致俄利根頌辭 第 1 章 第 3/3 段

of which things, which He hinted at only through others, He made the teaching through this man—granting to him to investigate and discover the meanings of all that He, being most worthy of belief, had either royally commanded or declared;

in order that, if anyone should happen to be hard of soul and unbelieving, or even a lover of learning, learning from this man he might be in a way compelled both to understand and to choose to believe and to follow God.

And he says these things, I think, by no other means than by the communion of the divine Spirit;

for the same power is needed by those who prophesy and by those who hear the prophets;

and no one could hear a prophet to whom the very Spirit that prophesied has not granted the understanding of his own words.

Such an oracle is set down also in the sacred writings, saying that He alone opens what is shut, and no one else whatsoever;

and the divine Word opens the shut things, clarifying the riddles.

This man has received and holds this greatest gift from God, and a most beautiful portion from heaven: to be an interpreter of the words of God to men, to understand the things of God as God speaking, and to expound to men as men listening.

Therefore nothing was unutterable to us, for nothing was hidden and inaccessible;

but it was permitted to learn every doctrine, both barbarian and Hellenic, both more mystical and more political, both divine and human, with all abundance going round and investigating all things, and being filled with and enjoying all the good things of the soul;

and, to put it briefly, this was truly a paradise to us, an imitator of the great paradise of God, in which there was no need to till the lower earth nor to feed the body, growing gross, but only to increase the soul's advantages, having planted ourselves, or been planted in, like certain seasonable plants, by the Cause of all, rejoicing and luxuriating.

This was truly a paradise of delight, this the true gladness and delight which we delighted in during this time now ended—a time neither short already, nor short at all—if it shall be stayed here, now that we have departed and withdrawn from here.

For I know not what I have suffered, or again wherein I have sinned, that I go forth, am driven out;

what I should say, I know not, except that I am a second Adam out of paradise, and have begun to speak.

How well I lived, hearing the teacher speak and keeping silent;

would that even now I were learning to keep quiet in silence, and not (this strange spectacle) to make the teacher my hearer!

For what need had I of these words? And why even to address such things, when I ought not to be away but to persevere? But these seem to be the offences of the old deception, and these penalties of the ancient ones still await me;

or again I seem to be disobedient, daring to overstep the words of God, when I ought to abide in them and beside them.

And as for my departing—fleeing from this blessed life, I no less than that old man fled from the face of God, and turning back to the earth from which I was taken;

earth, therefore, I shall eat all the days of my life there, and earth I shall till, and that earth bringing forth to me thorns and thistles—my griefs and shameful cares—deprived of the fine and good cares;

and the things which I have left behind, turning back again to these—the earth whence I came forth, and my kindred below, and to the house of my father;

having forsaken the good land, where the good homeland that was mine was long unknown to me, and kindred whom, having them as the household of my own soul, I afterward began to know, and the house of our true Father, in whom abiding, the Father is solemnly honoured and revered by the true sons who are willing to abide therein.

But I, unworthy and base, go forth from these, turned back and running away again.

There is told of a certain son, who, having received from his father the portion that fell to him alongside another brother of his, chose to go abroad from his father into a far country;

and living riotously, he squandered and consumed his father's substance;

and at last, in want, having hired himself out to feed swine, and compelled by famine, desired to share even the food of the pigs, yet did not obtain even this.

He paid, then, the penalty of his prodigality, having exchanged, instead of his father's table—which was a royal one—for the swine's food and the food of hired servitude, which he had not foreseen.

Some such thing we seem likely to suffer in departing, and not even with the whole portion that falls to us;

for not even having received what we ought, we go away nonetheless, having left the fine and dear things with you and beside you, but having taken in exchange the worse.

For gloomy things will succeed us all: tumult and confusion in place of peace, and in place of a quiet and well-ordered life a disordered one, and in place of this freedom a grievous slavery—lawcourts and lawsuits and crowds and luxury;

and we shall no longer have any leisure at all for the better things, nor shall we speak the divine oracles, but we shall speak the deeds of men (this indeed is reckoned a simple curse for a prophet-man), and we ourselves the deeds of wicked men.

Truly night will succeed our day, darkness our radiant light, mourning our festal joy, and a hostile land our homeland—a land in which I am not permitted to sing the sacred song (for how, in a country foreign to my soul, where to remain is to be unable to be present with God?), but only to weep and groan, calling to mind the things here, if indeed even this much will be granted me.

It is told that enemies once came upon a great and holy city, in which the Deity was worshipped, and dragged off its inhabitants into captivity—both the singers of hymns and the theologians—into that same land; and the land was Babylon.

And when their captors demanded it of them, they refused to praise the Deity, nor would they sing psalms in a profane land;

but rather, hanging their musical instruments upon the willows, they themselves wept by the rivers of Babylon.

I seem to myself to be one of those, being driven out from this my city and homeland, the holy one;

the place where, by day and by night, the sacred laws are proclaimed, with hymns and songs and mystic discourses, where there is light both as of the sun and unceasing—by day as we commune with the divine mysteries, and by night as the soul is possessed by visions of what it saw and did in the day;

and, to put it briefly, the place where the divine indwelling is continually present—from this I am being driven out, carried off as a captive into a foreign land, where it will not be permitted me to make music, for I shall have hung up my instrument, just as they did, upon the willows;

but I shall be among the rivers, and shall labour at the clay, and shall not be willing to utter hymns, though I remember them;

and perhaps, through the rest of my evil toil, I shall even forget them, being robbed of my very memories.

And if, in departing, I go not unwillingly only—like a captive—but also of my own accord, driven into this war not by any other but by my own self, when it was in my power to stay, then perhaps in leaving this place I shall not journey safely, as one who has set out from some secure and peaceful city;

but it is likely that, travelling on the road, I shall fall in with robbers and be seized, and stripped naked be wounded with many wounds, and shall lie somewhere cast aside, half dead.

But why do I lament these things? There is the Saviour of all, the guardian and physician of all the half-dead and all who have been robbed—the Word, the ever-watchful keeper of all men;

we have also our seeds—both those which you have shown us to possess, and all that we have received from you, the goodly counsels;

with these we depart, weeping as we go, yet nonetheless bearing these seeds along with us.

Perhaps, then, the keeper will stand by us and preserve us;

and perhaps we shall return to you again, bringing from the seeds both fruits and sheaves—not perfect ones, to be sure (for how could they be?), but such as are possible for us from our deeds in public life: corrupted, in their power, as being either barren or yielding some evil fruit, yet—if God grant it—not destined to be further corrupted in our keeping.

Here, then, let my discourse come to an end—having been over-bold where it least ought to have been, yet, I think, having spoken in good will and with thanksgiving according to our ability; for though we say nothing worthy, we have at least not kept wholly silent;

and besides, having bewailed our lot, as friends parting from one another are wont to do—a childish thing, perhaps, containing nothing of flattery, nothing too studied or over-elaborate, I know not;

yet this much belongs to it: that it is unfeigned—this I clearly know—and altogether true, springing from a sound mind and a sincere and undivided purpose.

But do you arise, O dear friend, and having now prayed, send us forth—you who have saved us while present by your sacred teachings, and who save us by your prayers even as we journey away;

yes, hand us over and commit us—or rather, hand us over to the God who led us to you;

giving thanks for the benefits already bestowed upon us, and beseeching him to lead us by the hand also in the things to come—ever standing over us, whispering his own commandments into our mind, instilling in us the divine fear of himself, which will prove the best of tutors;

for not in the freedom we enjoyed with you alone, but also when we have departed, shall we obey him.

Beseech him also that some consolation for the loss of you may come to us from him—that he may send forth a good escort, an angel to accompany us on our way.

And ask too that, turning us back, he may lead us to you again;

for this above all things alone will console us.