雅歌講道 第 1 章 第 6/20 段

But when Abraham, taking thought for a noble union for his only-begotten son, charges his own servant not to give any of the race of Canaan—of those condemned to servitude—to dwell with Isaac in marriage, lest the intermixture of a servile race should defile the nobility of the succession, but rather to arrange a union for the boy from his own paternal land and kindred, he lays upon him a constraint not to be negligent concerning the command, by adjuring him that he would in very truth carry out all that he had determined concerning his son.

[The servant, then, is adjured by Abraham, that he might arrange the fitting union for Isaac.] Since, then, the operation according to the oath is twofold, here the soul that has run up to so great a height as we contemplated in the foregoing, guiding the souls being taught toward advancement to perfection, does not offer to those who hear, through the oath, the assurance of the things she herself has attained, but rather by the adjuration leads them by the hand toward the life according to virtue, to keep love sleepless and wakeful until then, until His good will should come to its fulfillment—and this is that all men be saved and come to the knowledge of the truth.

Just as there it was under the thigh of the patriarch, so here it comes to be by the powers and by the strengths of the field, the discourse thus speaking: 'I have adjured you, O daughters of Jerusalem, by the powers and by the strengths of the field, if you should rouse and awaken love until it should will.'

One must therefore consider in these words, first, what the field is; then, what the strength of the field and the power are, and whether these differ from one another, or whether one and the same thing is signified by both;

and in addition to these, what it is to rouse and what it is to awaken love.

For the phrase 'until it should will' has already been explained through the things previously said.

That by the field the Master's voice signifies the world is somehow plain to everyone from the Gospels; and that the fashion of this world passes away and nothing steadfast is shown in its unstable nature is plain from the grand utterance of Ecclesiastes, who reckoned among vain things everything that appears and passes away.

What, then, is the power of such a field, which is the world, or what is the strength, whose remembrance makes the injunction inviolable to the daughters of Jerusalem through the adjuration? For if we look toward the things that appear, as though there were some power in them, Ecclesiastes strikes out such a supposition, naming vain everything that is displayed and pursued in them.

For that which is vain has no real subsistence, and that which does not subsist according to its essence has no strength.

Or perhaps through the plural signification of 'power' it is possible to find some conjecture of the meaning.

For we have found such a distinction in Holy Scripture concerning such names.

When 'power' is spoken in the singular, the understanding is by this word referred up to the Divine; but when it is uttered through the plural form, it presents to the discourse the angelic nature.

For example, 'Christ, the power of God and the wisdom of God.'

Here by the singular it made known the Divine.

'Bless the Lord, all you His powers.'

Here the plural of the powers indicates the signification of the intelligible nature of the angels.

But the word 'strength,' taken up together with 'power,' gives an intensification to the force of the meaning; and thus Scripture, through the repetition of terms equivalent in force, makes plainer what it intends, as in the verse, 'O Lord, my strength; the Lord is my firm foundation.'

For the thing signified by each of the two words is the same, but the combination of equivalent expressions provides an indication of the intensity residing in the thing signified.

The plural signification of 'powers,' then, and the like-manner mention of 'strengths,' seems to lead the mind of the hearers toward the angelic nature; so that the adjuration set before the disciple souls by the Teacher for the confirmation of what has been resolved is made not against the world that passes away, but against the ever-abiding nature of the angels—toward whom she bids us look—in order that by this example she may establish the fixed and stable character of the virtuous life.

For since it has been promised that the life after the resurrection [of human beings] will become like the angelic state (and He who promised does not lie), it would be consistent that our life in the world also be prepared for the life hoped for hereafter; so that, while living in the flesh and passing our time in the field of the world, we do not live according to the flesh nor be conformed to this world, but rehearse beforehand the hoped-for life through our life in the world.

For this reason the bride instills in the souls of the disciples the confirmation made through the oath, so that their life, rightly ordered in this field, may look toward the powers, imitating through impassibility the angelic purity.

For thus, as love is awakened and roused up (that is, as it is lifted higher and ever increased toward what is greater through addition), He said that the good will of God is perfected 'as in heaven, so on earth,' when the angelic impassibility is rightly achieved in us also.

But if some other interpretation should be found that comes nearer to the truth of the matters sought, let us receive the grace and give thanks to Him who reveals the hidden mysteries through the Holy Spirit in Christ Jesus our Lord, to whom be glory unto the ages.

Homily 5. 'The voice of my beloved.'

'Behold, here he comes, leaping upon the mountains, bounding upon the hills.'

'My beloved is like a gazelle or a young stag of the deer upon the mountains of Bethel.'

'Behold, here he stands behind our wall, peering through the windows, looking out through the lattices.'

'My beloved answers and says to me:'

'Rise up, come, my neighbor, my fair one, my dove; for behold, the winter is past, the rain is gone, it has departed of itself. The flowers have appeared on the earth, the time of pruning has arrived, the voice of the turtledove has been heard in our land. The fig tree has put forth its early figs, the vines are in blossom, they have given forth their fragrance.'

'Show me your face and let me hear your voice, for your voice is sweet and your face is lovely.'

'Catch for us the little foxes that ruin the vineyards, for our vines are in blossom.'

'My beloved is mine and I am his—he who pastures among the lilies—until the day breathe cool and the shadows flee away.'

'Turn, my beloved, be like a gazelle or a young stag of the deer upon the mountains of the ravines.'

The things now set before us through the reading from the philosophy of the Song of Songs both lead us to a longing for the contemplation of the goods that lie above, and instill grief in our souls, producing in a certain way a despair of comprehending things beyond our grasp.

For how could anyone be free of grief when considering that the purified soul, lifted up through so many ascents by love toward participation in the Good, does not yet seem, as the Apostle says, to have laid hold of what she seeks? And yet, looking to those ascents already accomplished in the preceding homilies, I counted her blessed for her ascent—when she distinguished the sweet apple from the barrenness of the wood, and made its shadow an object of desire, and, sweetened by the fruit, came to be in the storehouses of gladness (for by 'wine' he names that gladness with which the heart of the partakers is gladdened); and when, set in love, she was strengthened by the perfumes, encompassed by the surrounding of apples; and when, having received into her heart the arrow of love, she herself in turn becomes an arrow in the hands of the archer, aimed toward the mark of truth in the hands of the Mighty One.

Seeing these things and things like them, I reckoned that she who had been lifted up through so many stages had laid hold of the very summit of blessedness.

But, as it seems, the things already accomplished are still only the preludes of the ascent.

For all those ascents she names not as a contemplation and clear apprehension of the truth, but as a 'voice' of the one desired, characterized by its properties through hearing—not known and gladdening through comprehension.

If, then, she who was lifted up so high—as we learn concerning the great Paul, who was caught up above the three heavens—shows that she has not yet accurately laid hold of what she seeks, what is it likely that we should suffer, or among what should we reckon ourselves to be, we who have not yet drawn near even to the forecourts of the inner sanctuaries of contemplation? And it is possible, through her very own words, to perceive how hard to contemplate is the thing sought.

[It is clear from what is said] that it consists in this: that the discourse does not attach itself to any single conception nor look toward one single form, but is carried toward many things, the soul thinking that she sees now in one way, now in another, in her visions, and not always abiding by the same character of what has been apprehended.

For 'Behold,' she says, 'here he comes'—not standing still nor abiding, so as to be made known through perseverance to one who gazes intently, but snatching himself away from the eyes before coming into perfect knowledge.

For 'Leaping,' she says, 'upon the mountains and bounding upon the hills.'

And now he is thought to be a gazelle, but again he is likened to a young stag.

For 'My beloved,' she says, 'is like a gazelle or a young stag of the deer upon the mountains of Bethel.'

Thus that which is ever apprehended is at one time one character, at another another.

These are the things which, according to the ready sense, lead me to grief, producing a despair of the accurate comprehension of the things that lie above.

Nevertheless, we must make the attempt, having laid our hope upon God—who gives a word to those who proclaim good tidings with great power—to fit the contemplation to what has been previously considered, in a certain sequence, by way of consistent order.

'The voice of my beloved,' she says, and immediately she added, 'Behold, here he comes.'

What, then, did we surmise in these words? Perhaps what is said foresees the economy of the Word of God that has been made manifest to us through the Gospel—foretold beforehand through the prophets, but made manifest through the appearing of God in the flesh.

For the divine voice is confirmed by the deeds, and the outcome is joined to the word of the promise, as the prophet says: 'Just as we have heard, so also we have seen.'

'The voice,' she says, 'of my beloved.'

This is what we have received with our eyes.

'God, having of old spoken to the fathers in many portions and in many ways in the prophets,'

'in these last days has spoken to us in a Son.'

This is what is meant by 'Behold, here he comes, leaping upon the mountains and bounding over the hills,' being likened aptly and fittingly both to the gazelle according to a certain proper reason, and again to the young stag of the deer according to another conception.

The gazelle signifies the keen-sightedness of Him who oversees all things.

For they say that this animal, being exceedingly sharp-sighted, takes its name from that activity.

But indeed 'to see keenly' (derkesthai) is the same as 'to behold' (theasthai).

Therefore He who watches over and oversees all things is named 'God' (theos) of all things from His beholding (theasthai) all things.

Since, then, God was made manifest in the flesh—He who appeared in life for the overthrow of the opposing powers—for this reason He who looked down from the heavens upon the earth is likened to a gazelle, while He who ranges over the mountains and the hills with His bounds—that is, He who tramples down and dissolves the wicked heights of the demons' malice—is likened to a young stag.

Since, then, it is proper to the nature of young stags to destroy wild beasts and, by their breath and by the peculiar quality of their skin, to put to flight the race of serpents, for this reason He who oversees all things is likened to the gazelle, but to a young stag of the deer as one who tramples and consumes the contrary activity, which the figurative signification has named 'mountains' and 'hills.'

The voice of the Bridegroom, then, came through the prophets, in whom God spoke; and after the voice came the Word, leaping upon the opposing mountains and bounding down from the hills, making equally every apostate power a footstool for Himself, both the inferior and the more prominent.

For this is what the distinction of the hills from the mountains hints at: that the prominent among the adversaries is brought down in like manner with the lower, trodden underfoot by the same power and authority.

For the lion and the dragon, the eminent ones, are trodden down in like manner as the serpent and the scorpion, which seem to be more lowly.

There were 'demonic mountains' in the crowds that followed Him; there were such in the synagogues; there was one in the country of the Gerasenes; there were such in many other places, exalting and towering themselves against human nature.

Of these there were both hills and mountains, some eminent and some lying lower.

For the 'mountains of Bethel,' from the interpretation of the name, seem to indicate the lofty and heavenly life.

For those skilled in the Hebrew tongue say that this word signifies 'house of God.'

Therefore he says, 'Upon the mountains of Bethel.'

The purified and clear-sighted eye of the soul saw these things—the eye that leaped along with those divine bounds made against the opposing hillocks—and it speaks concerning what will come to pass in later times as though already present, because of the faithful and unambiguous character of the hoped-for grace, beholding the hope as a deed already accomplished.

For she says that He who leaps upon the mountains with nimble swiftness, and bounds from hill to hill, shows Himself standing still to us, having come behind the wall and conversing from the lattices of the windows.

'Behold, here he stands behind our wall, peering through the windows, looking out through the lattices.'

Now what is depicted in the discourse in a bodily manner is of this sort: that while the bride keeps house within, the lover converses through the windows, and, with the wall dividing the two in the middle, the communion of speech becomes unhindered—the head peering through the windows, and the eye looking within through the lattices set in the windows; but the contemplation according to the higher sense adheres to the meaning previously examined.

For the Word makes human nature akin to God by way and by sequence, first illuminating it through the prophets and the legal commandments (for so we understand it:

by 'windows' the prophets who bring in the light, and by 'lattices' the interweaving of the legal commandments, through both of which the radiance of the true light slips in toward what is within);

and after these things comes the perfect shining of the light, when the true light appears to those sitting in darkness and the shadow of death, through its commingling with our nature.

First, then, the rays of the prophetic and legal conceptions, shining upon the soul through the 'windows' and 'lattices' we have understood, produce a longing to see the sun in the open air; and then, in this way, the thing desired comes forth into deed.

But let us hear what sort of things He says to the Church—He who is not yet within the wall, but still speaks to her through the light-bearers.

'My beloved,' she says, 'answers and says to me:'

'Rise up, come, my neighbor, my fair one, my dove; for behold, the winter is past, the rain is gone, it has departed of itself; the flowers have appeared on the earth, the time of pruning has arrived, the voice of the turtledove has been heard in our land, the fig tree has put forth its early figs, the vines are in blossom, they have given forth their fragrance.'

He dispels the gloom of winter, saying that the wintry sullenness and the unpleasantness of the rains have passed away.

He shows the meadows teeming with growth and made beautiful with flowers, and he says that the flowers are at their peak and are fit for cutting, so that the flower-gatherers may by all means take them up for the weaving of a garland or the preparation of perfume.

...serving as preludes to the things that appear: the one bringing forth its early figs, the other blossoming with flower, so that the sense of smell may delight in the fragrance.

In this way, then, the discourse takes delight in the depiction of the springtime season, casting off what is gloomy and lingering fondly upon the sweeter narratives.

But we must, I think, not remain with the depiction of these elegant details, but be guided through them toward the mysteries indicated through these oracles, so that the treasure of the conceptions hidden in the words may be uncovered.

What, then, is it that we say? Once the human element of the easily-moved nature of men had been frozen fast in the frost of idolatry, human nature having been changed into the nature of the unmoving objects of worship.

'Let those who make them become like them,' it says, 'and all who trust in them.'

And this was only fitting in what came to pass.

For just as those who look toward the true Godhead receive in themselves the properties of the divine nature, so he who clings to the vanity of idols was transformed into the thing he beheld, becoming a stone out of a man.

Since, then, human nature, petrified through the worship of idols, remained immovable toward the good, frozen fast in the ice of idolatry, for this reason the Sun of righteousness rises upon this grievous winter and makes a springtime of the noonday wind, which dissolves such a freezing; and together with the rising of its rays it warms all that lies beneath, so that the man who had been turned to stone by the frost, being thoroughly warmed by the Spirit and cherished by the ray of the Word, might again become water leaping up unto life eternal.

'For his Spirit shall breathe, and the waters shall flow,' when the rock is turned into pools of waters and the flint into fountains of waters.

This the Baptist proclaimed more openly to the Jews, saying that these stones would be raised up to become children of the patriarch, made like him through virtue.

These things, then, the Church hears from the Word, receiving the radiance of truth through the prophetic windows and the nets of the Law, while the typical wall of teaching—I mean the Law—still stands, that Law which casts the shadow of good things to come, not showing the very image of the realities, behind which the truth stands, cleaving to the type: first shining forth the Word to the Church through the prophets, and afterward, by the manifestation of the Gospel, consuming the whole shadowy semblance of the type; through which the middle wall is torn down, and the air within the house is joined to the open light, so that there is no longer need to be illumined through the windows, since the true light itself, through the evangelical rays, floods all within with light.

For this reason the Word, who raises up those who have been cast down, cries out to the Church through the light-windows, saying, 'Arise'—that is, from your fall—O you who have slipped in the slime of sin, who were tripped up by the serpent and fell to the earth and came to be in the fall of disobedience; arise!

'But it is not enough for you,' he says, 'merely to be raised up from your fall; rather, go forward also by progress in good things, completing the course that is run in virtue.'

This indeed we have learned also in the case of the paralytic.

For the Word does not merely raise up that burden lying upon its couch, but also commands it to walk.

By this the Word seems to me to signify the advance and increase toward the better by means of a transitional movement.

Truly the voice of God is a voice of power, as the psalmody says: 'Behold, he will give his voice, a voice of power.'

And, 'He himself spoke, and they came to be; he himself commanded, and they were created.'

Behold, now too he said to her who lay there, 'Arise,' and 'Come'; and immediately the command becomes a deed.

For at the very moment of receiving the power of the Word she both stands and stands beside him and comes near the light, as is testified of her by the very one who called her, the Word thus saying: 'Arise, come, my neighbor, my fair one, my dove.'

What is this ordering of the Word? How does the one clause hold to the other? How is the sequence of thoughts preserved in order, as though in a kind of chain? She hears the command, she is empowered by the Word, she is raised, she goes forward, she draws near, she becomes fair, she is named a dove.

For how is it possible for a fair image to appear in a mirror unless it has received the reflection of some fair form? Therefore the mirror of human nature also did not become fair before, but only when it drew near to the Beautiful and was conformed to the image of the divine beauty.

For just as it bore the form of the serpent while it lay upon the earth and looked toward him, in the same way, when it arose and showed itself face to face with the Good, putting evil behind its back, it is shaped according to that upon which it looks.

And it looks toward the archetypal beauty.

For this reason, having drawn near to the light, it becomes light, and by the light the fair form of the dove is imaged upon it—I mean that dove whose form made known the presence of the Holy Spirit.

Thus, then, having addressed her and named her fair because of her nearness, and a dove because of her beauty, the Word goes on to what follows, saying that the gloom of the winter of souls no longer holds sway.

For the frost does not withstand the ray.

'Behold,' he says, 'the winter is past, the rain is gone, it has departed of itself.'

He makes evil to be of many names, being named according to the differences of its operations.

For the same thing is both winter and rain and raindrops, in each of the names some particular trial being signified according to its own peculiar character.

It is called winter because of the manifold signification of evils.

For in winter the things that had flourished wither; the beauty upon the trees, which is naturally adorned by the leaves, falls away from the branches and is mingled with the earth; the melody of the musical birds falls silent; the nightingale flees; the swallow grows numb; the turtledove is estranged from its nest; all things imitate the gloom of death; the shoot is deadened; the grass dies.

Just as bones stripped of flesh, so the branches, denuded of their leaves, become an unsightly spectacle instead of the splendor that belonged to them from their shoots.

And what could one say of the sufferings of the sea that come about through the winter—how, turning up from its depths and swelling, it imitates crags and mountains, rising to a peaked shape with its water; how it rushes upon the land as though at war, casting itself out beyond the shores, and with the successive blows of its waves, as with the assaults of engines of war, shakes it down? But consider for me these sufferings of the winter, and taking all such things over into a figurative signification: what it is that in winter fades and withers, what it is that dissolves into the earth from the branches, what is the silenced voice of the songbirds, what is the sea that roars with its waves, what upon these is the rain, what are the drops of the rain, how the rain goes of itself.

For by this the riddle hints at that which is animate and endowed with free choice in such a winter.

For perhaps, even if the Word does not make each detail plain, the meaning that shines forth in each of these is evident to the hearer: how human nature flourished in the beginning, while it was in paradise, made rich and blooming by the water of that fountain, when instead of leaves the shoot of immortality adorned that nature;

but when the winter of disobedience had dried up the root, the flower was shaken off and dissolved into the earth, and the man was stripped bare of the beauty of immortality, and the grass of the virtues was withered up, as the love toward God grew cold because iniquity was multiplied; whence the manifold passions were peaked up in us by the opposing spirits, through which the wicked shipwrecks of the soul come about.

But the flowers of our life are the virtues, now indeed blossoming, but yielding their fruit in its own season.

For this reason the Word says: 'The winter is past, the rain is gone, it has departed of itself, the flowers have appeared on the earth, the time of pruning has come.'

'Do you see,' he says, 'the meadow blossoming with the virtues? Do you see temperance—that is, the bright and fragrant lily? Do you see modesty, the rose? Do you see the violet, the sweet fragrance of Christ?'

'Why, then, do you not weave garlands out of these? This is the season in which one must, having plucked them, adorn oneself with the weaving of such crowns.'

'The time for their pruning has come.'

This the voice of the turtledove testifies to you—that is, the voice of one crying in the wilderness.

For John is this turtledove, the forerunner of this radiant spring, who shows to men the fair flowers of virtue and holds them out to those who wish to gather them; through whom he pointed out the flower from the root of Jesse, the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world, and enjoined repentance from evils and the conduct of life according to virtue.

'For the voice of the turtledove,' it says, 'has been heard in our land.'

Perhaps by 'land' it names those condemned in wickedness, whom the Gospel calls tax collectors and harlots, among whom the word of John was heard, while the rest did not receive the proclamation.

As for what is said concerning the fig tree, that 'it has put forth its early figs,' let us consider it in this way with the reason.

The fig tree is exceedingly apt at drawing up the moisture that lies in the deep by means of heat; and since much sap gathers in its pith, nature necessarily, through the digestion of the fluids that takes place in the plant, discards from the branches the useless and earthy part of the moisture, and does this many times, until it puts forth the pure and nourishing part, cleansed of the useless quality, in the fitting season.

That which the fig tree puts forth in the form of fruit before the sweet and perfect fruit is called an 'early fig' (olynthos), which is itself sometimes edible to those who wish.

It is not, however, the fruit itself, but becomes the prelude of the fruit.

He, therefore, who has beheld these things awaits the fruit as most certainly now at hand.

For the early figs, which he says the fig tree has put forth, become a sign of the edible figs.

Since, then, the Word sketches out for the bride the spiritual spring, and this season is the boundary between the two seasons—the wintry gloom and the partaking of the fruits in summer—for this reason he expressly proclaims as good news that evils have passed away, but does not yet fully display the fruits of virtue.

But these he will store up in the fitting season, when summer comes on (and you surely know what is signified by summer from the Lord's own voice, which says this: 'The harvest is the consummation of the age'); but now he shows the hopes blossoming through the virtues, whose fruit, as the prophet says, is shown forth in its own season.