創世六日 第 5 章

"Let the earth bring forth the herb of grass, yielding seed after its kind, and the fruit tree bearing fruit after its kind, whose seed is in itself."

Consistently, after the earth had rested, having been relieved of the burden of the water, the command came to it to bring forth first the herb, then the tree;

which even now we see happening.

For the voice of that time, and that first command, became as it were a law of nature, and remained in the earth, furnishing it for the future with the power of generating and bearing fruit.

The first thing in the genesis of growing things is the sprouting;

then, when the sprouts have come up a little, it becomes a young plant;

then, when it has grown, it is grass, the growing things being articulated little by little, and advancing to their completion at the seed.

For the green and grassy is much alike in all of them.

"Let the earth bring forth the herb of grass."

Let the earth by itself put forth its growth, needing no cooperation from elsewhere.

Since some suppose the sun to be the cause of the things that grow from the earth, drawing the power from the depth up to the surface by the attraction of its heat, for this reason the ordering of things about the earth is older than the sun;

in order that the deceived may cease from worshiping the sun, as though it furnished the cause of life.

If, then, they are persuaded that before its genesis all things about the earth had been set in order, they will abate their boundless wonder concerning it, when they reflect that it is younger in genesis than grass and herb.

Was food, then, laid up beforehand for the cattle, while our own portion appeared worthy of no forethought? But surely He who laid up fodder beforehand for oxen and horses is preparing for you wealth and enjoyment.

For He who nourishes your livestock is increasing your provision for life.

Furthermore, the genesis of seeds—what else is it but a provision for your sustenance? Besides which, many of the things that are still among grasses and vegetables serve as food for men.

"Let the earth bring forth the herb of grass, yielding seed," He says, "after its kind."

So that even if some kind of herb is of use to others, even their profit accrues to us, and to us the use of the seeds has been set apart;

so that the sense of what is said is this: Let the earth bring forth the herb of grass, and seed yielding after its kind.

For thus the proper sequence of the wording will also be able to be restored—the construction now seeming to be ill-ordered—and what is necessary among the things administered by nature will be preserved.

For first there is sprouting, then verdure, then the growth of grass, then the completion of the growing things by means of the seed.

How then, they say, does the text indicate that all the things growing from the earth are seed-bearing, seeing that neither reed, nor dog's-tooth grass, nor mint, nor crocus, nor garlic, nor sweet-flag, nor countless other kinds of plants appear to bear seed? To this we say that many of the things growing from the earth have the power of the seeds in the base and the root.

Just as the reed, after its yearly growth, sends up from the root a certain shoot, having the function of a seed, for the time to come.

And countless others do this too, as many as, spreading through the ground, have their succession in their roots.

So that this is most entirely true: that for each of the growing things there is either seed, or some seminal power present within it.

And this is the meaning of "after its kind."

For the shoot of the reed is not productive of an olive, but from a reed comes another reed, and from seeds there sprout up things akin to what was sown.

And thus what was put forth by the earth in the first genesis is preserved even until now, the kind being kept by the sequence of succession.

Consider for me, from so small a voice and command so brief, the chilled and barren earth all at once travailing in birth and stirred up to fruit-bearing—as it were casting off some gloomy and mournful garment, and clothing itself anew in a more radiant one, exulting in its own ornaments, and putting forth the countless kinds of growing things.

I wish the wonder of the creation to be more firmly established in you, so that wherever you may find yourself, and beside whatever kind of growing thing you may stand, you may receive a vivid reminder of the Maker.

First, then, whenever you see the herb of grass and the flower, come to a consideration of human nature, remembering the image of the wise Isaiah: "All flesh is grass, and all the glory of man as the flower of grass."

For the brevity of life, and the short-lived gladness and cheerfulness of human prosperity, has met with a most fitting image in the prophet.

Today flourishing in body, well-fleshed from luxury, having a bloom of fair complexion from the prime of his age, vigorous and taut, irresistible in his impulse—tomorrow this same man is pitiable, either withered by time or dissolved by disease.

A certain man is admired for his abundance of riches;

and a host of flatterers surrounds him;

a bodyguard of pretended friends who court the favor from him;

a multitude of kinsmen, and that a feigned kinship;

a countless swarm of followers, both those attending him for meals and those waiting upon him for his needs, whom, dragging them along as he goes out and comes back again, he is an object of envy to those he meets.

Add to his wealth some civic dominion too, or even honors from kings;

the herald crying out loudly before him;

the lictors on either side inflicting blows of the heaviest terror upon his subjects;

the prisons, from which an unbearable fear is gathered among those under his hand.

And what after this? One night, or one fever, or a pleurisy, or a pneumonia, carrying off the man, snatched away from among men, departs—stripping bare all at once the whole stage-show that was his, and that glory was refuted like a dream.

So that the prophet's likening of human glory to the most frail flower has hit the mark.

"Let the earth bring forth the herb of grass, yielding seed after its kind and after its likeness."

Even now the order of the growing things bears witness to the first ordering.

For the sprouting leads the way before every herb and every plant.

For whether something is sent up from a root, from a shoot below, like crocus and dog's-tooth grass, it must sprout and peep forth to the outside;

or from seed, and in this case too it is necessary that first there be sprouting, then the becoming of a herb, then green grass, then the fruit ripening upon a stalk now dry and thick.

"Let the earth bring forth the herb of grass."

Whenever the seed falls into earth that has moisture and warmth in due measure, becoming loose and porous, it lays hold of the surrounding earth and draws to itself what is akin and of like kind to itself.

And the finest particles of the earth, entering into the pores and slipping in, expand its bulk further, so that it takes root downward, while peeping upward, the reeds put forth being equal in number to the roots;

and as the sprout is ever warmed, the moisture, drawn along through the roots, draws up with it, by the attraction of the heat, as much of the nourishing part of the earth as is moderate, and apportions this into stalk and husk and the cases of the grain, and the grain itself, and the awns;

and thus, the growth coming about little by little, each of the growing things is restored to its proper measure, whether it happens to be one of the grain-plants, or of the legumes, or of the vegetables or shrubby kinds.

One blade of grass and one herb suffices to occupy your whole mind in the contemplation of the art that wrought them;

how the stalk of grain is girt with joints, so that, like certain bonds, they may easily bear the weight of the ears when, being full of fruit, they bend toward the earth.

For this reason the wild oat is empty throughout, inasmuch as its head is weighed down by nothing;

but nature has secured the grain with these bonds.

And having stored the kernel in a case, so as not to be easily snatched away by the seed-eating birds;

and further, by the projection of the awns, as it were with barbs, it keeps off the harm coming from the small creatures.

What shall I say? What shall I pass over in silence? Amid the rich treasures of creation, the finding of the more precious is difficult, and most grievous is the loss of what is passed by.

"Let the earth bring forth the herb of grass."

And straightway, together with the nourishing plants, the poisonous ones too were brought forth;

with the grain, the hemlock;

with the rest of the nourishing plants, hellebore, and aconite, and mandrake, and the juice of the poppy.

What then? Letting go of confessing our thanks for the useful things, shall we bring a charge against the Creator on account of those destructive to our life? Shall we not consider this—that not all things have been created for the sake of our belly? Rather, the foods appointed for us are ready at hand and well known to all;

but each of the things that have come to be fulfills some peculiar function of its own in the creation.

For surely, because bull's blood is poison to you, was it for this reason necessary either that the animal should not have been produced, or, having been produced, should be bloodless—the animal upon whose strength our life depends for so many things? But for you, indeed, the reason that dwells within is sufficient for guarding against the deadly things.

For surely sheep and goats know how to flee from the things that harm their life, distinguishing the noxious by sense alone;

but for you, to whom reason is present, and the art of medicine that supplies what is useful, and the experience of those who have gone before that suggests the avoidance of harmful things—is it hard, tell me, to turn aside from the poisons? But of these there is nothing that has come to be idly, nothing uselessly.

For either it provides food to some one of the irrational creatures;

or even for us ourselves it has been discovered, by the art of medicine, for the relief of certain ailments.

For starlings feed on hemlock, escaping the harm from the poison by reason of the constitution of their body.

For, having fine passages about the heart, they succeed in digesting what is swallowed before the chilling from it can fasten upon the vital parts.

And hellebore is food for quails, which escape the harm by the peculiarity of their temperament.

And these very things are sometimes useful even to us, in due season.

For by means of mandrake, physicians induce sleep;

and with opium they lull to rest the severe pains of bodies.

And ere now some have by hemlock quenched the raging of the appetites;

and by hellebore have dislodged many chronic diseases.

So that what you supposed you had as a charge against the Creator, this has turned out for you as an addition to your thanksgiving.

"Let the earth bring forth the herb of grass."

How much spontaneous food does He speak of in these words—that in the roots, and that in the herb itself, and that already in the fruits! And how much that comes to us from care and husbandry! He did not at once command seed and fruit to be given forth, but the earth to sprout and grow green, and only then to be perfected into seed, so that that first command might become a school for nature in the sequence that follows.

How then, he says, does the earth bring forth seeds after their kind, when, having often sown wheat, we gather in this black grain? But this is not a change into another kind, but as it were a kind of disease and infirmity of the seed.

For it did not lay aside being wheat, but was blackened through scorching, as one may learn even from the name itself.

For, scorched by the excess of cold, it passed over into a different color and taste.

And moreover it is also said that, whenever it gets suitable soil and temperate air, it returns to its original form.

So that you would find nothing being accomplished among the growing things contrary to the command.

But the so-called darnel, and whatever other spurious seeds are mingled in among the nourishing ones—which Scripture is wont to call tares—do not come about from a change of the wheat, but have arisen from their own proper origin, having a kind of their own.

These fulfill the image of those who falsify the teachings of the Lord, and who, not being genuinely instructed in the word, but corrupted by the teaching of the evil one, mingle themselves into the healthy body of the Church, in order that from concealment they may cast their own harms upon the more guileless.

Indeed the Lord too likens the perfecting of those who have believed in Him to the growth of seeds, saying:

"As when a man casts seed upon the earth, and sleeps and rises night and day, and the seed springs up and grows, he himself knows not how."

For the earth bears fruit of itself, first the blade, then the ear, then the full grain in the ear.

And in a brief moment of time, beginning from the sprouting, the earth—in order that it might keep the laws of the Creator—having passed through every form of growth, straightway brought the sprouts to perfection.

And the meadows were deep with the abundance of the grass, while the fertile portions of the plains, bristling with the standing crops, preserved the image of a billowing sea in the movement of the ears of grain.

And every herb and every kind of vegetable, and whatever is among the shrubs, and whatever among the legumes, then overspread the earth in all abundance.

For there was no failure at all among the things then brought forth—neither of the husbandmen's inexperience, nor of the air's bad temperature, nor of any other cause marring the things that came to be.

Nor, indeed, did the sentence of condemnation impede the abundance of the earth.

For these things are older than the sin on account of which we were condemned to eat our bread in the sweat of our face.

But "the fruit tree also," He says, "bearing fruit, whose seed is in itself, after its kind and after its likeness upon the earth."

At this word, all the thickets grew dense;

all the trees shot up—both those naturally disposed to rise to the greatest height, firs and cedars, and cypresses and pines;

and all the shrubs at once were leafy on every side and bushy;

and the plants called garland-plants—the rose-bushes and myrtles and laurels—all in one moment of time, not being before upon the earth, came into being, each with its own peculiarity, distinguished by the clearest differences from those of other kinds, and each recognized by its own proper character.

Except that the rose was then without thorns, but afterward the thorn was yoked to the beauty of the flower, that we might have sorrow set close beside the delight of enjoyment, remembering the sin on account of which the earth was condemned to bring forth for us thorns and thistles.

But it was commanded, He says, that the earth bring forth "the fruit tree, bearing fruit upon the earth, whose seed is in itself";

yet we see many of the trees making use neither of fruits nor of seed.

What then shall we say? That the things more honorable in nature obtained the precedence of mention;

and then, that to one observing accurately, all will appear either to make use of seed, or to have things equivalent in power to seeds.

For black poplars, and willows, and elms, and white poplars, and all such, seem manifestly to bear no fruit at all, yet one investigating accurately would find each of these to have seed.

For the kernel lying beneath the leaf, which some of those who busy themselves with coining names call the "leaf-stalk," has the power of a seed.

For all those things that are naturally generated from branches, from there for the most part put forth their roots.

And perhaps the offshoots of the roots also hold the rank of a seed, which the gardeners tear off and so increase the kind.

First, however, as we said, those things were deemed worthy of mention which are more sustaining of our life, as many as were destined, welcoming man with their proper fruits, to furnish him with an abundant sustenance;

the vine, producing wine that would gladden the heart of man;

and the olive, furnishing fruit able to make the face cheerful with oil.

How many things ran together at the same time, urged forth in haste by nature? The root of the vine;

the tendrils, flourishing in a circle and spread out large above the ground;

the shoot, the curling tendrils, the unripe grape, the clusters.

Even the vine alone, intelligently beheld, suffices to create in you, by sight, a reminder of nature.

For you surely remember the image of the Lord, that He calls Himself a vine, and the Father the husbandman, and each one of us, grafted by faith into the Church, He named branches;

and He calls us to abundant fruit-bearing, that we may not, being condemned for uselessness, be delivered over to the fire;

and He does not cease everywhere likening the souls of men to vines.

"For my beloved had a vineyard," He says, "on a horn, in a fruitful place."

And, "I planted a vineyard, and set a hedge about it."

He calls human souls the vineyard, clearly, about which He set as a hedge the security that comes from the commandments, and the guard of the angels.

"For the angel of the Lord shall encamp round about those that fear Him."

Then too He fixed firmly beside us, as it were stakes, having set in the Church first apostles, secondly prophets, thirdly teachers.

And lifting up our minds to a height by the examples of the men of old and the blessed, He did not leave them flung down on the ground and worthy to be trodden underfoot.

And He wills that we too, as it were by certain tendrils, lay hold on the embraces of love toward our neighbors, and rest upon them, so that, ever having our impulse directed upward, we may, like certain vines climbing up trees, raise ourselves to the summits of the loftiest.

And He requires of us also that we submit to being dug about.

And the soul is dug about in the laying aside of the cares of the world, which are a burden to our hearts.

So that he who has laid aside fleshly love, and friendship with riches, or who has deemed the wretched craving after this paltry bit of glory a thing to be spat upon and despised, is as it were dug about and has taken breath, having rid himself of the vain burden of the earthly mind.

And one must, according to the word of the proverb, not run riot in foliage either—that is, not to live ostentatiously, nor to hunt after the praise from those outside, but to be fruitful, reserving the display of one's works for the true husbandman.

And you, be "like a fruitful olive in the house of God," never being stripped of hope, but ever keeping flourishing about you the salvation that comes through faith.

For thus you will imitate the evergreen quality of the plant, and you will also emulate its fruitfulness, furnishing abundant almsgiving at every season.

But let us return to the investigation of the artful arrangements.

How many kinds of plants then ran up—some fruit-bearing, some good for roofing, others suitable for shipbuilding, others for burning? Among these, again, varied is the arrangement of its parts in each tree, and hard to attain is both the discovery of the peculiarity of each, and the contemplation of its difference from each of the other kinds.

How some of them are deep-rooted, others shallow-rooted;

and some are upright-growing and single-stemmed, while others are low-lying and divided right from the root into many shoots.

How those whose branches are long, stretched far out into the air, have also deep roots, distributed very widely in a circle, nature placing them beneath as it were certain foundations proportioned to the weight of the parts above.

How many are the differences of the barks? For some of the plants are smooth-barked, others rough-barked;

and some of them are single-coated, others many-layered.

And what is marvelous: you would find, even in plants, symptoms much like those of human youth and old age.

For around the young and flourishing the bark is stretched tight;

but on those growing old it becomes, as it were, wrinkled and roughened.

And some, when cut, sprout again;

but others remain without succession, as it were having undergone in the cutting a kind of death.

And ere now some have observed pines, when cut down or even burned over, changing into oak-thickets.

And we have learned that some, even their natural defect, are remedied by the care of husbandmen;

for instance, the sour pomegranates, and the more bitter of the almonds, when, being bored through at the stem near the root, they receive a wedge of resinous pine driven through the middle of the pith, they then change the harshness of their juice into usefulness.

Let no one, then, who lives in vice despair of himself, knowing that, if husbandry changes the qualities of plants, the soul's care for virtue is able to gain mastery over ailments of every sort.

And the difference among the fruit-bearing plants as regards their fruit-production is so great that no one could even traverse it in discourse.

For not only are there differences of fruits among the various kinds, but already even within the very same species of tree there is much variation;

inasmuch as one character of fruit belongs to the male trees, another to the female, as has been distinguished by the cultivators, who indeed divide even the date-palms into male and female.

And you may sometimes see what they call the female letting down its branches, as it were in heat and longing for union with the male; and the tenders of the plants throwing in among its branches, as it were certain seeds of the males—the so-called caprifig-gnats—and thus the branches, as if in a sense of enjoyment, becoming reanimated and straightening up again, and the foliage being restored to the proper figure of the plant.

And they say these very same things also concerning the fig-trees.

Whence some plant wild fig-trees beside the cultivated ones;

while others, binding on the wild figs, heal the weakness of the fruitful and cultivated fig-trees, checking with the wild figs the fruit that was already running off and being scattered.

What does this riddle from nature mean for you? That we must often take on a certain vigor, even from those alien to the faith, for the display of good works.

For if you see one living in a heathen manner, or one cut off from the Church by some perverse heresy, yet taking care for a temperate life and for the rest of good order in his conduct, intensify your own zeal beyond his, that you may become like the fruitful fig-tree, which gathers strength from the presence of the wild ones, and, checking the running-off, more carefully nourishes its fruit.

Such, then, are the differences concerning the manner of their generation—to say very little out of very much.

But of the fruits themselves, who could go through their variety—the shapes, the colors, the peculiarity of the juices, the usefulness derived from each? How some are ripened bare by the sun, while others are brought to fullness shrouded in husks? And of those whose fruit is tender, the leaf is a thick covering, as in the case of the fig; while of those whose fruits are more weatherproof, the projection of the leaves is slight, as in the case of the walnut? Because the former, by reason of weakness, needed more protection, while for the latter the thicker covering would have been harmful from the shade cast by it.

How is the leaf of the vine slit, so that both the cluster may hold out against the harms from the air, and may abundantly receive the ray of the sun through its openness? Nothing is without cause;

all things have a certain ineffable wisdom.

What discourse could attain it? How could the human mind go through all things with precision, so as both to discern the peculiarities, and clearly to distinguish the differences with respect to each, and without deficiency to set forth the hidden causes? One water, drawn up through the root, nourishes the root itself in one way, the bark of the stem in another, the wood in yet another, and the pith differently again.

The same thing becomes a leaf, and is divided into twigs and branches, and gives growth to the fruits, and the tree's tear-gum and sap come forth from the same cause;

how great the difference is among these in relation to one another, no discourse could reach.

For different is the tear-gum of the mastic, and different the sap of the balsam;

and certain giant-fennels in Egypt and Libya weep forth yet another kind of sap.

There is also an account that amber is the sap of trees, congealed into the nature of stone.

Witness to this account are the bits of straw and the tiniest of creatures that appear within it, which, while the sap was still soft, were caught and held fast inside.

And in general, whoever has not been taught by experience the difference in the qualities of saps will find no rational account that explains their operation.

Again, how is it that from the same moisture wine is formed in the vine, but oil in the olive? And the marvel is not only that here the liquid is made sweet, there it becomes oily, but that even among sweet fruits the variation of quality is beyond telling.

For the sweetness in the vine is one thing, that in the apple another, and another again in the fig and the date.

I wish you to apply your skill further to this inquiry: how the same water is now smooth to the taste, when, having entered into certain plants, it is made sweet;

but now it strikes the taste sharply, when, borne through other plants, it turns sour.

And again, changing into the extreme of bitterness, it roughens the sense, when it comes to be in wormwood or scammony.

In acorns, or in the fruit of the cornel tree, it changes toward an astringent and harsh quality;

but in the terebinths and the walnuts it passes over to a soft and oily nature.

And why speak of things far apart, when on the very same fig tree it passes into the most opposite qualities? For it is most bitter in the sap, yet most sweet in the fruit itself.

And in the vine it is most astringent in the tendrils, yet most delightful in the clusters.

And the differences in colours—how many they are! In a meadow you may see the same water reddened in this flower, purple in another, blue in this one, and white in yet another;

and, more abundant still than the variety in colours, it furnishes the difference among scents.

But indeed I see my discourse, in its insatiable longing for contemplation, falling into excess; and unless I bind it by necessity and lead it away from the creation, the day will fail me as I set before you the great wisdom drawn from the very smallest things.

"Let the earth bring forth the fruitful tree, yielding fruit upon the earth."

And at once the summits of the mountains were covered with foliage;

gardens were skilfully laid out, and the banks of rivers were beautified with countless kinds of plants.

Some plants were made ready to adorn the human table;

others prepared food for the grazing herds, from their leaves, from their fruits.

Others procured for us the benefits that come from medicine;

the juices, the saps, the bits of fibre, the barks, the fruit;

and in a word, all that long experience has discovered useful for us, gathering up the profitable from individual encounters—all this the keen providence of the Creator, foreseeing it from the beginning, brought into being.

But you, when you see the cultivated and the wild, the water-loving and the land-dwelling, the flower-bearing or the flowerless, recognizing the Great One in the small, ever add to your wonder, and increase in me your love for the Creator.

Examine how He made some plants evergreen, others stripped bare;

and of the evergreens, some shedding their leaves, others ever-leaved.

For both the olive and the pine do shed their leaves, though they exchange them imperceptibly, so that they never seem to be stripped bare of their foliage.

But the date palm is ever-leaved, keeping the same leaf from its first sprouting to the end.

Then consider this too: how the tamarisk is, as it were, amphibious, both reckoned among the water-loving plants and multiplying throughout the deserts.

Therefore Jeremiah too rightly likens the more wicked and double-natured characters to such a plant.

This small command was at once a great nature and a skilful word, accomplishing—faster than our thought—the countless properties of the things that grow.

That command, even now still present in the earth, urges it in each yearly cycle to bring forth all the power it has for the generation of grasses and seeds and trees.

For just as spinning-tops, from the first blow given them, make the successive revolutions, when, having fixed their centre, they whirl round upon themselves;

so too the sequence of nature, having received its beginning from the first command, runs on through all the time that follows, until it arrives at the common consummation of the universe.

Toward which let us all also hasten, fruitful and full of good works, so that, being planted in the house of the Lord, we may flourish in the courts of our God, in Christ Jesus our Lord, to whom be glory and might unto the ages of ages.

HOMILY. On the Creation of the Luminaries.

It is fitting that the spectator of athletes should himself also partake of some measure of vigour.

And this one might perceive from the rules of the festal games, which prescribe that those seated together in the stadium sit with bare head;

in order, as it seems to me, that each one might be not merely a spectator of the contenders, but himself in his turn a contender.

So then, in the same way, the examiner of great and surpassing spectacles, and the hearer of wisdom truly supreme and ineffable, ought to come from home already possessing certain resources for the contemplation of the matters set before him, and to share in my struggle as far as he is able, standing by not so much as a judge as a fellow-contender;

lest somehow the discovery of the truth escape us, and my own error become a common loss to those who hear.

To what end, then, do I say these things? Because, since there lies before us an examination and contemplation of the constitution of the world and of the universe—drawing its principles not from the wisdom of the world, but from those things by which God instructed His own servant, speaking to him face to face and not through riddles—it is altogether necessary that those who love to behold great things should not have their mind untrained for the understanding of the matters set before us.

If, then, on some clear night, gazing intently at the unspeakable beauties of the stars, you have taken thought of the Craftsman of all things—who it was that bespangled heaven with these flowers, and how in things visible the necessary outweighs the delightful;

and if again by day, with sober reasoning, you have learned the wonders of the day, and through the things seen have reasoned out the One unseen, then you come a well-equipped hearer, fit for the assembly of this august and blessed theatre.

Come then, just as those who lead by the hand the strangers to a city show them around, so I too will be your guide to the hidden wonders of this great city.

In this city, in which our ancient homeland lay—the homeland from which the murderous demon dislodged us, when by his own baits he enslaved man—

here you will behold the first generation of man, and the death that straightway overtook us;

the death which sin begot, the firstborn offspring of the author of evil, the demon.

And you will come to know yourself: earthly indeed by nature, yet the work of divine hands;

in power falling far short of the irrational animals, yet appointed by election ruler over the irrational and the inanimate.

Diminished in the equipment that comes from nature, yet able, by the abundance of reason, to lift itself up to heaven.

If we learn these things, we shall recognize ourselves, we shall come to know God, we shall worship the Creator, we shall serve the Master, we shall glorify the Father, we shall love our Nourisher, we shall reverence the Benefactor; nor shall we ever cease worshipping the Author of our life, both the present and the one to come—who, through the riches He has already supplied, both makes good His promises and, by the experience of present things, confirms to us the things we await.

For if things temporal are such, what must the eternal be? And if things visible are so beautiful, what must the invisible be? If the magnitude of heaven exceeds the measure of the human mind, what intellect could ever trace out the nature of things everlasting? If the sun, subject as it is to corruption, is so beautiful, so great, swift in its motion yet rendering its orbits in good order, having a magnitude commensurate with the universe so as not to overstep its proportion to the whole;

and by the beauty of its nature shines forth in the creation like some translucent eye;

if the sight of it is insatiable, of what beauty must the Sun of Righteousness be? If for the blind it is a loss not to see this sun, what a loss for the sinner to be deprived of the true Light?

"Let there be luminaries in the firmament of heaven, to give light upon the earth, so as to divide between the day and between the night."

Heaven had already preceded, and the earth;

the light had been created upon these;

day and night had been distinguished;

again the firmament, and the appearing of the dry land.

The water had been gathered together into one assembled and set-apart collection.

The earth had been filled with its own offspring, having sprouted forth the countless kinds of grasses and abounding in every sort of plant.

But sun and moon were not yet, so that they who are ignorant of God might neither name the sun as the originator and father of light;

nor suppose it to be the maker of the things that grow from the earth.

And then God said, "Let there be luminaries in the firmament of heaven."

When you are taught of the One who spoke, straightway join to the thought the One who heard.

God said, "Let there be luminaries," and God made the two luminaries.

Who spoke, and who made? Do you not perceive in these the duality of Persons? Everywhere throughout the narrative the doctrine of theology is mystically sown together with it.

And the use of the generation of the luminaries is set forth:

"To give light," He says, "upon the earth."

If the generation of light had already preceded, how is the sun now again said to have come to be for giving light? First, then, let not the peculiarity of the wording move you to any laughter, if indeed we do not follow the selections of phrases current among you, nor cultivate the rhythmic arrangement of them.

For there are no chiselers of phrases among us;

nor is the euphony of the sounds, but the clearness of meaning in the names, everywhere preferred.

Consider, then, whether by the word "giving light" He did not sufficiently indicate what He meant;

for instead of "illumination" He has said "giving light."

But this is in no way contradictory to the things said concerning the light.

For then the very nature of light was brought forth;

but now this solar body has been prepared to be a vehicle for that first-begotten light.

For just as the fire is one thing and the lamp another—

the one having the power of giving light, the other made to display it to those in need;

so now too the luminaries have been fashioned as a vehicle for that purest and unalloyed and immaterial light.

For as the Apostle speaks of certain luminaries in the world, while the true light of the world is another, by participation in which the saints became luminaries of the souls they instructed, delivering them from the darkness of ignorance;

so now too the Maker of all things, having furnished this sun with that most radiant light, kindled it around the world.

And let no one disbelieve what has been said—that the brightness of the light is one thing, and the body underlying the light is another.

First, then, this follows from the fact that all composite things are so divided by us, both into the receptive substance and into the quality that has supervened upon it.

Just as, then, whiteness is one thing by nature, and the whitened body another, so too the things now spoken of, being different in nature, have been united by the power of the Creator.

And do not tell me that these are impossible to be divided from one another.

For neither do I assert that the division of light from the solar body is possible for me and you; but I say that the things which to us are separable in thought, these can also in actual operation be set apart by the Maker of their nature.

Since even for you it is impossible to separate the burning power of fire from its brightness;

yet God, wishing by a marvellous spectacle to turn back His own servant, set fire upon the bush which operated by brightness alone, while keeping the power of burning at rest.

As the psalmist also testifies, saying, "The voice of the Lord that divideth the flame of fire."

Whence also, in the recompenses of the things lived by us, a certain word secretly instructs us that the nature of fire shall be divided, and the light apportioned for the enjoyment of the righteous, but the painful part of its burning assigned to those who are punished.

Then, moreover, from the affections concerning the moon also, it is possible for us to find confirmation of the things sought.

For when it wanes and diminishes, it is not consumed in its whole body, but, laying aside and again taking on the light that surrounds it, it furnishes us with the appearances of decrease and increase.

And that its very body is not consumed away when it wanes—the things seen are a clear testimony.

For it is possible for you, in clear air free from all haze, when especially it happens to be crescent in shape, by watching attentively, to behold its dark and unlit part, encompassed by an arc as great as that which in full moon it fills out wholly.

So that the circle is clearly seen as fully completed, the sight carrying up together with the illumined part the shadowy and airy hollow.

And do not tell me that the moon's light is something brought in from outside, because it diminishes when borne toward the sun, but increases again as it withdraws.

For neither is it our purpose to examine that point at present, but rather to show that its body is one thing, and that which gives it light another.

Conceive, then, some such thing also in the case of the sun for me.

Except that the one, having once received the light and having it mingled in itself, does not lay it aside;

while the other, as it were continually undressing and again clothing itself with the light, by means of itself confirms also the things said concerning the sun.

These also were appointed to divide between the day and between the night.

For above, indeed, God divided between the light and between the darkness;

but then He set their nature toward the opposite, so that they hold themselves unmixed with one another, and there be no fellowship of light with darkness.

For what shadow is in daytime, that one must consider to be the nature of darkness in the night.

For if every shadow falls from bodies, when some ray shines opposite to the light;

and at dawn it stretches toward the west, in the evening it inclines toward the east, and at midday it becomes northward;

so also the night withdraws to the side opposite the rays, being by nature nothing else than the shadow of the earth.

For just as in daytime the shadow stands about the thing that blocks the ray, so the night is naturally constituted when the air around the earth is shadowed.

This, then, is what was said: that God divided between the light and between the darkness;

since the darkness flees the inroads of the light, a natural estrangement toward one another having been established for them in the first creation.

But now He has appointed the sun to the measures of the day;

and the moon, whenever it is brought to completion in its own cycle, He made the ruler of the night.

For then, roughly speaking, the luminaries stand diametrically opposite to one another.

For when the sun rises, at the full moon the moon is carried down toward the unseen;

but when the sun sets again, she often rises up over against it from the east.

But if in its other phases the moon's light is not co-completed with the night, this is nothing to the matter before us.

Only that, when she happens to be at her most perfect, she takes the lead of the night, outshining the stars by her own light and illuminating the earth all around;

and she divides the measures of the time equally with the sun.

"And let them be for signs, and for seasons, and for days, and for years."

The signs from the luminaries are necessary for human life.

If one does not pry into the signs from them beyond measure, he will find their observations, drawn from long experience, to be useful.

For there is much to learn concerning rainfalls;

and much concerning droughts and the motions of winds, whether partial or general, violent or gentle.

For one of the things indicated by the sun the Lord too has handed down to us, saying, "It will be foul weather, for the sky is red and lowering."

For whenever the rising of the sun takes place through a mist, the rays are dimmed, and it is seen coal-coloured and bloodlike in hue, the thickness of the air producing this appearance to the sight.

And the air, which had hitherto been thickened and condensed, not being dispersed by the ray, is plainly unable to master it because of the influx of vapours from the earth, but by the excess of moisture is about to bring foul weather upon the regions about which it gathers.

And likewise also whenever the moon is encircled with a watery halo;

and when about the sun the so-called halos are described, they portend either a quantity of airy water or the motion of violent winds;

or also those which they call mock-suns, when they run round together with the sun's course, become signs of certain atmospheric occurrences.

Just as also the rods, appearing upright in the clouds with the colour of the rainbow, indicate downpours or extraordinary storms, or in general a change of the air over a wide extent.

And those who have devoted themselves to these matters have observed many indicative things concerning the moon as it waxes or wanes, since the air around the earth necessarily changes together with its phases.

For being thin about the third day and clear, it announces settled fair weather;

but appearing thick at the horns and somewhat reddish, it threatens either heavy water from the clouds or a violent motion of the south wind.

And who is ignorant of how much benefit the indication from these affords to life? For it is possible for the sailor to keep his vessel within harbour, foreseeing the dangers from the winds.

And it is possible for the traveller to avoid harms from afar, awaiting the change from the lowering of the air.

And farmers, who labour over the seeds and the tending of plants, find from this all the right occasions for their works.

And already the Lord has foretold that signs of the dissolution of the universe will appear in sun and moon and stars.

"The sun shall be turned into blood, and the moon shall not give her light."

These are signs of the consummation of the universe.

But those who leap beyond the boundaries drag the saying into support of the casting of nativities, and say that our life is bound up with the motion of the heavenly bodies;

and that for this reason there come from the stars, by the Chaldeans, the indications of the things that befall us.

And while the saying of Scripture, "Let them be for signs," is simple, they take it to mean—not of the turns concerning the air, nor of the changes concerning the seasons, but as bearing upon the allotment of human lives—according to what seems good to themselves.

For what do they say? That the conjunction of these moving stars, when they come together with one another in such-and-such a figure with respect to the stars lying in the zodiac, brings to pass such-and-such destinies;

while such-and-such a relation of the same stars produces the opposite allotment of life.

Concerning which it is perhaps not unprofitable, for the sake of clarity, to speak after taking the matter up a little from the start.

But I shall say nothing of my own, but shall use their very own words for the refutation against them, providing some cure to those already preoccupied unto harm, and to the rest security against falling into the like.

The inventors of this nativity-casting, having learned that within the breadth of time many of the configurations escape them, shut up the measures of time into an utterly narrow compass;

so that even by the smallest and tiniest moment—as the Apostle says, "in an atom (instant)" and "in the twinkling of an eye"—there exists the greatest difference of one birth from another;

and the one born in this tiny instant is a tyrant of cities and a ruler of peoples, exceedingly rich and powerful;

but the one born in the other moment of the moment is some beggar and vagabond, going from door to door for the sake of his daily food.

Therefore, having divided the so-called zodiac circle into twelve parts—since through thirty days the sun traverses the twelfth part of the so-called fixed sphere—they have divided each of the twelve sections into thirty degrees.

Then, having divided each degree into sixty, they cut each of the sixtieths again sixtyfold.

Setting down, then, the nativities of those being born, let us see whether they will be able to preserve this precision in the division of time.

For no sooner is the child born than the midwife examines whether the one born is male or female;

then she waits for the cry, which is a sign of the life of the one born.

How many sixtieths do you suppose pass by in this interval? Tell the Chaldean of the birth.

Through how many—I ask you—of the most minute units shall we suppose the voice of the midwife to have passed;

especially if the one who is to mark the hour happens to be standing outside the women's quarters? For he who is going to learn the horoscopes must record the hour precisely, whether these things happen to be by day or by night.