Letters & Polemics (CSEL) 54 part 2/4

But surely nothing is fuller of rashness — which was in us then, being boys — than to desert the expositors of any books whatsoever, who profess that they hold them and can hand them on to disciples, and to seek their meaning from those who, driven by I know not what cause, have declared most bitter war upon their founders and authors. For who ever thought that the recondite and obscure books of Aristotle should be expounded to him by his enemy — to speak of those disciplines in which the reader can perhaps slip without sacrilege? Who, in short, wished to read or learn the geometrical writings of Archimedes with Epicurus as master, who very obstinately disputed against them, understanding, as I think, nothing of them?

Or are those Scriptures of the law so very plain, upon which these men, as though upon things exposed to the common gaze, make their assault vainly and emptily? They seem to me like that poor little woman whom these same men are wont to deride, who, being angry that that sun was praised to her and commended by a certain Manichaean woman as a thing to be worshipped — being, as she was, religiously simple — leapt up in agitation and, striking with her foot again and again that spot which the sun had illumined through the window, began to cry out: 'Behold, I trample upon your sun and god!' Foolishly indeed and in womanish fashion — who denies it?

— but do not those men seem to you such, who, tearing to pieces with great vehemence of speech and with revilings those things which they do not understand, nor why, nor of what sort they are at all, nor how like to things lying prostrate, yet subtle and divine to those who understand — think, because the ignorant applaud them, that they are accomplishing something? Whatever it is, believe me, in those Scriptures it is deep and divine: there is altogether truth within, and a discipline most fitted to refreshing and restoring souls, and plainly so measured that no one is unable to draw from it what is enough for himself, provided only that he approach to draw devoutly and piously, as true religion requires. But to prove this to you, there is need of many reasonings and a longer discourse.

For I must first deal with you so that you may not hate the authors themselves, and then that you may love them; and this must be done in any other way rather than by expounding their meanings and writings, for this reason: because if we had hated Virgil — nay, if we did not love him before he was understood, by the commendation of our elders — we should never be satisfied about those innumerable questions of his by which grammarians are wont to be vexed and disturbed; nor should we listen willingly to one who unfolded them with his praise, but should favour him who tried to show that through them he had erred and raved.

But now, since many try to open up these questions in various ways, each according to his own capacity, those above all are applauded through whose exposition the poet is found to be better — who is believed, even by those who do not understand him, not only to have committed no fault, but to have sung nothing that was not praiseworthy. And so, at a little question, we are angry with a master who fails and has nothing to answer, rather than think him dumb by any fault of Maro. And if, in his own defense, he should wish to assert a fault of so great an author, scarcely will disciples remain with him even for paid fees. How great a thing it was that we should show like goodwill to those through whom the Holy Spirit is confirmed by so long an antiquity to have spoken!

But forsooth, we most intelligent young men and marvellous explorers of reasons, without so much as having unrolled those writings, without having sought out masters, without having accused our own dullness at all, without having conceded even a moderate degree of heart to those who through the whole world, over so long a time, have wished such writings to be read, guarded, and handled — we thought that nothing among them was to be believed, being stirred by the voice of those who are their enemies and assailants, among whom, by a false promise of reason, we were compelled to believe and worship unheard-of thousands of fables. But now I will carry through what I have begun, if I can, and will so deal with you as not to disclose the Catholic faith for the present, but to show, to those

whose souls are a care to themselves, the hope of divine fruit and of finding the truth. No one doubts that he who seeks the true religion either already believes the soul to be immortal, to which that religion may profit, or wishes also to find that very thing in the same religion. Therefore all religion is for the sake of the soul; for whatever way the nature of the body may stand, it inspires no care or solicitude in him whose soul holds whereby it may be blessed — especially after death. Therefore for the sake of the soul, whether solely or chiefly, the true religion, if any there be, has been established.

But this soul — I shall see for what cause, and this too I confess to be most obscure — yet errs and is foolish, as we see, until it attains and receives wisdom; and perhaps this very thing is the true religion. Am I sending you to fables? Am I compelling you to believe anything rashly? I say that our soul, entangled and immersed in error and folly, seeks the way of truth, if there be any. If this is not in you, grant me pardon, and share with me, I beg, your wisdom; but if you recognize in yourself what I say, together, I beseech you, let us seek the truth. Suppose that we have as yet heard no one who insinuates any religion. Behold, the matter is new to us, and a task undertaken. We must seek, I believe, the professors of this matter, if there are any.

Suppose that we have found others holding different opinions, and desiring, by the diversity of their opinions, to draw each man to themselves; but that among these certain ones stand out for the meanwhile by the frequency of their fame and by the occupation of well-nigh all peoples. Whether these hold the truth is a great question; but ought they not first to be examined, so that, as long as we err — if indeed we are men — we may seem to err along with the human race itself? But then the truth is with certain few. You know, then, already what it is, if you know with whom it is. Had I not said a little before that we should seek as though we were untaught? But if from the very force of truth you conjecture that few hold it, yet who they are you do not know — what then?

If those who know the truth are so few that by their authority they hold the multitude, whence could that fewness disentangle and, as it were, strain itself clear into those secret things? Do we not see how few attain to the highest eloquence, though throughout the whole world the schools of rhetoricians resound with flocks of youths? Do those, whoever they be, who wish to turn out good orators, terrified by the multitude of the unskilled, think that their effort should rather be given to the orations of Caecilius or Erucius than to those of Tully? All men crave these things which have been confirmed by the authority of their elders. These same things the crowds of the unskilled strive to learn, which have been received as things to be learned from a few learned men; but very few attain them, fewer practice them, fewest become famous. What then?

What if the true religion is something of such a kind? What if a multitude of the unskilled frequents the churches — yet that is no argument that therefore no one has been made perfect in those mysteries? And yet, if so few pursued eloquence as there are few who are eloquent, our parents would never have thought us to be entrusted to such masters. Since, therefore, a multitude, abundant in the part of the unskilled, has invited us to these studies, that we should fall in love with that which few can attain — why do we not wish there to be for us a like cause in religion, which perhaps, at great peril of the soul, we despise?

For if the truest and most sincere worship of God, though it be among few, is nevertheless among those to whom the multitude — though entangled in desires and remote from purity of understanding — gives its assent (and who would doubt that this can happen?): I ask, if anyone should charge us with rashness and senselessness, because we do not diligently investigate it, whose finding is a great care to us, among its masters — what could we answer? Did the multitude deter me?

Why, from the study of the liberal arts, which scarcely bring any advantage to this present life, why from the pursuit of money, why from the winning of honour, why in short from the acquiring and keeping of good health, lastly why from the very desire of the blessed life — since with all these all men are occupied, yet few excel — did no multitude deter you? But absurd things seemed to be said there. Asserted by whom? By enemies, forsooth — for whatever cause, by whatever reasoning (for this is not now the question) — yet by enemies. When I read, I recognized it for myself. Is it so indeed?

Though imbued with no poetic training, you would not dare to approach Terentianus Maurus without a master — Asper, Cornutus, Donatus, and countless others are sought out, that any poet may be understood, whose songs and the applause of the theatre they seem to capture — yet upon those books, which, however they may stand, are nevertheless holy and full of divine things, defamed by the confession of well-nigh the whole human race, you rush without a guide, and dare to pass judgment upon them without a teacher; nor, if anything occurs to you that seems absurd, do you accuse your own slowness and your mind rotted by the corruption of this world, such as belongs to all fools, rather than those who perhaps cannot be understood by such as you? You should have sought out someone at once pious and learned,

or one who by the consent of many was said to be such, by whose precepts you might become better and by whose teaching more skilled. Was he not easily found? Let him be sought with labour. Was he lacking in that land which you inhabited? What cause could more usefully compel you to travel abroad? On the mainland was he altogether hidden, or did he not exist? Let a voyage be made. If he was not found nearby across the sea, you should have gone on even to those lands in which the things contained in those books are said to have been done. What such thing have we done, Honoratus? And yet a religion perhaps most holy — for I still speak as though it were a matter for doubt — whose repute has now seized the whole circle of the earth, we, most wretched boys, condemned according to our own arbitrary judgment. What then?

What if those things which seem to offend certain unskilled persons in these same Scriptures were so placed for this very purpose: that, when matters abhorrent to the sense of men of whatever sort — let alone the prudent and holy — were read, we should seek the hidden meaning much more studiously? Do you not observe how men try to interpret the Ganymede of the Bucolics, from whom the hard shepherd pined away, and the boy Alexis, upon whom Plato too is said to have made an amatory poem, as signifying I know not what great thing, and affirm that it escapes the judgment of the unskilled — when, without any sacrilege, the most abundant poet could be seen to have put forth lustful little songs?

But did anything in truth call us back and forbid us from seeking — whether the sanction of some law, or the power of adversaries, or the base standing of those who are consecrated, or a shameful reputation, or the novelty of the teaching, or a hidden profession? None of these is so. All laws, divine and human, permit us to seek the catholic faith; and to hold it and to reverence it is certainly allowed by human law. As for divine law, so long as we err, it remains uncertain: no enemy terrifies our weakness — although, if truth and the soul's salvation, when diligently sought where it is most safely permitted, has not been found, they must be sought even at any risk. Every rank of dignities and powers most devotedly serves this divine worship;

the name of religion is most honourable and most illustrious. What then hinders us from examining and discussing, with pious and diligent investigation, whether this be that very thing which only a few need to know most sincerely and to guard — even if the will and favour of all nations should conspire toward it? Since this is so, grant, as I said, that we are now for the first time seeking to what religion we should hand over our souls to be cleansed and restored. Beyond doubt the beginning must be taken from the catholic Church. For there are now more Christians than there would be Jews and worshippers of images taken together.

But among these same Christians, though there are many heresies, and all wish to appear catholic and name others besides themselves heretics, there is, as all concede, one Church: if you consider the whole world, it is fuller in multitude; and, as those who know it affirm, it is also more sincere in truth than all the rest. But concerning truth there is another question. What, however, suffices for those who seek is this: there is one catholic Church, upon which the other heresies impose diverse names, while they themselves are each called by their own proper appellations, which they dare not deny. From this it is given to understand that, in the judgement of arbiters whom no favour hinders, it is clear to whom the catholic name — which all court — should be assigned.

But lest anyone think this must be argued too verbosely or superfluously: there is certainly one Church in which even human laws are, in a certain manner, Christian. I do not wish any prejudgement to be made from this, but I judge it a most fitting beginning for seeking. For it is not to be feared that the true worship of God, resting on no proper strength, should seem to need propping up by those whom it ought itself to support; but surely it belongs to perfect happiness if the true can be found there where both its investigation and its retention are most secure: if it cannot be found there, then at last other paths, at whatever peril, must be approached and searched. These things therefore being established, which, as I think,

are so just that I ought to prevail with you in this cause against any adversary — I will disclose to you, as best I can, what sort of way I made use of when I sought the true religion with that mind by which I have now set forth it ought to be sought. For when I departed from you across the sea, already hesitating and wavering as to what I should hold, what I should let go — a hesitation that grew greater in me day by day from the time I heard that man whose coming was, as you know, promised to us as if from heaven for unfolding all the things that troubled us, and found him, apart from a certain eloquence, to be such as I had come to know the rest to be — I took counsel with myself and held great deliberation, being now settled in Italy.

not whether I should remain in that sect, into which I regretted having fallen, but in what manner the truth was to be found — for the love of which my sighs are known to no one better than to you. Often it seemed to me it could not be found, and the great surges of my thoughts were carried toward the verdict of the Academics. Often again, gazing, as much as I could, at the human mind, so lively, so shrewd, so clear-sighted, I did not think the truth lay hidden, except that the manner of seeking it lay hidden, and that this very manner had to be taken from some divine authority. It remained to seek what that authority might be, since amid such great dissensions everyone promised he would deliver it.

There arose therefore an inextricable thicket, into which it much irked me to be thrust; and amid these things, without any rest, my mind was agitated by the desire of finding the truth. Yet more and more I unstitched myself from those men whom I had already resolved to abandon. But there remained nothing else, amid such great perils, than that I should implore divine providence with tearful and pitiable voices to bring me aid. And this I did diligently; and by now certain discourses of the bishop of Milan had nearly moved me, so that not without some hope I desired to inquire many things concerning that very Old Testament, which, as you know, having been ill commended to us, we used to execrate.

And I had resolved to remain a catechumen in the Church to which I had been handed over by my parents, until either I should find what I wished, or should persuade myself that it need not be sought. Thus, then, one who was able to teach could then have found me most fit and very teachable. In this manner, then, and in a like one, let there be a care for your soul. You see that you too have long been tossed about; and if by now you seem to yourself sufficiently buffeted and wish to put an end to labours of this kind, follow the way of catholic discipline, which has flowed from Christ himself, through the apostles, down to us, and from here is destined to flow on to those who come after. 'It is ridiculous,' you say, 'that, when all profess to hold and teach this,'

All heretics profess this — I cannot deny it — but in such a way that they promise to those whom they entice that they will render an account of the most obscure matters, and on this very ground they especially accuse the catholic Church: because those who come to it are enjoined to believe, whereas they themselves boast that they impose no yoke of believing, but open a fountain of teaching. 'What,' you say, 'could be said that would most pertain to their praise?' It is not so. For they do this endowed with no strength, but in order to gather some multitude by the name of reason: at the promise of which the human soul naturally rejoices, and, not considering its own strength and health, by craving the food of the sound — which is ill entrusted save to the strong — it rushes into the poisons of the deceivers.

For true religion, unless those things be believed which each one is afterwards to attain and perceive — if he shall have conducted himself well and been worthy — and altogether without a certain weighty command of authority, can in no way be rightly entered upon. But perhaps you seek to receive some reason even for this very thing, whereby you may be persuaded that you must be taught not by reason before faith. This can easily be done, if only you show yourself fair. But that it may be done conveniently, I wish you to answer, as it were, one questioning you, and first tell me why it seems to you that one ought not to believe. 'Because,' you say, 'that very credulity, from which men are called credulous, seems to me to be a kind of vice; otherwise we should not be accustomed to throw this name at anyone as a reproach.'

For if the suspicious man is at fault, in that he suspects things not ascertained, how much more the credulous man, who differs from the suspicious in this: that the one grants some doubt to things unknown, but the other grants none? For the moment I accept this opinion and distinction. But you know too that we are not accustomed to call a man 'curious' without reproach, yet 'studious' even with praise. Wherefore attend, if you please, to what distance seems to you to lie even between these two. This surely you answer: that although each is driven by a great desire of knowing, the curious man nevertheless seeks out things which pertain to him not at all, while the studious man, on the contrary, seeks out things which pertain to himself.

But since we do not deny that a wife and children and their welfare pertain to a man, if someone placed abroad diligently inquires of all who arrive how his wife and children fare and how they conduct themselves, he is certainly led by a great desire of knowing. And yet we do not call this man 'studious,' who greatly wishes to know even the things that most pertain to himself. Wherefore you now understand that this definition of the studious man wavers on this account: that although every studious man wishes to know the things that pertain to himself, yet not every one who does this is to be called studious, but he who most eagerly seeks out the things that pertain to nourishing the mind liberally and adorning it.

Yet we rightly call him 'studious,' especially when we add what he is eager to hear. For we can even call a man studious of his own kin, if he loves only his own; yet, with no other qualification added, we do not think him worthy of the common name of the studious. As for one eager to hear how his own folk fare, I would not call him studious of hearing, unless, rejoicing in good report, he wished to hear that very thing often; but 'studious' indeed, even if only once. Now turn your mind to the curious man, and tell me: if someone should gladly hear a little tale that would profit him nothing at all — that is, of matters not pertaining to himself — and this not tediously and repeatedly, but very rarely and very moderately, whether at a banquet or in some gathering or any assembly, would he seem to you curious?

I think not; but he would certainly seem to have a care for that matter, since he heard it gladly. Wherefore the definition of the curious man too must be amended by the same rule as that of the studious. See therefore whether those earlier ones also must be amended. For why should not a man be unworthy of the name 'suspicious' who now and then suspects something, and of 'credulous' who now and then believes something? And so, just as between one studious of some particular thing and one studious altogether, and again between one having a care and the curious, so between the believing man and the credulous there is a very great difference. But now see, you will say, whether in religion we ought to believe. For even if we grant that it is one thing to believe and another to be credulous, it does not follow that there is no fault in believing in matters of religion. What then?

For if both to believe and to be credulous are faulty, as also to be drunk and to be a drunkard? He who reckons this certain seems to me able to have no friend. For if it is base to believe anything, either he acts basely who believes a friend, or, believing nothing to a friend, how he may call either him or himself a friend, I do not see. Here perhaps you will say: 'I grant that something ought sometimes to be believed; now explain how in religion it is not base to believe before one knows.' I will do so, if I can. Wherefore I ask of you: which do you judge to be the graver fault — to hand over religion to one who is unworthy, or to believe what is said by those who deliver it? If you do not understand whom I call unworthy, I mean him who approaches with a feigned heart.

You grant, I suppose, that it is more to be blamed to lay open to such a man any sacred secrets, if such there be, than to believe religious men affirming something concerning religion itself. For it would not have become you to answer otherwise. Wherefore now suppose you think that he is present who is to deliver religion to you: in what manner will you assure him of your faith that you approach with a true mind, and that there is in you nothing of guile and pretence as regards this matter? You will say, in your good conscience, that you feign nothing, asserting this very thing with as strong words as you can — but words nonetheless. For you cannot, man to man, lay open the hiding-places of your mind, so as to be inwardly known. But if he shall say: 'Behold, I believe you;'

but is it not more equitable that you too should believe me, since you are to receive a benefit, if I hold some truth, and I to give it? What shall we answer but that we must believe? 'But,' you say, 'would it not have been better that you render me a reason, so that I might follow it, wherever it led me, without any rashness?' Perhaps it would; but since the matter is so great that God is to be known by you through reason, do you think all men fit for perceiving the reasons by which the human mind is led to divine understanding? Or the more, or the fewer? 'The fewer,' you say, 'I judge.' Do you believe yourself to be of their number? 'It is not for me,' you say, 'to answer this.' Then you think it is for him to believe you even in this: which indeed he does.

Only remember that he has now twice believed you, though you speak uncertain things, while you, when he religiously admonishes you, are unwilling to believe him even once. But suppose it be so that you approach with a true mind to receive religion, and that you are of that few of men, so that you can grasp the reasons by which the divine power is led into certain knowledge: what then? Do you think religion is to be denied to the rest of men, who are not endowed with so serene a genius? Or that they must be led, step by step, by certain gradations, to those highest inner sanctuaries? You see plainly which is the more religious course. For no man whatever, in the desire of so great a thing, can in any way seem to you fit to be deserted or spurned. But do you not judge that, unless he first believes he will attain to that which he has undertaken,

and offer a suppliant mind, and, obeying certain great and necessary precepts, thoroughly purge himself by a certain manner of life, he will not otherwise attain those things which are purely true? You surely judge so. What then of those men — of whose number I now believe you to be — who can most easily grasp the divine secrets by sure reason? If they come by that way by which those come who first believe, will it at last do them any harm? I think not. 'But nevertheless,' you say, 'what need is there to delay them?' Because, even if by their own act they will do themselves no harm, they will nevertheless harm others by their example. For there is scarcely a man who thinks of himself only as much as he can; but he who thinks too little must be stirred up, he who thinks too much must be restrained, so that neither the one may be broken by despair, nor the other cast headlong by boldness.

This is easily done, if even those who are able to fly are for a little while compelled to walk, lest they be a perilous enticement to any; and by this it is safe for the rest also. This is the providence of true religion; this is a thing commanded from on high; this was handed down by our blessed forefathers; this has been preserved down to us: to wish to disturb and to pervert this is nothing else than to seek a sacrilegious road to true religion. Those who do this, even if what they wish were granted them, cannot arrive where they aim. For however much they may excel in genius, unless God be present, they creep upon the ground. But then he is present, if the human fellowship be a care to those who tend toward God — a step than which nothing firmer can be found for ascent into heaven. I indeed cannot resist this reasoning;

for how can I say that nothing ought to be believed without knowledge? Since even friendship, unless something be believed which cannot be demonstrated by sure reason, is altogether nothing, and slaves who are stewards are often trusted without any fault on the part of their masters. But in religion, what more iniquitous thing can be done than that, while the priests of God promise us an unfeigned mind, we should be unwilling to believe them as they instruct us? Finally, what way can be more wholesome than that one should first become fit for perceiving the truth, by applying faith to those things which are divinely appointed for preparing and pre-treating the mind?

Or, if you are already thoroughly fit, rather to go round about a little where it is safest to enter, than both to be to yourself an author of peril and to others an example of rashness. Wherefore it now remains that we consider in what way those are not to be followed who promise that they will lead by reason. For in what manner we can follow, without fault, those who bid us believe, has now been said; but to these sponsors of reason some think that they come not only without blame, but even with some praise: yet it is not so. For there are two persons praiseworthy in religion: one, that of those who have already found, whom it is necessary to judge most blessed also; the other, that of those who most studiously and most rightly inquire.