哥林多前書講道集 第 28 章

But let a man examine himself, and so let him eat of the bread, and drink of the cup.

What is the meaning of these words, seeing that the subject before him is a different one? This is a custom with Paul, as I have already said before, not only to work out those matters that lie before him, but if another topic should chance to fall in with his subject, to pursue this too with much diligence, and especially whenever it concerns things exceedingly necessary and pressing.

For indeed, when he was discoursing with the married, and the matter of household servants chanced to fall in with his argument, he established his point most nobly and at great length;

and when he was speaking about the duty of not going to law in the courts, then too, falling into the admonition concerning covetousness, he discoursed at length upon this subject also;

which very thing he has done here also.

For since he had once made mention of the Mysteries, he thought it necessary to go on and treat of the subject fully;

wherefore also he discoursed concerning it in a manner exceedingly awe-inspiring, establishing the sum of good things, namely, their approaching with a pure conscience.

Whence he was not content with what had been said before only, but adds these things also, saying:

But let a man examine himself;

which also he says in the second Epistle:

Test yourselves, prove your own selves;

not as we do now, coming rather because it is the season than out of earnestness of purpose.

For we do not consider how, being prepared and having purged out our own evils and being filled with compunction, we may approach, but rather how we may do so at festivals, and whenever all men come.

But Paul did not so command; rather, he knows but one fitting season for approaching and for communion—the purity of the conscience.

For if we would never partake of a table perceived by the senses while in a fever and full of evil humours, lest we perish;

much more is it not lawful for us to touch this Table with unseemly desires, which are more grievous than any fevers.

And when I speak of unseemly desires, I mean both those of the body and those concerning money, and those of anger, and those of the remembrance of wrongs, and simply all that are unseemly.

And he that approaches must, having drained out all these, so touch that pure Sacrifice; and neither being carelessly and wretchedly disposed, be forced to approach on account of the festival, nor again, having been filled with compunction and being prepared, be hindered because it is not a festival.

For a festival is the showing forth of good works, and reverence of soul, and exactness of conduct;

and if you have these, you will be able to keep festival continually, and continually to approach.

Therefore he says, Let each one examine himself, and then let him approach.

And he does not bid one man to examine another, but himself his own self, making the tribunal one that is not made public, the scrutiny one without witnesses.

For he that eats and drinks unworthily, eats and drinks condemnation to himself, not discerning the Lord's body.

This Table, the cause of so many good things and teeming with life—does this become condemnation? Not by reason of its own nature, he says, but by reason of the disposition of him that approaches.

For just as His coming, which brought us those great and unspeakable good things, rather condemned those who did not receive it;

so also the Mysteries become to those who partake unworthily a provision for greater punishment.

And why does he eat condemnation to himself? Because he does not discern the Lord's body.

That is to say: not examining, not considering, as he ought, the greatness of the things set before him, not reckoning the magnitude of the gift.

For if you were to learn accurately who it is that is set before you, and who He is, and to whom He gives Himself,

you would need no other argument, but this would suffice you for all watchfulness—unless you were exceedingly fallen and supine.

For this cause many among you are weak and sickly, and many sleep.

Here, for the rest, he no longer brings his examples from others, as he did in the case of things sacrificed to idols, relating the ancient histories and the plagues in the wilderness, but from the Corinthians themselves, which also made his discourse more striking.

For since he had said, He eats condemnation to himself, and, He is guilty, in order that he might not seem to be uttering mere words, he points also to facts and calls them themselves as witnesses—which reaches home more than any threat, by showing that the threat had come forth into deed.

Yet he was not content with these alone, but from these he also introduced and confirmed the discourse concerning hell, terrifying them from both sides, and resolving a question that is everywhere current.

For since many are perplexed with one another, whence come untimely deaths, whence long diseases, he says that many of these unlooked-for things have their origin from sins.

What then, he says, do those who are continually in health, and come to a ripe old age, not sin? And who could say this? How is it then, he says, that they do not pay the penalty? Because there they shall pay a more grievous one.

But we, if we were willing, would neither here nor there have to pay it.

For if we judged ourselves, he says, we should not be judged.

And he did not say, If we chastised ourselves, If we punished ourselves, but only, If we were willing to recognize our sins, to condemn ourselves, to pass sentence upon our transgressions, we should have been delivered both from the punishment here and from that yonder.

For he that condemns himself renders God twice propitious: both by recognizing his sins, and by becoming more cautious with regard to the future.

But since we are not willing to do even this light thing, as we ought to do it, not even so does He endure to punish us together with the world, but even so He spares us, exacting the penalty here, where the punishment is temporary and the consolation abundant;

for indeed what takes place is a deliverance from sins, and a good hope of things to come, lightening what is present.

And these things he says, at once consoling the sick, and at the same time making the others more earnest.

But now, being judged, we are chastened by the Lord.

He did not say, We are punished, he did not say, We are being avenged upon, but, We are chastened;

for what takes place is rather of admonition than of condemnation, of healing than of vengeance, of correction than of chastisement.

And not by this only, but also by the threat of the greater, he makes the present light, saying:

That we may not be condemned with the world.

Do you see how he has set up both hell and that dread tribunal, and has shown that scrutiny and that punishment to be necessary and altogether certain to come? For if the faithful and those greatly esteemed by God do not escape without punishment in the matters wherein they may have transgressed—as is plain from things present—much more the unbelieving, and those who have sinned incurable and irremediable sins.

Wherefore, coming together to eat, wait for one another.

For while the fear was yet at its height among them, and the trembling on account of hell still remained, he wishes again to bring in the exhortation on behalf of the poor, for the sake of which he has said all these things, showing that not to do this is to partake unworthily.

But if not to give a share of one's goods excludes from that Table, much more does plundering.

And he did not say, 'So then, when you come together, share with those in need,' but what was more dignified: 'Wait for one another.'

For this both effected that same purpose and hinted at it, and he introduced the exhortation with a fitting form.

'If anyone is hungry, let him eat at home.'

By granting permission he forbade, and more forcibly than if he had flatly prohibited.

For he led such a one out of the church and dispatched him to his house, in this way rebuking them sharply and holding them up to ridicule as slaves of the belly and men without self-control.

For neither did he say, 'If anyone despises the poor,' but 'If anyone is hungry,' as though conversing with children who are peevish, as though with irrational creatures enslaved to the belly.

For it is indeed a great absurdity, if because of hunger they were going to eat at home.

But he was not content with this; rather he added something else more fearful, saying:

'That you may not come together for judgment.'

for punishment, that it might not be for retribution, since you outrage the Church and put your brother to shame.

For it is on this account that you come together, he says: that you may cherish one another, that you may be helped, that you may help.

But if the contrary happens, it is better for you to take your food at home.

And this he said in order to draw them the more.

For it was on this account that he showed the harm arising from it, and declared it to be no small judgment, and terrified them from every side—from the mysteries, from the sick, from the departed, from the other things spoken of before.

Then again in another way also he strikes fear, saying:

'And the rest I will set in order when I come.'

either concerning certain other matters, or concerning this very thing.

For since it was likely that they too were alleging certain reasons, and it was not possible to set everything right by letter, he says: let what I have exhorted be observed for the present;

but if you have anything else to say, let that be reserved for my presence;

whether speaking about this matter, as I have said, or about certain other things not very pressing.

And he does this so that from this too he may make them more earnest;

for being anxious about his coming, they were likely to set right what had been done amiss.

For Paul's sojourn among them was no ordinary thing;

and showing this he said, 'Now some are puffed up, as though I were not coming to you.'

and again elsewhere, 'Not as in my presence only, but now much more in my absence, work out your own salvation with fear and trembling.'

On this account he did not simply promise to come, lest they should disbelieve and become more slothful, but he also assigns a necessary reason for his sojourn, saying that 'The rest I will set in order when I come';

showing that the correction of the matters left unattended, even if he had not been altogether eager, was drawing him thither.

Hearing all these things, therefore, let us both make much diligence for the poor, and restrain the belly, and free ourselves from drunkenness, and be earnest to partake worthily of the mysteries; and whatever we may suffer, let us not grieve, neither over ourselves nor over others;

as for instance when untimely deaths occur, when long sicknesses come.

For this is a deliverance from punishment, this is correction, this is the best admonition.

Who says these things? He who has Christ speaking within himself.

Yet nevertheless, even after these things, so many of the women are so devoid of feeling that they surpass even the unbelievers in their excess of mourning;

and some do this being darkened by their passion, while others do it for display and in order to escape the reproaches of those outside—and these I say are especially deprived of all pardon.

For 'lest so-and-so should accuse me,' she says—let God accuse!

lest men more senseless than the irrational beasts should condemn—let the law of the King of all be trodden underfoot!

And of how many thunderbolts are these things not worthy? If someone invites you to a funeral banquet after the mourning, there is none to gainsay it, since it is a law of men that commands these things;

but when God lays down the law not to mourn, thus do all cry out against it.

Do you not consider Job, O woman? Do you not call to mind his words spoken upon the calamity of his children—words which crowned that holy head with more than ten thousand crowns, and proclaimed it more brilliantly than many trumpets? Do you not reckon the magnitude of the calamity, and that strange shipwreck, and that foreign and paradoxical tragedy? For you perhaps lost one, or a second, or a third;

but he lost so many sons and so many daughters;

and he who had many children suddenly became childless; and his bowels were not consumed little by little, but all at once was the whole fruit snatched away;

and not even by the common law of nature having come to old age, but by an untimely and violent death, and all together, and with no one present nor seated beside them, so that even by hearing their last words he might have some consolation for so bitter an end—but beyond all hope, and while he knew nothing of what was happening, all at once they were all buried, and the house became their tomb and their snare.

And it was not only an untimely death, but along with this there were many things causing grief: for instance, that they were all in the prime of life, that they were all virtuous, that they were affectionate, that they were all together, that of each sex not even one was left behind, that it was not by the common law of nature, that—

that after so great a loss, being conscious of no wickedness in himself nor in them, he should suffer these things.

For each of these things was sufficient even of itself to throw one into turmoil;

but when they appear running together all at once, consider the height of the waves, how great the excess of the tempest.

And what is indeed the greater thing and worse than the mourning, is that he did not even know for what reason these things were happening.

On this very account, having no cause to lay upon the calamity, he ascends to that which seems good to God, and says:

'The Lord gave, the Lord has taken away;'

'as it seemed good to the Lord, so also has it come to pass;'

'may the name of the Lord be blessed unto the ages.'

And these things he said, seeing himself—who had attained to every virtue—in the uttermost straits, while wicked men and impostors were prospering, living in luxury, flourishing on every side.

And he said nothing of the sort which it were likely that some of the weaker would say:

'For these things did I rear my children, and train them with all exactness? For these things did I open my house to passersby, that after all those many races run on behalf of the needy, on behalf of the naked, on behalf of the orphans, I should receive these as my recompense?' But instead of these things he offered up those words better than every sacrifice, saying:

'Naked came I out of my mother's womb, and naked shall I return.'

But if he rent his garments and shore off his hair, do not marvel;

for he was a father, and a tenderly-loving father, and it was needful both that the sympathy of nature should be shown, and the philosophy of his resolve.

For if he had not even done this, perhaps someone might have thought this philosophy to be a kind of insensibility.

On this account he shows both his bowels of compassion and the exactness of his piety, and though he grieved, he was not overturned;

but as the contest advanced still further for him, again he wreathes about himself other crowns from the words spoken to his wife, saying:

'If we received good things at the Lord's hand, shall we not endure the evil things?' For the wife alone at last was left to him, all else having been made to vanish for him—both his children and his possessions and his very body—and she too was left for a trial and a plot.

On this account the devil did not make her vanish along with the children, nor did he ask for her slaughter, since he expected that she would greatly assist him toward his plot against this holy man.

On this account he left her to him as though some most powerful weapon.

'For if,' he says, 'by means of her I cast man out of paradise, much more shall I be able to trip him up upon the dunghill.'

For neither when the oxen were being destroyed did he bring forward this contrivance, nor when the asses, nor the camels; nay, not even when the house was cast down, nor when the children were buried, but he keeps silence for a while and lets the athlete rest, watching him;

but when the fountain of worms gushed up, and the rotting skin flowed away, and the wasting flesh produced a discharge full of much stench, and the hand of the devil consumed him more painfully than frying-pans and furnaces and every flame, gnawing him on every side more cruelly than any wild beast and devouring his body, and much time had passed in this calamity, then at length he brings her forward, when he was already, as it were, pickled and worn out.

For if she had come forward at the outset of the calamity, she would not have found him so unnerved, nor would she have been able to swell the calamity so and magnify it by her speech;

but now, when she saw him, through the length of time, thirsting for release and longing for the loosing of the things pressing upon him, then it is that she approaches vehemently.

For that he was utterly worn down, and had no longer even the power to breathe, but even longed to die, hear what he says:

'For if I could lay hands on myself, or entreat another, I would do it.' And observe with me the malice of the woman, from what point she immediately begins her prelude:

from the length of the time, saying, 'How long will you hold out?'

And if often, even when there were no real hardships, mere words alone had power to soften a man, consider what he was likely to have suffered then, when together with these words the very circumstances also were tormenting him.

And what was worst of all, she who spoke these things was a woman, and a woman fallen and giving up in despair, and for that very reason striving to cast him too into despair.

striving to cast him too into despair.

But, that we may see more clearly the engine brought to bear against this adamantine wall, let us listen to the very words themselves.

What then are these words? 'How long will you hold out, saying, Behold, I wait yet a little while, looking for the hope of my salvation?' For time, she says, has refuted your words, growing longer indeed, yet showing forth no deliverance at all.

And she said these things not only to cast him into despair, but also to reproach him and hold him up to ridicule.

For he, ever seeking to comfort her as she pressed upon him, and to fend her off, would utter such words as these:

Wait yet a little while, and quickly there will be an end of these things.

Reproaching him, then, she says:

Will you say the same thing even now? For much time has already run by, and no end of these things has appeared.

For she makes no mention of the oxen, nor of the sheep, nor of the camels;

for she knew that he was not greatly stung by these things;

but she comes straightway to nature, and calls to mind the children;

for over them she had seen him tear his garment and shear off his hair.

And she did not say, 'Your children have perished,' but with deep pathos:

'Your memorial has vanished from the earth' — on whose account the children too are longed for.

For if even now, when the resurrection has been revealed, children are lovely on this account, namely that they preserve the memory of those who have departed, much more was this so then.

For this reason the curse too becomes more bitter on this ground.

For not even there did he who uttered the curse say, 'May the children be utterly destroyed,' but, 'His memorial from the earth';

'your sons and your daughters.'

For having said 'the memorial,' she again with exactness makes mention of each sex:

'But if you,' she says, 'care nothing for these things, at least regard what is mine.'

'The pangs and pains of my womb, which I labored over in vain amid toils.'

'I who bore the greater part have been wronged on your account; I underwent the toils, yet have been deprived of the fruits.'

And see how she neither sets down the loss of goods, nor keeps silence about it and passes it by, but insinuates it as best she could and in a manner full of pathos.

For when she says, 'And I a wanderer and a serving-woman, going about from place to place and from house to house,' she both hints at the loss and displays her great attachment to the past;

for indeed the very words are enough to heighten the calamity.

'I come to the doors of others,' she says.

'For I do not merely beg, but also wander and serve a strange and novel servitude, going about everywhere, carrying about the tokens of my misfortune, and teaching all of my woes;'

which is of all things most pitiable — to exchange one house for another.

And not even here did she stop her laments, but went on, saying:

'Waiting for the sun, when it will set, that I may find rest from my toils and from the sorrows that encompass me, which now hold me fast.'

'For what is sweet to others,' she says, 'namely to behold the sunbeam, this to me is grievous;'

'but longed for are the night and the darkness;'

'for this alone gives me rest from my sweat, this alone becomes my comfort in my ills.'

'But speak some word against the Lord, and die.'

Did you see even here the villainy — how not even in the very counsel did she straightway bring in the deadly exhortation, but having first pitiably recounted the calamities and drawn out the tragedy, she sets down the exhortation in brief, and does not even display it plainly, but having overshadowed it, she holds out to him the deliverance most longed for, and promises death, which he most desired? And observe from this too the villainy of the devil.

For since he knew Job's longing toward God, he does not suffer the woman to accuse God, lest he turn away from her at once as from an enemy.

For this reason she nowhere makes mention of Him, but turns the things that had befallen this way and that.

But you, besides the things that have been said, add also that it was a woman who gave this counsel — a terrible orator to bewitch those who are not on their guard.

At any rate, many, even apart from calamities, have been brought low by a woman's counsel alone.

What then did this blessed man, firmer than adamant, do? Looking bitterly upon her, from his very glance and before any word,

he beat back her contrivances.

For she had expected to stir up fountains of tears;

but he became fiercer than a lion, filled with anger and indignation — not over the things he was suffering, but over the things she had devilishly counseled — and having shown his anger by his look, he makes his rebuke a measured one;

for even in calamities he was self-controlled.

And what does he say? 'Why have you spoken like one of the foolish women?' 'I did not so instruct you,' he says, 'nor so nurture you;'

'whence I do not even recognize my own consort.'

'For these words are those of a senseless woman, and the counsel of one out of her wits.'

Did you see the incision proportioned to its purpose, and the blow sufficient to correct the malady? Then, after the rebuke and the counsel, he again brings forward a consideration able to console her and having much reasonableness, saying:

'If we have received good things from the Lord, shall we not endure the evil things?' 'For call to mind,' he says, 'those former things, and reckon who is their Author, and you will bear these too nobly.'

Did you see the man's modesty? For he does not reckon his endurance to his own manliness, but says that it belongs to the sequence of events.

'For in return for what did God give us those things? Paying back what recompense? None;

but out of goodness alone;

for it was a gift, not a recompense, and grace, not a repayment.'

Therefore let us also bear these things nobly.

Let us, both men and women, keep this saying written down, and let us engrave these words upon our minds — both these and the ones before them;

and having sketched the history of his sufferings upon our mind as an image — I mean the loss of goods, the taking away of the children, the smiting of the body, the reproaches, the mockeries, the woman's devices, the devil's plot, in a word all the sufferings of the righteous one with exactness — let us prepare for ourselves a very great haven;

so that, bearing all things nobly and with thanksgiving, we may in the present life beat back all despondency, and receive the rewards for this good report, by the grace and love toward mankind of our Lord Jesus Christ, with whom to the Father together with the Holy Spirit be glory, might, and honor, now and ever, and unto the ages of ages. Amen.