Letters 1 part 10/11

One of the good things is that Christ is present at weddings (and where Christ is, there is good order), and that the water becomes wine (which is that all things are being changed for the better) — but in such a way that things not to be mixed are not mixed, nor are bishops and buffoons, prayers and applause, psalm-singing and concert-music, brought together into the same occasion.

These things we offer as gifts to the marriage;

and may you give us in return your compliance.

As for the bridegroom, if he follows these things, you have in him a son;

To Ablabius. I hear that you are in love with sophistry, and that your bearing is remarkable — speaking pompously, looking grandly, walking loftily and with head in the air, carrying your spirit off to Marathon and Salamis, these very adornments of yours, and thinking of nothing but Miltiades and the Cynegeiruses, the Callimachuses and the Lamachuses, and that everything is dressed up sophistically and made as close as possible to actual engagement.

If then, along with this, you also give some account to virtue, you are ours, and may the things that bring good repute go forward for you along the right way;

but if you are wholly a sophist and forget our friendship, and the things we often discussed with each other concerning the noble, I shall say nothing else harsh, but perhaps it is fitting to say this much:

know that you are jesting a little while among the youths, but will be mocked far more by yourself, when good sense comes to you — but that will be later.

To Olympianus. As for the little book you took from us, the Letters of Aristotle, I could have refrained from asking it back and let it remain with you, both as a fitting gift for a man of letters and as a graceful memorial of friendship.

But so that you — being both a most formidable orator and an excellent judge — might not bring an indictment against us for lawlessness and insolence toward authority, on the ground that we are attempting to corrupt a judge so incorruptible and superior to every bribe, let what we gave come back again.

We seek no other reward from your eloquence (for what could you give us, who as philosophers possess nothing?), but this alone: that you write to us, so that the return may correspond in kind for you, discharging by letters the debt owed for the Letters.

It would be better if you were asking for divine books, and not these;

since we know that those are more profitable and more fitting for you.

But since the worse choice prevails and there is no persuading you otherwise, here then are the little books from us which you ask for — as many as have escaped the moths and the smoke above which they lay, just like rudders to sailors after the voyage and the sailing season are past.

Read them not in a stingy or unmanly way, but very ostentatiously and nobly, since the Cynegeiruses and Callimachuses, and the trophies, Marathon and Salamis, are of great worth to you people, by which you both count yourselves fortunate and form your young men.

Let these things then be jested by us to this extent, even though it is outside our proper season and outside our own inclination;

but nonetheless, it comes from our old familiarity.

May it be granted to you both to possess these and to make good use of what you have possessed.

And you will use them thus: with the fear of God prevailing over vanity (which is to be honored by all and everywhere), so far as is possible, even if we ourselves do not entirely rid ourselves of it.

But if it seems to you that this is rightly said, yet that it is not philosophical to ask a price for the little books, then send me the money, and the poor will resolve the objection.

To Libanius the Sophist. I, the mother according to nature, have sent children to the father according to eloquence;

so then, as it has been a care to me, it will be a care to you.

For this reason I have sent you the psalm-singer, according to our agreement — a man otherwise excellent (so far as one can judge in so short a time) and perhaps pleasing to you on account of his psalm-singing, which always carries a remembrance of God and of salvation.

But if you will also do us a good turn again, whenever this is pleasing to you and the occasion appears right, you will do even better, and this will be all the more characteristic of your friendship.

To the most devout brotherhood, adorned in every respect in Christ, at Sannabodae, under the blessed Leucadius, among the monks and virgins sanctified in Christ Jesus: Gregory, greeting in the Lord.

What has come to pass by the providence of God is, to those at least who have understanding, an occasion for thanksgiving, not for tears: that the athlete has gone forth from outside the stadium after the good contest which he contested, and has been received by the president of the games, so as to receive the crown of righteousness and to increase, through himself, the chorus of angels.

All these things, and things like them, become, according to the Gospel, an occasion of joy and gladness to those who look toward the truth.

But since a certain custom has prevailed of being gloomy at the departure of the saints and of deeming oneself worthy of consolation from those who are beloved, for this reason we do not consent to say anything gloomy or downcast, nor do we advise you to lend your ears to such words; but we discharge the consolation that is owed by advising your modesty to look always toward that one through looking upon one another;

for this we pray, that each man and each woman be conformed to the life of the blessed one, so that when you see one another you may be fully assured that you are gazing intently upon his character.

Let his purity, his freedom from anger, his humility, his active philosophy, his having his soul ever stretched out intently toward God, his not being carried away by the deceits of this life, shape your life;

so that, seeing these things in one another, you may paint his memorial in yourselves, and neither he nor you will be in death.

For in your life he too will be shown forth as living continually, and you, through your good conduct, will render yourselves strangers to fellowship with death.

May the Lord shelter you in good health, advancing in soul and body, by the power of the Holy Spirit, as you remember us in your prayers.

To Epiphanius. I set one law against another law: the law that commands children to be taught, against the law that commands fathers to be honored.

For now, then, I am guiding you toward what is best, and receive this letter as, so to speak, the right hand of friendship.

But if you should reply in kind, and should wish to do this often, you would perhaps even make an old man a spearman, nothing less noble than Nestor.

To Meletius. I have never yet received a letter from you — so long a time has already passed — how greatly, do you suppose, I long for one?

Nor have I written to you, though I am persuaded that you too are longing for it.

Even the lifespan of Arganthonius is small compared to our sleep — so long have we been slumbering.

Where is that company of ours now? Where are our common discourses and gatherings, and the sweet, unfailing spring from which we used to draw? I, for my part, am rising up and shaking off the dust, like the horses of Achilles — late indeed (for I am reluctant to say how late), and I toss back my mane.

As for you, if you have any care for our friendship, it will be shown by what you write.

We pray God that your undertaking may proceed prosperously for you, that you may advance to a great dignity and one day appear to your homeland, while we are still above the ground and drawing in this air.

For so much only of life remains to us as merely to breathe.

To Peter. We have grown very far apart from one another, neither drawing near in person nor conversing by letters.

But I am confident that the separation is of bodies, not of spirit.

But now, since it is the fitting time, I greet your piety and ask that you pray for us, laboring as we are both with old age and sickness, and with the strain of public affairs and of our sojourn away from home.

To Basilissa. If it is not superfluous to rouse one who is already toiling to further toils, I shall not hesitate, for the sake of our common security, so far as I am able, to strengthen your zeal — not by the addition of anything new or foreign, but as a reminder of what has often been said by us and habitually practiced by you.

To keep the soul above griefs by occupation with the best things; to separate from the mind everything alien to virtue and unworthy of your character; to strain yourself toward piety and every good order; to refine the mind so as to accept and think nothing unexamined; to strengthen prudence at every season and in every way by continually conversing with the precepts of the holy ones who have gone before; to set justice toward one's own people and toward strangers above every enmity and friendship; to have temperance ever dwelling with you and conversing with you, rooted sincerely and firmly established in the soul; not to change your character along with the irregularities and changes of life;

for it is neither seemly to contract the spirit of one's life in poverty, nor safe to think highly of oneself in abundance; wherefore it is best to practice, in things that give pleasure, self-restraint, and in things that cause grief, endurance;

to be unmindful of former abundance, to ask for sufficiency, to be content with what is given, to hope for what is better, and to bear bodily illness with gentleness; to complain of nothing, nor to be indignant, but to be grateful toward Providence, whatever it may be; and to know that it often hides the causes of what happens, yet does not neglect what is due; reckoning accordingly what is owed to each, before you speak what must be said and before you do what must be done;

for thus indeed everything said or done by you will be free of regret.

Consider that decorum lies not in outward coverings, but in the excellences of the soul.

Consider genuine and secure wealth to be having few needs;

for being securely wealthy does not consist in possessing many things, but in not needing many things;

for the one is within your own power, but the other belongs to external things.

Regulate your manner with fairness, your character with tranquility, and your tongue with brevity of speech.

In all things and through all things, keep yourself undefiled, like some untouched treasure.

Consider necessary food to be at once the finest and the easiest luxury;

for this is both praiseworthy in itself, and desirable for a life lived in temperance, and best for health, and it is not without benefit for due proportion and for the rest of good order and discipline.

To Basil. The man who among you is regarded as a mime, but among us as devout, has asked me to write to you, that he might be received with splendor.

To Basil. You have undertaken a matter that is fairly gentle and humane, in gathering back the captive band of the contemptuous Glycerius (for so we call him for now), and in covering over, as far as was possible, our common disgrace.

This Glycerius, who is now haughty and dignified in your eyes, was ordained by us deacon of the Church at Venasa, so that he might both minister to the presbyter and take care of the work of the church.

For indeed, even if the man is difficult in other respects, he is not without skill in manual tasks.

But once he was appointed, he neglected the work as much as if it had never even begun.

Having gathered together wretched virgins on his own authority and self-assumed power — some running to him willingly (and you know how ready the young are for such things), others unwillingly — he undertook to be their herdsman, and, suddenly investing himself with the name and outward form of a patriarchate, became haughty; he came to this not out of any righteous order or piety, but having set this up as a means of livelihood, just as another might set up some other trade; and he has all but turned the whole Church upside down, showing contempt for his own presbyter, a man venerable both in conduct and in age, and showing contempt for the chorepiscopus and for us, as though we were of no worth at all, continually filling the city and the whole clergy with tumults and disturbances.

And finally, when he was somewhat rebuked in word by us and by the chorepiscopus, so that he might not be despised (for indeed he was training the young into the same recklessness), he devises a deed exceedingly bold and inhuman.

Having plundered as many of the virgins as he could, and having watched for a suitable night, he becomes a runaway.

This will appear to you altogether outrageous.

The synod there was being held, and, as was natural, a great crowd was flowing in from every quarter.

But he led out, in opposition, his own troupe consisting of young men and dancing about, stirring up much dejection among the reverent, but much laughter among the intemperate and those too ready of tongue.

Nor is this enough, great as it is in magnitude; but further, as I am informed, when the parents of the virgins—unable to bear their childlessness, and wishing to lead back their scattered daughters, and falling down, as is natural, with lamentations before their own daughters—this admirable youth, together with his band of brigands, heaps outrage and dishonor upon them.

May these things not seem tolerable to your Reverence.

For indeed the mockery that ensues is common to us all.

But above all, bid him return together with the virgins.

For he might obtain some measure of kindness, if he should return bearing your letter.

But if not, send back at least the virgins to their mother, the Church.

But if not even this, at least do not permit those who are willing to return to be tyrannized, but decree that they come back to us; otherwise we call both God and men to witness that these things are not done rightly, nor according to the ordinances of the Church.

As for Glycerius, if he should return with understanding and fitting steadiness, this would be best.

But if not, let him know that he has been removed from his office.

To Glycerius. How long will you act with senseless folly and take evil counsel concerning yourself, troubling us and shaming the common order of monks? Return, then, taking courage in God and in us, whose loving-kindness we seek to imitate.

For even though we rebuked you as a father, yet we will also forgive you as a father.

This is our message to you, since many others entreat on your behalf, and before all others your own presbyter, whose grey hairs and tender compassion we revere.

I adjure you by God, and by your own members and by the habit you wear—with which you are leading the young women not toward God, but into the abyss.

To Basil. I wrote to you also recently concerning Glycerius and the virgins.

But they have not returned even to this day; I know not from where nor how this comes about.

For I would not accuse you of doing this in order to slander us, or because you yourself have some grievance against us, or because you are showing favor to others.

Let them come, then, fearing nothing.

For indeed we grieve when our members are cut off, even if they were justly cut off.

But if they should resist, let the burden fall upon others; as for us, we are cleared of it.

To Flavian the Bishop. Our affairs, O man of God, are not in a good state.

For the evils are advancing among those who have stirred up against us an unjust and unprovoked hatred; it is no longer merely suspected through conjecture, but is pursued openly, as though it were some praiseworthy achievement.

But you, who up to now stand outside such an evil, are growing negligent in quenching the flame that is spreading in your very neighborhood—as though you did not know that those who take good counsel for their own affairs zealously suppress a fire among their neighbors, thereby, in helping those nearby, securing for themselves that they will have no need of similar help in return.

What, then, is it that I am saying? Holiness has forsaken our life; truth has fled from us.

As for peace, formerly we at least had its name upon our lips; but now not only does peace itself not exist, but not even its name remains to us.

But that you may know more clearly the things over which I am so indignant, I will set forth for you the tragedy in a few words.

There were some who reported that the most reverend Helladius was ill-disposed toward us, and were declaring to everyone that I was the cause of the greatest evils that had befallen him.

I did not believe these reports, looking to myself and to the truth of the matter.

But when the same report came to us from all quarters with one voice, and the facts confirmed the rumors, I judged it fitting not to leave this rootless and unplanted enmity unattended.

And finally, having celebrated the commemoration of the most blessed Peter, kept for the first time among the people of Sebaste, and having spent that same season together with them in the customary commemorations of the holy martyrs, I was returning again to my own church.

And when someone reported that he was staying in the mountain district, celebrating commemorations of martyrs, at first I kept to the main road, judging it more fitting that our meeting take place in the metropolis.

But when one of my genuine friends, meeting me in haste, assured me that he was ill, I left my carriage behind at the place where I had been overtaken by that report, and traveled the intervening distance on horseback—a distance precipitous and almost impassable because of its extremely rough ascents.

It was fifteen milestones, as we heard from the local people, by which the intervening distance was measured.

Having with difficulty traversed part of this on foot and part on horseback—setting out before dawn, and making use also of part of the night—I arrived at Andaemones about the first hour of the day.

For so is the place named where he was conducting the church service, together with two other bishops.

Catching sight from afar, from a certain ridge overlooking the village, of the crowd gathered in the open air at the church, we traversed the intervening ground on foot—both I myself and my company advancing on foot, leading our horses by hand.

So that the two things happened simultaneously: he returned from the church to his house, just as we drew near to the martyr-shrine.

And without any delay we sent someone to announce to him our presence.

We sent him word, that we might spend more time together with him, in order to find opportunity so that nothing between us might be left unattended.

After this, I sat in the open air, waiting for the one who would summon me in, and I was set forth as an untimely spectacle to those gathered at the assembly.

And no little time passed, with drowsiness setting in, and listlessness, and the weariness from the journey intensifying that listlessness, and the heat being strong, and people staring at us and pointing us out to one another with their fingers—and all such things weighed on me so heavily that the prophet's word proved true of me: 'My spirit grew faint within me.'

And when the hour had already advanced toward noon, I was finally brought in, having repented much even before our meeting, as one who had himself furnished the cause of that dishonor.

And more grievous than the outrage coming from enemies, my own reasoning distressed me, contending in a certain manner against itself, and repenting, in afterthought, of what it had earlier proposed to do.

So then, when at last the doors were opened to us and we came within the inner chambers, most of my company were shut out from entry, but my own deacon came in with me, who supported with his hand my body, worn out from fatigue.

And I, having greeted him, and having stood for a little while so that some invitation to be seated might be extended to me—since none of this happened—turned aside and rested upon one of the benches farther off, waiting to see whether perhaps he would utter some kindly word to us, or at least nod to us with his eyebrows in some benevolent gesture.

But everything turned out contrary to my hope.

For from that point on there was a silence like night, and tragic gloom, and astonishment, and consternation, and utter speechlessness, and a span of time, not brief, drawn out through stillness as though in the depth of a black night.

And I, my mind frozen by all this—because he was not even willing to extend to me the common word of greeting, thereby discharging our meeting through such conventional formalities as 'Welcome!' or 'Whence do you come?' or 'For what reason have you come unbidden?' or 'What is the purpose of your visit?'—took that silence as an image of existence in Hades.

Or rather, I find fault with my own comparison.

For in Hades there is great equality, since none of the things that work out life's tragedy above the earth disturb that mode of existence there.

For glory does not descend along with men, as the prophet says; rather, each soul, having left behind the things now so eagerly pursued by the many—I mean insolence, and arrogance, and vain conceit—dwells below in a state that is simple and unadorned, so that none of the evils found here on earth exist even among those souls.

Yet still, the present circumstances seemed to me like Hades, or a lightless prison, or some other grim place of punishment, as I considered how many good things we had become heirs of from our fathers, and what kind of accounts we would leave behind to those who come after us.

But why do I speak of the fathers' loving disposition toward one another? For it is no wonder that men, being of equal honor in nature, should wish to have nothing more than one another, but through humility should each consider the other to surpass himself.

But this above all struck my mind: that the Master of all creation, the only-begotten Son who is in the bosom of the Father, who was in the beginning, who existed in the form of God, who bears all things by the word of his power—he humbled himself not only in this, in sojourning among human nature through the flesh, but also received his own betrayer Judas, who drew near with his own mouth by way of a kiss, and, entering the house of Simon the leper, reproached him for not having been kissed by him, as though this were a want of love for mankind.

But I was not even reckoned as worthy of the treatment given to a leper.

'To whom, and by whom?'—I am unable to find the difference.

Between the one who descended from where he did, and the one who now lies where he lies—what difference is there, if indeed one looks only at the things of this world?

For if one should examine matters pertaining to the flesh, it is perhaps not too offensive to say that nobility and freedom are of equal honor in both cases.

As for freedom and nobility of soul, both of us are equally slaves of sin, and both of us equally stand in need of him who takes away sins.

There is another who redeemed us from death and from our sins by his own blood—who purchased us, and yet displayed no arrogance whatsoever toward those he had purchased; who calls the dead back to life; who heals every sickness, both of soul and of body. Since, then, the disdain shown against me, and the swelling of arrogance, was so vast that it was well nigh straitened even by the very height of heaven, and yet I could see no material cause or occasion whatsoever for such a malady—whence such a passion becomes pardonable in those who contract this disease from some particular circumstance, as when birth, or education, or superiority of rank, puffs up characters already prone to vanity—I had no way to admonish myself to remain calm, since my heart was swelling within me against the sheer unreasonableness of what was happening, and was rejecting outright all the reasonings that argued for patient endurance.

At that time especially I marveled at the divine Apostle, who so vividly describes for us this civil war within—saying that there is in the members a certain law of sin warring against the law of the mind, and often making the mind itself its captive and its subject—for I saw within myself this very battle-line of two opposing reasonings arrayed against one another: the one growing indignant at the insolence born of arrogance, and the other seeking to suppress that swelling passion.

But when, by the grace of God, the better impulse prevailed, then I said to him:

'Is it perhaps that my presence is in some way hindering the care being given to your bodily healing, and that it would be a fitting time for me to withdraw?' And when he replied that his body had no need of healing, I spoke to him certain conciliatory words, as far as it was possible to do so.

And when he, in a few words, indicated that he held grief against us because of many wrongs we had done, I answered him thus: 'Among men, falsehood has great power to deceive, but the divine tribunal does not admit the false reasoning that arises from deception.'

As for me, my conscience is so confident in the matters between you and me, that I pray that, for my other sins, forgiveness may be granted me—but if I have done anything against you, may this alone remain forever unforgiven. And, growing indignant at these words, he no longer would accept that proofs be added to what had been said.

It was past the sixth hour, and the bath was ready, and the feast was in preparation, and the day was the Sabbath, in honor of the martyrs.

And again, how does the disciple of the Gospel imitate the Master of the Gospel? He, eating and drinking with tax-collectors and sinners, defended himself before those who reproached him, saying that he did this out of love for mankind; but he judges fellowship at the same table to be a defilement and a pollution.

After that weariness which we endured from our journey, after that great heat in which we sat out in the open before his doors and were scorched, after that grim gloom which we endured while standing before his eyes—he sent us away again over that same distance, by that same road, struggling now with a body already spent and utterly worn out.

So that we, having suffered much along the way, barely managed to rejoin our traveling company toward late evening.

For indeed a cloud, suddenly arising out of a storm-squall in the sky, drenched us with a violent downpour that seemed to reach to the very marrow of our bones.

For we were unprepared, on account of the excessive heat, for protection against rain.

Yet nevertheless, by the grace of God, like men saved from a storm or a shipwreck, we gladly came upon our travelling company, and having rested for the night together with one another, we came through alive and safe to our own places — gaining from this encounter the further discovery that the outrage lately committed against us had renewed the memory of everything that had happened before.

And so we are compelled now to take counsel concerning ourselves as well — or rather, concerning that man himself.

...to the things that had happened before — this led him into that inflating excess...

Therefore, so that he too might become better than himself, perhaps something is fitting to be done on our part as well, so that, being but a man, he might learn that he has no authority to commit outrage and dishonor against men of like mind and equal rank.

For behold, let it be granted as true (I speak hypothetically) that something grievous was indeed done by me against him.

What tribunal was convened against us concerning the things that occurred or were suspected? What proof exposed the injustice? What canons were read out against us? What lawful decision of a bishop ratified the judgment against us? But even if any of these things had indeed happened lawfully, the danger would surely have concerned only my rank.

But what canons legislated outrage against liberty, and dishonor against equals in rank? Judge righteous judgment, you who look to God: on what ground do you consider the dishonor done against us pardonable? If dignity is to be judged according to the priesthood, an equal and single privilege has been granted to both of us by the synod — or rather, the charge of correcting matters of common concern — so that in this we hold equal standing.

But if some should look at us, apart from our priestly rank, in ourselves — what has the one more than the other? Birth? Education? Freedom of speech toward the noblest and most esteemed? Knowledge? These qualities can be found in us either in equal measure, or certainly not in any lesser degree.

But does he mean wealth? God forbid that I should be compelled to speak in detail concerning this matter of him.

Rather, it is enough only to say how great he was at the outset and how great he has now become, and to leave it to others to search out the sources of the increase of that wealth which, up to the present day, keeps growing and being nourished almost every single day through fine practices.

What warrant, then, is there for the outrage against us, since there is neither superiority of birth, nor splendor of rank, nor overwhelming power of eloquence, nor even any prior benefaction? Indeed, even if these things did exist, even so the outrage committed against free men would remain unpardonable.