manner.

But you, O divine and sacred head, teach us how far we ought to advance in the theology of the Spirit, and what terms we should employ, and to what extent we ought to exercise economy, so that we may have an answer ready for those who contradict us.

For if I now needed to learn this — I, who above all others know you and your teaching, and have often both given and received full assurance concerning these matters — I would be the most ignorant and most wretched of all men.

Another, one of the more prudent sort, might have entertained suspicion;

but I, exceedingly old-fashioned and simple as I am, did not fear to write to you.

My letter grieved you — but, as I maintain, not rightly nor justly, but indeed quite excessively so.

And though you did not confess your grief, neither did you conceal it — even though you did so skillfully, veiling, as it were, the face of your sorrow with the mask of modesty.

As for me, if I did this deceitfully and with ill intent, I shall be harmed not so much by your grief as by the truth itself;

but if I did it simply and with my accustomed goodwill, I shall blame my own faults, not your disposition.

Except that it would have been far better to correct these things than to be vexed at those who offer counsel.

Your own part, then, you yourself will see to, being also well able to counsel others in such matters;

but you have me, willingly ready, God granting, both to be present, to strive alongside you, and to contribute whatever is within my power.

For who would shrink back? Who would not take courage, speaking and contending for the truth under you and with you? To the Same. Of the fulfillment of the command you gave, one part lies with us;

but the other part — and I think the greater part — depends on your reverent piety.

On us depends the impulse and the readiness to act;

for never at any other time have we avoided meeting you (how could we?), but we have always so eagerly pursued it, and now we long for it even more.

But on your holiness depends the setting right of our affairs;

for we are attending upon our lady mother, who has already for a long time been suffering from illness.

And were we not likely to leave her in an uncertain state, we would not, be well assured, forgo our visit to you.

Only assist her by your prayers toward health, and us toward our journey.

To Aerius and Alypius. Just as it is right and holy for those who truly love their children to dedicate to God the firstfruits of the threshing-floor and the winepress, and of their children — since from him come both we ourselves and all that is ours — so too it is right to dedicate the firstfruits of a new inheritance, that the portion willingly given may secure safety for the greater remainder.

Do not, then, wait to be kind to us only after everyone else, but before all others be kind to God, on whose account you should be kind to all as well; and casting aside the laws of those outside, be subject to our own, bringing forth from yourselves this fruit — your eagerness.

For the things left by others we shall have; but the eagerness we shall have from you — you to whom God is able to give back many times over what you now bestow, not only in this present, transient life, but also in the eternal life that abides.

toward whom alone it is safe to look, and on whom it is fitting to fix all our hopes.