Letters 1 part 9/11

May God bring to your mind — he by whose providence both this matter and all others are ordered for those who love him — whatever is best and equally advantageous for us both, especially since we are deliberating about matters of such great moment.

TO THE SAME. A son is not dishonored, but neither is a father disbelieved.

For now, then, I am still overcome by weakness.

But if God should grant health, we shall add our defense as well, hastening to reach your nobility, and returning to render full blessings to our household.

For we both wish and pray that what is yours may be ours.

TO THE SAME. I still call you honored, although you are deliberating things not honorable.

And accept my frankness, from one moved by fatherly affection and unable to restrain himself because of goodwill.

Eli was a priest, and he did rebuke his impious sons, saying, "Not good, O children, is the report which I hear concerning you."

But because he did not rebuke them severely, he was severely blamed, and a pious father paid the penalty for his sons' transgression.

Fearing this example myself as well, I have come to offer this exhortation.

What it is that has befallen you, I do not know.

What is this great darkness that has come over you? How do you shame your own family? You also shame our grey hairs and the hopes we had for you, when we visited the Nauïli, having spoken and persuaded them of every good thing, as we supposed. How do you not hear the Scripture that says—

"Give not your wealth to women, nor your possessions unto belated regret." For know well, you will repent of these things a little later, when the flesh of your body is worn away, according to what is written, and your mind, escaping as it were from a cloud, is able to look toward God and reckon clearly what is profitable.

Guard against the snare, lest you be captured by your eyes; and if you have been captured, sober up.

Do not also confirm the rumor being spread about, that your mind was stolen away by drugs, since licentiousness is terrible for devising evils.

For it is painful that so great a household, gathered together with such great labors, should thus in a short time be scattered and dissolved, and especially at the beginning of life, when each man lays for himself the foundation of either a good or an evil reputation.

But far more terrible is that you sacrilegiously seize and plunder women who are virgins, whom your own parents and you yourself, as you used to persuade us, had consecrated to God—

and that you already possess some of them, while you terrify the others, as though they were to suffer the same things.

Therefore, fearing God whom you serve, and having reverence for us, restrain yourself henceforth from every evil purpose.

For if it were possible for you, upon looking closely, to recognize the disgrace you have poured down upon all of us, perhaps you would not have needed any other exhortation, but would have made shame itself your counselor for what you must do.

I could have written things more pleasant than these, but none more profitable.

And I shall forbear to write more, knowing this—that if the fear of God does not discipline you, words will be able to accomplish little or nothing;

since even with iron, wax is easily engraved, iron more laboriously, but adamant not even by the hardest tool, because of the hardness of its nature.

TO IACOBUS. If I were so disposed in body as to be sufficient for the labors of travel, I would myself have come to you, and fulfilled my longing for a meeting, and conversed about the things I wished—

for our discourse is not concerning small matters.

But since I am held fast by illness, I have of necessity resorted to writing.

I bring to your nobility our most decorous daughter Simplicia, once the wife of the good and noble Alypius, the ornament of our whole homeland, together with the pitiable names of widowhood and orphanhood, that she may obtain from you what is just concerning the things she will ask of you.

And consider the magnitude of the calamity:

she has not yet ceased from her lamentations, and yet she is anxious concerning her orphaned children, and undertakes long journeys abroad, with a body so weak, and with no experience of worldly affairs—she who was not even accustomed to peer out from her house.

What could be more pitiable than this—that there should be no room even for lamentation, and that the modesty proper to her noble birth should be dissolved by her suffering?

Considering, then, all these things, and having regard also for our entreaty, do not wait, great and good Iacobus, for another to become judge in your stead;

nor place her under the necessity of a longer journey, since she has great confidence in the justice of her cause, as she has persuaded many others, and us as well;

but having read the letters, and examined the just claims with all rectitude, send her back to us in better spirits, bearing in mind above all this—that you have great power from God, wealth, glory, a road to greater prosperity.

Preserve these things for yourself through the kindness now shown, both as a father of children, and as one delivered from certain dangers while yet standing amid others; think in this way, and from the present occasion make favorable for yourself your hopes according to God.

By hearsay I know your honored self, yet I admire you as much as do few of those who have associated with you the longest;

so great is the report of your nobility of character among all.

The admirable Alypius has left us, the common patron of friends and guardian of orphans.

This is no small calamity for us.

Console her by the kindness now shown, and grant security to your own children through your beneficence toward orphans, and show that kinship counts for more than the claims of strangers.

And there will also accrue to you the favor done to us, whom—whatever honor you show—you will thereby have honored God, whose attendants and ministers we have been counted worthy to be, even if less than worthy of the office.

TO CASTOR. How tyrannical and violent you are!

Your letter alone appeared, and we were overlooked.

But behold, sent to you also is the much-enduring Sacerdos, your own brother, and my son, and a partner in my sufferings.

But that we may not be utterly defeated, restore him to us as quickly as possible—the consolation of our life—that he may both be taught and himself teach philosophy.

For to suffer together is of greatest importance for concord, and concord for counsel.

TO THE SAME. To me, it seems, a foreign land is kinder than my own homeland;

for the one granted me the enjoyment of your friendship, while the other bestowed nothing of the kind upon me.

And this I owe to my illness, which holds me fettered, and renders me sluggish—or rather immobile, if I am to speak the truer word—in respect to many things.

This loss, then, we shall bear with grief;

but what grievous thing does man not bear? Only may you be in health and prosper according to your mind, and may your affairs be in the hand of God;

and so it shall be, if you truly lay hold of him.

But be willing to send back our lady, our common sister, as quickly as possible, as she is a common support both of the devout and of our weakness;

or else we shall loudly complain against you concerning Sacerdotis, on whose account we are being deprived, and we shall call her by her own proper name.

But who she is, you shall know once you have inquired of her.

TO CYRIACUS. You honor the devout, I know well, and you do good to the poor.

Now is the occasion for you to do both of these things.

Our most honored and most beloved-of-God son Sacerdos, our fellow-presbyter, presides over a well-known and populous poorhouse, both for his piety and for his zeal in the matter.

Among the properties serving the poorhouse are the estates of Liriandos and Kaberina, bordering upon the lands of your household, given from a donation of the most honored Castor, contributing something to the poorhouse.

By freeing these from all molestation, you will contribute no small part both to the care of the poor, and to yourself the recompense which you know is owed to the pious;

and everything most excellent for you I both wish and pray.

And you are not ignorant of the first of good things:

which is, always to possess God and to become a possession of God, through kinship with him and ascent toward him—

a thing which I know you will admonish yourself to do, and have already admonished yourself to do.

TO THE SAME. If nothing difficult was expected by you when you set out toward philosophy, unphilosophical was the beginning, and I blame those who formed you in it.

But if it was expected, then if it did not in fact occur, thanks be to God;

but if it did occur, either endure patiently in your suffering, or know that you are false to your promise.

TO THE SAME. That which is untested is not approved;

but that which has been tried by circumstances is more approved, as gold in the furnace.

If this has been sufficiently philosophized by you, thanks be to God; but if not yet perfectly, I set before you myself and what is mine;

so far as it depended on those who willed it. What then? Have we been delivered from the things that grieve us?

What greater benefit could we have received than these things? Considering this, then, you too should confess thanks to God for the injury, even if not to those who did it.

TO THE SAME. What terrible thing has happened to us? Nothing—except to fail of God and of things divine.

As for the rest, let it be as God brings it about, whether he administers us toward righteousness through the weapons on the right hand, the kinder ones, or through those on the left, the harsher.

The steward of our life knows the reasons for these things.

Let us fear one thing alone, that we suffer nothing unworthy of philosophy.

We fed the poor, we loved the brethren, we delighted in psalmody, while it was possible.

Let us now philosophize on something else; the grace is not a paltry one:

Let us withdraw apart, let us contemplate, let us cleanse the mind for divine manifestations — a thing perhaps loftier even than what has been said before.

But we are not thus disposed; rather, because we have failed in one thing, do we suppose that we have fallen from the whole? Let it not be so, but let us still hold fast to good hope.

Let us see if anything remains to us, and let us not suffer the same thing as colts, who, not being accustomed to alarms at noises, become wild and throw off their riders.

And that which is sympathetic is also genuine.

And that which is genuine is also trustworthy for counsel.

Since, then, we are older in piety, and have had experience of many men and characters (for experience is the mother of understanding), while you are like colts newly yoked, only now beginning the contests that concern God (and everything that is beginning is more ardent and more vigorous, being made strong by the fervor of the spirit, so as to accomplish much that is right, but also to err greatly through ignorance) — be willing, coming as far as us, both to honor us as elders and to reverence us as fathers, and to make use of us as mediators of your difference with our most reverend brother and fellow-presbyter Sacerdos, for he too is present.

so that, having set matters well between yourselves, you may both attend to the bishop, and dissolve the scandal of the many, and — greatest of all — propitiate God, and not thus destroy in so short a time so great and so glorious a thing (I mean your concord and the covenants of your life according to God).

TO THE SAME. After the war, the alliance.

And though it was necessary first to deliberate, and then to act, we have reversed the order.

We deliberate after the deed.

If, then, it were necessary to flatter and to make things worse, I would have found many ways of flattery, inasmuch as that course is easier and is now being followed by many.

But since it is not our way to do harm, especially to a soul still newly initiated and just now approaching what is good, hear the truth.

Unphilosophical was the beginning, and those who paid court to you loved you ill, playing their own game beneath another mask.

If, then, you would now change your course and heal the sin, perhaps some scarring-over might yet come to you, even if with difficulty.

But if you should remain in the same course and pride yourself on this evil victory — "My wound is grievous," says the divine Scripture, "whence shall I be healed?" For I make your affairs my own.

Yet although I am so disposed and write thus, if you desire a meeting, I will not refuse.

TO THE SAME. Sacerdos, the fellow-presbyter, is indeed my friend, I confess, and may he ever be, both good and noble — and the more so because he is attached to you.

For not even in the things of which he complained did he abandon his affection, but made his reproach rather a brotherly one than a hostile accusation.

Yet I am not so ignorant and rash as to render judgment before hearing both sides (do not suppose this of me) — I who, even by that very letter which you condemned as insolent (unless you read it only carelessly), censured you not so much as those who inflame you and gain their own private profit from your pettiness of spirit.

What, then, is it that I have suffered? You may know it thus:

not that they might terrify, but that they might teach not to be terrified.

Having this in mind, I too made my letter somewhat harsher.

For many are the exercises of philosophy.

And thanks be to God, that I found you not unphilosophical, nor of the material sort, but sufficiently gentle and of our own fold — by which you both write with fairness and long for a meeting.

If, then, you would grant us this also, you would do better, and we will receive you, be assured, with fatherly eyes.

But if the winter should hinder you in some way, for now we greet you with this exhortation.

Prefer nothing, even now, above friendship and concord with the brother Sacerdos (be persuaded by me), and think what has happened to be nothing other than a trial from the evil one, who envies your virtue.

But contend against this first trial nobly and manfully, so that he may not bring on a second and a third contest and others in succession, but may depart defeated and put to shame.

For we know his wrestling-tricks, having learned this over long time and through our own contests against him.

But if not, still let me be pardoned for the exhortation.

Not many approve of your action concerning our most honored brother and fellow-presbyter Sacerdos, as having arisen rather from the slander of certain persons than from your own proper judgment — persons who, though perhaps ignorant of the sequence of events, yet, considering only the outcome itself by itself, do not approve.

These things, then, you yourself would know.

For it is not our business to meddle in your affairs — you who lay down the law for others as to what must be done.

But we entreat your goodness, first, to allow the man to keep the entire charge of the things he was caring for.

For it is not so easy for anyone to practice such self-mastery, even if he be the most steadfast and most philosophical, as to bear being deprived of such great labors and such long habituation.

But if not, then secondly, let him arrange the care of the poor as you wish, through whomever you yourself may approve, but let the charge of the monastery and of the brethren remain upon him.

And do not grieve him by this innovation, nor grieve still more those who cling to their accustomed way and cannot bear, as it were, the tearing apart of the limbs of a single body.

For some of them, coming to us, lamented this very thing.

If, then, this man himself appears to you to have anything worthy of reverence in his own right, as indeed is fitting, revere him for his own sake — both his gray hairs, and his labors, and the other things he has undergone for God's sake, displaying a piety beyond his years, and the labors he has borne for the feeding of the poor and the oversight of the brethren.

But if this seems a small thing to you, yet do not, at any rate, dishonor us and our intercession.

And before all else, relax your anger and grief toward him — yes, I beseech you — and, as a father, take him to yourself as a son.

If he has indeed grieved you in anything, which I do not think, grant us this pardon, and neither say nor write anything about him unworthy of him, and unworthy of your own gentleness;

and if anything has already been written, rescind it.

Nor make the grief public, which it is better to hide than to make known to outsiders, so that, among other things, you may also teach him patience by your example.

TO THE SAME. Of the things you wrote, some were very gentle and humane, but others — I do not know what to say, except that they were grievous to us, and very reasonably so, as I persuade myself.

For whether our brother and fellow-presbyter Sacerdos is justly accused, which I do not believe, that is grievous.

For how could it not be, that so great a piety and so great labors should be destroyed thus in a moment? Or whether this is a slander fabricated by those who envy him — this too is distressing, that he whose manner of life was united with yours should be estranged by such calumnies.

Accept, then, the opinion which I have judged, in the present circumstances, to be best and most profitable:

I have sent the brother himself to you — or rather, since he was already eager to go, I have sent him forth on his own accord, both to heal the distressing matter and to explain everything truthfully.

Concerning some matters he says he is ready to make a defense, and concerning others he is prepared to demonstrate that they are falsehoods.

For this too has persuaded us, that he makes his words in the fear of God.

TO HOMOPHRONIUS. You invite us to the synod;

but I was praying to be so disposed in body as to be present with you even uninvited, that I might see your sacred house, the lodging-place of Christ, the root of the holy branches, the mother — truly a mother — of children, rejoicing herself and rejoicing over children who rejoice.

I know this, and I am persuaded in the Lord, and therefore I speak with confidence:

even if something grievous has now befallen you, the lamp of Israel shall in no way be extinguished, though it be fanned by the winds of the evil one; nor shall the goodness of God be hidden any longer — which he hides from those who fear him by the ineffable words of his dispensation — but rather it shall be glorified the more and admired, through your endurance and your hope that does not put to shame.

Exhort also our most honored son Sacerdos concerning this, that he be in no way discouraged, nor suffer anything unworthy of himself, but so dispose himself toward this occasion as to take the grievous things as material for philosophy.

Let him also further attend upon our most honored bishop;

let him also strengthen the brethren, so that above all our work, which we set forth in the Lord — being so great and so renowned — may not be destroyed.

But if not, we shall at least show fairness and shall overcome envy, having given no occasion against ourselves to the wicked who vainly show hostility toward us.

TO THECLA. I too set out eagerly toward your reverence, although my body was weak, both to visit you and at the same time to praise the fortitude which you practice with philosophic constancy over your most blessed brother;

but since I was prevented by some circumstance, I have of necessity resorted to writing, and I shall philosophize with you briefly concerning your affairs.

Whence came to us the good Sacerdos, the genuine minister of God both now and formerly? From God.

And where is Sacerdos now? With God — having withdrawn, not unwillingly, I know well, from envy and from the wrestling-tricks of the evil one.

We too, worshippers of the same God, have both been brought into being and shall be led away, having suffered but little here — at least in comparison with the hope that awaits us there — and perhaps in order that we may come to know grace by what we have suffered here.

Father, mother, brother — those who have gone before — what is this? A company of praiseworthy travelers.

These Thecla too shall follow after a little while, the handmaid of God and firstfruit of good things, having endured only so long as to honor them by her fortitude and to become for many an example of philosophic constancy in such matters.

Let us, then, praise this same sovereignty, and let us receive the dispensation with a mind loftier than that of the many.

Have these thoughts now in our place, and dwell together with these reasonings, even if you find better ones for yourself.

But if we should also be deemed worthy to see you face to face, together with the whole company that is yours and around you, the greater will be our thanks to the Benefactor.

TO THE SAME. You grieve that we have been left behind, as is natural;

But we [grieved] all the more over our separation from your piety.

Yet we give thanks to God for having reached you, and we did not complain of the toil.

For we saw the firmness of your faith in Christ, and your praiseworthy solitude, and your philosophic retirement, in that, having separated yourself from all the delights of the world, you shut yourself in with God alone and with the holy martyrs among whom you dwell, and you have offered, and continue to offer, together with your beloved children, a living sacrifice, well-pleasing to God.

"For he hid me in his tabernacle in the day of evils."

he remembers God, but is even glad;

"For I remembered God," it says, "and rejoiced."

Those who are devoted to the world also suffer pain, and far more than those who serve God;

but for them the suffering is unrewarded;

whereas for us even our suffering is rewarded, whenever we endure it for God's sake.

Come, let us weigh the painful things against the pleasant, and things present against things to come, and we shall find that these do not amount even to the smallest fraction of those;

so far do the better things surpass them.

And we would be most persuaded to endure hardships steadfastly and to rise above the many when we suffer, if we were to consider what we promised to God, and what we hoped for when we set out upon the philosophic life:

to be rich? to be of good cheer? to prosper in this present life? Or, on the contrary, to be afflicted, to suffer ill, to be hard pressed, to bear all things, to endure all things for the hope of what is to come? These things, I know, we expected—not those.

I fear, then, lest we falsify even our covenants with God, whenever we both seek to have these things and yet hope for those.

Let us not abandon the undertaking, but let us bear these things in order to obtain those.

Those who afflicted us have brought us affliction, and those who have departed have grieved us;

but let us keep our soul unenslaved to the passions.

Thus we shall master the things that grieve us.

Consider also this: on whose account are we afflicted?

Is it not on account of those who have passed away? And what could we do that would be a favor to them? Is it not to endure steadfastly? Let us then grant them this;

for indeed I am persuaded that the souls of the saints are aware of what concerns us.

Above all, and before all, let us reckon this: that it is absurd to philosophize when there is no necessity, yet to appear unphilosophical amid sufferings, rather than to become for the many a pattern—just as of thanksgiving in times of good cheer, so also of endurance in times of hardship.

And I write these things not as teaching one who is ignorant, but as reminding one who already knows.

May the God of consolation keep you unwounded by the passions, and grant to us again to see your piety, and to be persuaded by your deeds that our labor has not come to nothing, but that we are something more to you than others—inasmuch as, having shared in your affliction, we have likewise been taken as a partaker of your philosophy, a thing which is perhaps owed to this our gray hair and to our labors on God's behalf.

And eagles—with whom do they consort? With none other than eagles.

And you have heard the proverb, that jackdaw sits by jackdaw.

So too, suppose that an Athenian delights in Athenians, and that one who lays claim to nobility of character delights in the lover and champion of that same nobility.

For this, it seems to me, is what a ruler is: a helper of virtue and an opponent of vice, whether he exercises the bloodless rule, as we do, or the rule that goes with sword and baldric.

For we shall not even attribute bloodshed to you, knowing that you prevail by virtue, not restrain by force, and punish the wicked by fear rather than by deed—which is the very definition of the best rule.

But not being able to attain this on account of my illness, I have of necessity resorted to letters—and, what is most excellent, I address you through a man who is a kinsman and friend and relative, Nicobulus, most honored by me in every way, who will also give you an account concerning us (and the man is trustworthy, if anyone is, so far as I know), and through us he will make himself known to your perfection as well.

To Ellebichus. What losses we suffer on account of illness!

I ought to have run to you, and embraced you, and called to mind our old friendship and companionship;

but since it was also fitting to bring some gift, this we offer: Mamas the reader, who is the son of a soldier father, but has been consecrated to God on account of his character.

Release him for God's sake and for ours, and do not number him among the vagrants, but give him a written [certificate of] freedom, so that he may not be molested by others either.

Yes, I beg you, attend to this.

For those in whose hands the greatest matters lie, and on whom everything hangs in the balance, must above all take thought for God and for the help that comes from Him.

To Anysius. A letter has come to us from you, showing both your good health and that the affairs of your journey abroad turned out according to your mind.

But if we too should have something of this sort to write concerning ourselves, the favor would be greater.

To Ursus. Sweet indeed it is to greet one's friends;

but to do so also through friends is sweeter still.

Among these is our most honored son Anysius, who will also bring you the good news of our health—if indeed this slight tendency toward the better may be called health—and he will report to you the matters with which he was entrusted.

As for coming as far as to you—which you seek so kindly and genuinely—and enjoying your love, this, be well assured, would be most sweet to me, and like nothing else among the things I long for, as those know to whom I proclaim your kind reception of me.

But whether it is even possible, or otherwise fitting, let your own good judgment decide, lest perhaps we be condemned for untimeliness and seem burdensome to some, as appearing without reason and without any evident cause.

since we cannot persuade the many that we practice philosophy without guile, and that we give all that is ours to God.

To Pansophius. Who does not praise a plant just now bursting into bloom? Whom does not a field just now being bound into sheaves delight, promising a ripe ear of grain? And whom does not a newly-consecrated soul delight, just now being adorned by God and beginning to shake off the fetters of earth, that it may be with God and see the truth of those things whose shadows we now behold? I rejoice, then, exceedingly on this account over our beloved brother and fellow deacon Evagrius, seeing him advancing to philosophy in no ignoble manner;

since philosophy is indeed the love of wisdom.

And I rejoice that he has also procured for me your friendship, and I shall rejoice still more if you write more often, and repay us with more numerous tokens of friendship.

To the same. As great as is the distance between the Iberians and us, a journey of no few days;

yet friendship makes even things far apart to be near.

And the tokens of the feast—how sweet they are!

and how great a thing is your invitation, and your longing for a meeting with us.

What good, then, so great, shall I pray for you in return for these things? May you remain such as you are!

But if I must say something even greater, may you surpass yourself!

To what does my illustration point? There was between us a friendship pure and guileless—a thing especially rare nowadays and found among few—and this was produced in us not so much by kinship, nor by sharing a common fatherland, nor by what Homer calls "lovely equality of age," as by likeness of character and delight in the same things, which above all cements friendships and makes them more secure.

Now our families are also being joined together (I say this with God's help), so that there may be an addition to our friendship, and that we may belong to one another all the more; and God, aiding this righteous affection, is bringing this to pass.

Hold us, then, as your own through our most sweet son Euphemius, and we hold you as our own through your most sweet daughter.

As for what follows, I do not know on whose behalf, or to whom, I ought rather to speak—on behalf of the young man to your honored self, or to the young man concerning you.

For a father's goodwill toward his children is the same for each.

Nevertheless, I pray that this union may turn out for you in every respect for the best, and as is fitting, God joining you together.

To Eusebius. Euopion, most dear one, and the time of marriage, and the foundation of a life, and the prayers of fathers being fulfilled—

fathers whose presence and shared prayer it would have been most fitting to have.

And indeed I had promised to come, for hope accompanied my longing;

but mere wishing is sufficient for self-deception.

And having often set out, and often held back, in the end I was overcome by my illness.

Let others, then, invoke Love—since playful jesting too belongs to a wedding—and let them depict the beauty of the bride, and extol in turn the grace of the bridegroom, and let them strew the bridal chamber with words along with flowers.

But I will sing to you my own wedding-song:

"May the Lord bless you out of Zion," and may He Himself join this union together, and may you see your sons' sons—nor is it too much to say, even better than yourselves.

This I would have prayed for you had I been present, and this I pray for you now.

But let your father take care of the rest, and let him crown you, as he prayed.

For this is also what we have set as our pattern, wherever we have been present at weddings.

that the crowns belong to those, but the prayers to us — prayers which, I know, are not bounded by places.