致俄利根頌辭 第 1 章 第 1/3 段

An Oration of Thanksgiving by Saint Gregory the Wonderworker, addressed to Origen, which he delivered at Caesarea in Palestine, after the many years of study he had pursued under him, when he was about to depart for his homeland.

Silence is a good thing for many people on many occasions, and especially now for me, who am being stopped at the mouth and compelled to keep silent, whether willing or unwilling.

For I am unpractised and inexperienced in those fine and elegant discourses which are spoken or composed in an unhindered, continuous flow by choice and approved nouns and verbs in due order.

Perhaps too I am by nature less suited to labour at this charming and truly Hellenic art.

Moreover, it is now eight years since I myself have either spoken or written any discourse, great or small at all, nor have I heard anyone else writing or speaking privately, or in public delivering panegyric and forensic orations—except those wonderful men who have embraced the noble philosophy.

These men too care little for fine speaking and elegance of words;

rather, putting words in second place, they wish to investigate accurately the matters themselves, just as each one stands, and to declare them.

Not, I think, because they do not wish—indeed they greatly wish—to mould the fine and accurate thoughts in fine and well-formed speech;

but perhaps because they cannot so readily combine in one and the same small human soul two advantages, each proper to a different man, and in a way most contrary to each other: the sacred and godlike power in thoughts, and the elegance of reasoning that lies in expression.

For silence is in a way friendly and helpful to thought and discovery;

but you would not find eloquence and fluency in speech anywhere else than in words and their constant practice.

Nevertheless, yet another study grievously occupies my mind and binds my tongue at the mouth, should I wish to say even a little in the tongue of the Greeks—namely, our admirable laws, by which now the affairs of all men under the rule of the Romans are governed, laws neither framed nor learned without toil;

These laws are themselves wise, accurate, manifold and admirable, and, to put it briefly, most thoroughly Hellenic in spirit;

but when expressed and handed down in the Roman tongue—an awesome, lofty tongue, conformed to all the imperial authority, yet to me burdensome.

Yet I would never say that it could have been, or that I would have wished it, otherwise.

Since our words are nothing other than certain images of the affections of our soul, we may grant that to those able to speak—like certain good painters, most skilled in their art and rich also in the matter of colours—it is possible to paint pictures not only true to life but also varied and exceedingly beautiful with the rich blending of hues, hindered in nothing.

But we, like certain poor men, lacking these varied pigments—either never having acquired them, or perhaps having cast them away—use only as it were charcoal or potsherds, these our common and familiar nouns and verbs; and with such words as are within our means, sketching to the best of our power the originals of the affections of our soul, we try to imitate them, to show forth the characters of the soul's impressions, even if not vivid nor adorned, attempting it as in a charcoal drawing; and if anything shapely and well-phrased comes from somewhere, we gladly welcome it, though we also despise it.

Rather, the very subject for which I was eager to speak, but at which I now hesitate and shrink, restrains me and plainly bids me keep quiet and silent.

For I purpose to say something about a man who appears and seems to be human, but who, to those able to discern, has already laid aside most of that condition by a greater preparation of his migration toward the divine.

I do not come to praise his lineage or the rearing of his body, and then delay and put it off out of excessive reverence; nor his strength or beauty—

these are the encomia of mere youths, about which there is little concern whether they are spoken worthily or not.

For if it were my purpose to compose some discourse about things not abiding nor stable, but corrupted variously and swiftly, in a solemn and dignified manner with such delays, lest it prove cold or boastful—I would not have any of these things in mind to say, things useless and vain, such as I would never willingly set myself to speak of;

yet if it were my purpose, the discourse would have no caution nor concern at all, lest in saying anything I should appear inferior to its worth.

But now I am about to make mention of that which is most godlike in him, that which in him happens to be akin to God—imprisoned indeed in this visible and mortal body, yet most laboriously forcing itself to be made like to God; and recalling this, and about to lay hold somehow of matters greater than I, and through this also of some thanksgiving to the divine, because it has been granted me to fall in with such a man, beyond all human expectation, both of others and of myself, who neither ever purposed nor hoped for it—

about to lay hold of such matters, being small and utterly without sense, do I not with good reason draw back and hesitate and willingly keep silent? Indeed, to hold my peace seems to me the safe course, lest under the pretext of thanksgiving, but by reason of rashness, in treating of solemn and sacred things I should speak of them in unseemly, cheap and trodden-down terms, and so not only fail to attain the truth, but also, so far as in me lies, even pull down something in the eyes of those who believe it to be so—since the discourse, being feeble, will sketch out an outrage rather than a likeness of the deeds to their power.

And yet your virtues, O dear head, are not to be pulled down nor outraged, and much more the divine things, which abide in themselves as they are, unshaken, in no way harmed by our small and unworthy words;

but we—I know not how—shall scarcely escape the reputation of boldness and rashness, having leapt up in folly, with small mind and small preparation, upon matters great and perhaps beyond us.

And if elsewhere and concerning others we had been eager to make such a youthful display, even so we should have been bold and over-daring, yet shamelessness would be the cause of the rashness, since we would not be presuming thus concerning you;

but now we shall fill up the whole measure of folly—or rather have already filled it—having dared to trample with unwashed feet (as the saying goes) upon ears into which the divine word itself enters and dwells, clear and manifest, not with feet covered (as into those of most men) as though by certain thick hides of enigmatic and obscure expressions, but with bare feet, so to speak.

But we, carrying as it were filth or some mud—our human words—have dared to pour them into ears practised in hearing divine and pure voices.

Is it then enough to have erred thus far, and ought we now at last to begin to be sober, no longer advancing further in the discourse, but stopping here? I should have wished so;

yet, having once grown bold, let it be permitted me first to state the cause by which, being roused, I came to this contest, if perchance I might find some pardon for this rashness.

Ingratitude appears to me a dreadful thing, dreadful and altogether dreadful.

For when one has been well treated, not even to try to make some return—if no other way is possible, at least by thanksgivings expressed in words—is the mark of one wholly senseless and insensible to benefits, or forgetful of them.

Toward one who has begun bestowing benefits, such a man is idle, ungrateful and impious, sinning in ways not to be pardoned, whether he be great or small;

for if he is some great and high-minded man, in not bearing on his lips with all thanksgiving and honour the great benefits done him;

and if he is small and contemptible, in not hymning and blessing with all his power the benefactor not only of great but also of small things.

To the greater, then, and those advanced in strength of soul, as out of a greater abundance and great wealth, it is necessary to render to their benefactors greater and more generous praises according to their power;

but to the small and those placed in narrow circumstances, it is fitting not even for them to be careless or slothful, nor to give up, as though able to bring nothing worthy or complete;

but, as poor men yet of good understanding, measuring not the power of the one honoured but their own, to render honours from their present power—honours that will perhaps prove pleasing and welcome to the one honoured, and not in second place beside him after the great and many, if they offer them with a certain greater eagerness and a whole-hearted mind.

Thus it is recorded in the sacred books, that a certain small and poor woman, together with rich and powerful men who offered great and costly gifts out of their wealth, alone contributing small and very little, yet all that she had, carried off the testimony of having given the more.

For the sacred word, I think, weighed the munificence and magnificence not by the quantity of the matter given, which is external, but rather by the minds and choices of those who offer.

Therefore it is not fitting for us either to shrink back wholly out of fear of not being able to make our thanksgiving equal to the benefits, but rather, on the contrary, to dare and to attempt, if not equal honours, at least the possible ones, to offer in return;

so that, if in any way our discourse falls short of perfect things, it may at least attain to those in part, and escape the utter reputation of ingratitude.

For utter silence is truly useless, under the plausible screen of not being able to say anything worthy;

but the attempt at recompense is always the mark of gratitude, even if the power of him who renders the thanks be inferior to its worth.

For I will not keep silent because I am unable to speak worthily;

but if I fulfil all that is possible for me, I shall even take pride in it.

Let this discourse of mine then be a thank-offering;

to God, the God of all, I would not venture to address it;

and yet from Him come to us all the beginnings of good things, and from Him we ought to begin our thanksgivings, or hymns, or praises.

But indeed, not even if I brought and offered my whole self—not such as I now am, profane and unclean, mingled and defiled with all-defiling and impure evil, but bare and as pure, most radiant, most sincere, and unmixed with anything worse—not even, I say, if I brought my whole self bare, as it were newly born, could I bring from myself any gift worthy in honour and recompense to the Ruler and Cause of all;

Him whom neither each one privately ever yet, nor all together—even if all pure beings should become one and the same, departing from themselves and turning rather toward Him, all at once with one spirit and one concordant impulse—could worthily praise.

For whatever of His creatures might be able best and most completely to conceive, and, if possible, to speak worthily about Him—

yet by reason of that very power, of which it has been deemed worthy not from any other but from Him whom it received, there is no way that it could, by acquiring from anywhere anything else greater, dedicate it as thanksgiving.

But the praises and hymns to the King and Guardian of all, the abiding fountain of all good things, we shall entrust to Him who alone is able even in this to heal our weakness and to fill up what is lacking—to the Champion and Saviour of our souls, His first-begotten Word, the Creator and Pilot of all;

for to Him alone is it possible, on behalf of Himself and on behalf of all, both privately for each and collectively together, to send up to the Father continual and unceasing thanksgivings.

Being also the power, and moreover being in Him and absolutely united to Him, there is no way that, either through forgetfulness, or unwisely, or by some weakness, as though estranged from Him, He should either fail to reach the power of praise, or, reaching it, should willingly (which it is not lawful to say) leave the Father unpraised;

for to Him alone is it possible most perfectly to fulfil all the worth of the praises befitting Him;

Him whom the Father of all things Himself, having made one with Himself, through Him, all but Himself encompassing Himself, by His own equal and all-pervading power, in a way both honours and is honoured;

which His only-begotten, the God-Word in Him, was alone and first allotted to possess out of all that exist;

all others being able thus to be grateful and pious only if, bringing to Him alone in return for all the good things given us from the Father the power of worthy thanksgiving, we dedicate it—confessing this to be the one way of piety: through Him to make all remembrance of the Cause of all.

Wherefore let Him be acknowledged worthy of the abiding providence over all, which cares for us both in the greatest and in the least things and is even led on to this; let Him be confessed a sufficient Word for thanksgivings and hymns, being most perfect and living, and the ensouled Word of the very First Mind itself.

But let this thanksgiving of ours be, of all men most especially, to this sacred man;

and if I should wish to sing somewhat further, also to those who are not visible yet are more divine and care for men: to him who from my childhood took it as his lot, by some great decree, to manage, foster and guard me—the sacred angel of God, who feeds me from my youth, as that man dear to God says, meaning his own.

But whether he, being himself great, was allotted as guardian to me by some proportionately greatest being—either to some other, whoever it might be, or perhaps to the very Angel of the great Counsel, the common Saviour of all—being now by reason of his perfection appointed his guardian, I do not clearly know; only that he, both knowing and praising his own great one, whoever he may be.

But we, besides the common Pilot of all men, praise also this one—whoever he is—who privately is our tutor while we were infants.

Who, being in all things altogether a good nurturer and guardian of mine (not to me, nor to any of my dear ones, for we are blind and see nothing of what lies before us, so as to be able even to judge any of the things needful;

but in the way that to him, foreseeing all things that conduce to the benefit of our soul, it appeared expedient)—both long ago and still now nurtures, instructs and leads me by the hand; and indeed, besides all the rest, he so ordered things as to join me to this man (this being of all the chief point)—a man related to me neither by family nor by any human blood, nor otherwise a near neighbour or one of those dwelling close by, nor of the same nation at all—these being the things which to most men become the occasion of friendship and acquaintance;

but, to put it briefly, men unknown to each other, strangers, estranged, far separated from one another—as far as nations, mountains and rivers lying between divide us—He, by His truly divine and wise foresight, brought us to the same place, and so contrived this saving meeting for me;

providing for this, I think, from above, from my first birth and rearing.

How this came about would be long to recount, were one to be precise about everything and try to leave nothing out;

but only if, passing over much, I should wish briefly to mention a few of the more principal things.

For my first rearing from birth was under parents, and the ancestral customs were erring ones;

from which I think neither did anyone else expect that we should be set free, nor was there any hope for me—a child, irrational, under a superstitious father.

Then came the loss of my father and orphanhood, which was perhaps for me the very beginning of the knowledge of the truth.

For then first I was transferred to the saving and true word, I know not how, compelled rather than willing.

It began straightway, as when the common word of all men was but newly being fulfilled, yet sojourned then for the first time.

Which thing, no small matter—even if not long ago, yet now at least reckoning it up—I set down as a token of the sacred and wonderful providence concerning me: this concurrence so numbered out by the years;

so that all those things which preceded this age—all that were works of error—might be given over to infancy and irrationality; and that the sacred word might not be handed over in vain to a soul not yet rational, but to one now become rational, so that, if not destitute of the divine and pure word, at least it might not be bereft of the fear that accords with this word; but that together both the human and the divine word might begin in me, the one helping by its own ineffable yet to me proper power, the other being helped.

Which thing, when I reckon it, fills me at once with gladness and with fear—exalted by the advancement, yet fearing lest, having been deemed worthy of such beginnings, I should likewise stumble at the end.

But somehow my discourse has lingered too long in this part, wishing to recount in order the wonderful dispensation toward this man; yet hastening nonetheless first, and speaking briefly, on to what follows—not as rendering praise owed to Him who so ordered things, or thanksgiving and piety (let us not be burdensome, so naming it yet saying nothing worthy);

but as making a narration and confession, or some one of these more modest names.

It seemed good to my mother—the one parent left to care for us—that, among other things we were being educated in, as children supposedly not ignobly born and reared, we should attend also a rhetorician, as being destined to become rhetors.

And indeed we did attend, and those who then judged thus said that we would become rhetors before long;

but for my part I neither know how to say this, nor would I wish to;

but there was no word of these things, nor any foundation yet laid of the causes able to carry us hither.

But indeed the divine tutor and true guardian, being sleepless, when neither my own household had any such intention nor I myself was eager for it, came upon and conferred with one of my teachers, who had been entrusted otherwise with educating me in the Roman tongue (not that I should reach the height of it, but that I might not be wholly inexperienced even in this tongue;

and he happened to be not inexperienced in the laws).

Putting this into his mind, He urged me through him to learn thoroughly the laws of the Romans.

And that man did this earnestly;

and I for my part was persuaded, more to gratify the man than as being a lover of the art.

And he, taking me as his hearer, began to teach me zealously;

and he uttered something which has turned out for me the truest of all sayings;

that the learning of the laws would be a most great provision for me (for that was the word he used), whether I should wish to be some rhetor contending in the courts, or anyone else.

He, then, uttered it thus, directing his words to human ends;

but to me it seems plainly that, under some more divine inspiration, he prophesied beyond his own intention.

For when I was being educated, willing and unwilling, in these laws, certain bonds had already in a way been laid, and the cause and starting-point of the road hither was the city of the Berytians;

and that city, not far distant from those parts, is somewhat more Roman, and was believed to be a school of these laws.

And this sacred man from Egypt, from the city of the Alexandrians, where he happened formerly to have his hearth, He moved and removed to this region, as though to meet us—other circumstances also playing their part.

I for my part neither know how to give the causes of these things as well, and willingly will pass them over.

Yet not even thus was my arrival here and my encounter with the man so necessary, so far as concerned our laws, since it was possible to go abroad even to the city of the Romans.

How then was even this brought about? The then governor of the Palestinians, taking my sister's husband—a man related to me—suddenly, alone and unwilling, separated from his bedfellow, brought him here, to assist and share in the labours of the ruler of the province;

for he was a man learned in law, and perhaps still is;

and being separated against his will, he drew us also along together with her.

Suddenly then, I know not how, while we were intending to go abroad—but rather to go abroad somewhere else than here—there stood by us a soldier bearing an order, to escort and bring safely our sister who was going to join her husband, and to bring us also as fellow-travellers along with her;

doing a favour both to my brother-in-law, and especially to my sister, that she might not be unbecoming or too reluctant for the journey, having her own servants and kinsfolk to honour her; and accomplishing besides no small other useful purpose—that we, if we should come to the city of the Berytians, might there complete our study of the laws.

All things then set us in motion: the reasonableness of accompanying my sister, our own study, and besides this also the soldier (since he too must be mentioned), bearing authority to use a greater number of public conveyances, and tokens for a larger number—on our account rather than for my sister alone.

But the things not visible yet truer—the fellowship with this man, the true study through him concerning the things of the Word, the benefit of our souls unto salvation—these led us hither, blind indeed and unaware, yet to our salvation.

Therefore not the soldier, but some divine fellow-traveller and good escort and guardian, who through all this life as through a long journey preserves us, passing by both the other places and Berytus—for the sake of which especially we thought we were setting out hither—brought us and settled us here;

doing and moving all things, until by every device He should bind us fast to this man, the cause of our many good things.

And he, the divine angel, having come through so much, delivering the dispensation over to this man, here somewhere perhaps even rested—not from any weariness or toil (for the race of the divine ministers is untiring), but because he had handed me over to a man who would fulfil, if possible, all providence and care.

And he, having received me, from that first day—the truly first day for me, the most honoured of all days, if I may say so, when the true sun first began to rise upon me—first of all, as one binds fast wild beasts or fishes or birds that have fallen into the nets or seines and are trying to slip out and escape, wishing to withdraw from him to Berytus or to our homeland, contrived by every means to bind us fast;

turning every argument and (as the saying goes) plying every rope, and bringing into play all his powers;

praising philosophy and the lovers of philosophy with long and many fitting praises, saying that these alone live the life truly befitting rational beings—those who study to live aright, knowing themselves first, who they are, and then the things that are truly good, which a man ought to pursue, and the things that are truly evil, from which one ought to flee.

and blaming ignorance and all the ignorant;

and these are many—all who, blind in mind like cattle, not even knowing this very thing, what they are, like irrational creatures wandering astray, neither themselves knowing nor wishing to learn what good or evil is at all, rush as toward good and are agog after money, reputations and honours from the crowd and bodily well-being, esteeming these things of great—indeed of utmost—account, together with those arts which can procure these, and those modes of life which will furnish them: military service, advocacy, and the study of the laws;

these very things which he most stirred us up about, saying, and that very skilfully, that we had neglected the most authoritative thing in us, namely reason;

we being not yet wholly persuaded, yet somehow unable to withdraw again, but always as it were by certain greater necessities drawn by his words toward him.

For altogether, he asserted—rightly so saying—that it was not possible even to be pious toward the Master of all (this being that which alone of all living things on earth man has been honoured and deemed worthy to possess, and fittingly every single person, both wise and ignorant, holds fast to it, who has not utterly lost his right notions through some madness)—it was not, then, possible at all to be pious for one who had not philosophized;

until, pouring out many other such arguments one upon another, as upon men bewitched, in the end by his arts he simply rendered us immovable, and fixed us firmly upon his words, I know not how, by some divine power.

For he implanted in us also a sting of friendship—not one easy to overcome, but keen and most effective—of his dexterity and good disposition, of all the goodwill which showed itself to us in his very voice as he addressed and conversed with us;

not trying merely by arguments to get the better of us, but by a dexterous, humane and most kindly mind to save us and to make us partakers of the good things that come from philosophy, and most of all of those other things which the Divine has granted to him alone above the many, or perhaps above all men now living—the teacher of piety, the saving Word, who visits many and works upon all whom He meets (for there is nothing that will withstand Him, the King of all things both that are and that shall be), yet hidden and not known, neither easily nor with difficulty, by the many, so that those questioned cannot say anything clear about Him.

Like a kind of spark, then, falling into the midst of our soul, there was kindled and burst into flame both love toward the holy Word Himself—most lovely, most powerfully drawing all by His ineffable beauty—and love toward this man, His friend and spokesman;

by which I was so deeply smitten that, of all the matters or studies that seemed to concern us—the others, and even those fine laws of mine—I was persuaded to neglect, and homeland and household too, both those present here and those for whose sake we had travelled abroad.

One thing alone was dear and beloved to me: philosophy, and its guide, this divine man;

and the soul of Jonathan was knit to David.

This I read afterward in the sacred writings, but I had experienced it beforehand, no less vividly than it is stated—indeed most vividly delivered in the oracle.

For it was not simply Jonathan who was knit to David, but the very most authoritative things, the souls—those very things which, even when the visible and seen parts are separated, will not by any device be compelled to be separated for a man;

for the soul is free, and in no way to be shut in, not even if you confine and keep it in a little cell.

For it is by nature, in the primary sense, there where the mind is;

and if it seems to you to be in the little cell, in a secondary sense it appears to you to be there;

in no way being thereby hindered from being there where it should wish to be; rather it can, and may reasonably be believed, to be wholly and altogether only there where, and toward what, its own proper activities lie.

Did he not then most clearly, in fewest words, set forth this very thing which I experienced, that the soul of Jonathan was knit to the soul of David? These bonds, as I said, will by no means be overcome to separate against one's will, and even willingly one will not readily wish it.

For not, I think, for the worse—which is manifold and more easily turned aside—is there the power of loosing these sacred bonds of friendship; for whose sake the binding did not even take place at the first by the inferior alone;