Panegyric Oration to Origen

OF SAINT GREGORY THAUMATURGUS, A PROSPHONETIC AND PANEGYRICAL ORATION TO ORIGEN

Which he delivered in Caesarea of Palestine after many years of training under him, being about to depart for his homeland.

OF SAINT GREGORY THAUMATURGUS, A PROSPHONETIC AND PANEGYRICAL ORATION TO ORIGEN

Delivered at Caesarea in Palestine after many years of study under him, when he was preparing to return to his homeland.

Translated by Jacques Sirmond. (Galland., Op. cit., p. 413.)

INDEX OF CHAPTERS OF THE PANEGYRICAL ORATION TO ORIGEN

I. For eight years Gregory had set aside oratorical ability, being occupied primarily with the study of Roman laws and the Latin language. II. He undertakes to commemorate the almost divine gifts of Origen, who is present; he proclaims that he fell into his hands beyond all expectation. III. He is moved to speak out of a sense of gratitude. He considers that he owes thanks according to the measure of his own ability. The beginnings of all good things are from God, to whom equal thanks cannot be rendered. IV. Only the Son knows how to praise God worthily. Acts of thanksgiving are to be offered to the Father in Christ and through Christ. Gregory also gives thanks to his guardian angel, because he was led by him to Origen. V. Here Gregory weaves in his former life. He is reported to have been born to pagan parents. He loses his father in the fourteenth year of his age. Devoted to the study of eloquence and law. Led to Origen by a marvelous nod of Providence. VI. By what arts Origen strives to retain Gregory and his brother Athenodorus with him, almost against their will, both having been captivated by affection for him. Philosophy, the foundation of piety; to which, therefore, as the one thing necessary, Gregory applies himself, putting aside his homeland, parents, studies of law, and other disciplines. The soul is a free thing. The better part does not desire to be joined to the worse, but the worse to the better. VII. By what marvelous art Origen prepares Gregory and Athenodorus for philosophy. He cultivates the talent of both, first with logic, while despising the concern for mere words. VIII. Next, he teaches them physics, geometry, and astronomy. IX. But he imbues their minds primarily with ethics, discoursing not only with words about the virtues, but confirming his teaching more with his works. X. Hence the *logosophoi* [word-wise] are refuted, who say and do not. XI. Origen is the first and only one to urge Gregory to learn philosophy, in a way offering himself as an example. On justice, prudence, temperance, and fortitude. Know thyself. XII. Gregory denies that he has attained the virtues. Piety is the beginning and the end, and therefore the parent of all virtues. XIII. By what method Origen used in teaching theological and metaphysical matters. He recommends all writers, except for atheists. The marvelous power of the oration to persuade. The mind is ready for assent.

THE PANEGYRICAL ORATION OF ST. GREGORY THAUMATURGUS ON ORIGEN

^A I. Silence is a truly noble thing, ^B both for many other people in many situations, and especially for me now, who, whether I will or not, have my mouth closed and am compelled to be silent. For I am unpracticed and utterly unskilled in those elegant and ornate discourses which, with choice and approved nouns and verbs, are perpetually and smoothly delivered or composed in an unobstructed flow; perhaps I am also by nature less prepared to labor at this charming and truly Grecian task. But it is already the eighth year since I have either spoken or written any discourse, long or short, nor have I heard anyone else either privately writing or speaking, or publicly declaiming panegyrical orations or disputations, except for those admirable men who have embraced the beautiful philosophy. Regarding these men, the care for elocution and the elegance of words is of less importance; but, setting aside the mere voices, they wish to investigate and declare the things themselves, as each one is, with accuracy. Not, I suppose, because they do not wish for that other thing; nay, they wish quite strongly to express their brilliant and accurate thoughts in brilliant and beautiful language. But perhaps they are not able, nor is it so readily available, on the one hand, to explain this holy and divine faculty with its own proper concepts, and, on the other hand, to bring forth an oration that is filled and adorned with words—to encompass within one and the same—and that a small and human—soul, the prerogative proper to two different men, especially since the method of each is disparate and entirely contrary. For silence is, in a way, a friend and partner to the contemplation and invention of things; but you find the faculty of speaking and the dignity of utterance nowhere else than in the words themselves and in the assiduous meditation and use of words. Furthermore, another discipline occupies my mind vehemently and ties fast my mouth and tongue, if I should wish to speak even the smallest thing in the Greek tongue: the marvelous laws of our wise men, by which the affairs of all men under the Roman rule are now guided, which indeed are neither consistent—^{C D}

^A nor arrived at without labor and effort. And yet those laws are wise, and accurate, and varied, and admirable, and, to say it in one word, most Greek; but they are set forth and delivered in the Roman tongue, which is indeed imposing and haughty, and shaped toward the imperial power, but for me it is nevertheless burdensome. Yet it was not possible for it to be otherwise, even if I should say that I had ever wished it to be. Since our words are nothing else than certain likenesses of the feelings of our soul, we must admit that those who are gifted in speech—like some excellent painters, men who are, indeed, most skilled in their art and rich in the supply of colors—are permitted to paint [their pictures] not only with likenesses, but with varied and beautiful [colors] through the manifold mixture of flowers, without being hindered in any way.

^B II. But we, as it were, like poor men lacking the various embellishments of this kind, and who perhaps have never possessed them, or have perhaps abandoned them, make do with mere charcoal or potsherds—that is, with customary and common names and verbs—and according to our ability, we sketch the prototypes of the feelings of our soul with the words that are available to us, attempting to portray the characters of the soul’s impressions, even if they are not clear, nor adorned, but, as in a charcoal drawing, we try at least to represent them as we can. And if anything graceful and eloquent happens to come our way, we gladly accept it; otherwise, we even neglect it. But there is also a third thing, which again ^C hinders and warns us off, and holds us back far more than the others and bids us simply to keep silent: the subject matter itself. For its sake I had indeed been eager to speak, but now I hesitate and falter. For I am thinking of speaking about a man who seems indeed to be a human being, and appears to be such, but to those who can behold the greatness of his disposition and character, he appears to be endowed with greater and almost divine ornaments. ^D I do not come, however, to praise his kin, or his bodily upbringing—and it is not for this reason that I now begin to hesitate and weave delays out of fear—nor his strength, nor his beauty; for these are the praises of boys, about which, whether they are spoken worthily or not, one need not be anxious. For one should not take thought of things that are not stable nor permanent, but which perish in various ways and quickly.

Indeed, it would seem cold and futile to fear or evade them as if they were a serious and worthy subject. If I had proposed to speak on any of these things, useless and vain as they are—things I would never willingly choose to mention—there would have been no need for caution nor concern in my speech lest, by saying something, I might appear to fall short of the subject’s dignity. But now, when it is the ^A most godlike thing in him, and that which is akin to God dwelling within this visible and mortal frame, because it strives most laboriously to become like unto God—when I am preparing to make mention of this and to touch upon greater matters, and to give thanks to God that it has been granted to me to find such a man, beyond all human thought and expectation, both of others and certainly my own, which I never proposed to myself nor indeed hoped for; when, I say, I, small and endowed with no talent, set out upon such things, it is not without reason that I linger and am afraid, and I would far prefer to remain silent. Indeed, silence seemed safest to me, lest under the pretext of thanksgiving, through sudden rashness, I speak of grave and sacred things in a manner that is not grave but low, humble, and trivial; and thus, not only fail to grasp the truth, but even, as far as it lies in me, detract from it in the eyes of those who will believe the matter to be as I describe it, since a weak speech would be fashioned, bringing insult rather than matching the subject's power. Yet your qualities, o ^B dear soul, can neither be diminished nor suffer insult; or rather, they are divine and remain in themselves, as they are, unmoved, and are in no way corrupted by our humble and unworthy speech. We, however, I know not how, shall be able to avoid the charge of audacity and rashness, for we—out of folly, with slight talent and preparation—attempted works that are great and perhaps exceed our grasp. Had we, perhaps, elsewhen and among others begun such things in youthful boastfulness, we might indeed have appeared bold and daring; yet our temerity should not have been attributed to impudence, because we would not have dared such things in your presence. But now we shall fulfill, or indeed have already fulfilled, the full measure of folly, having dared to enter ^C with unwashed feet—as they say—the ears in which the divine Word itself dwells, not covered, as are the ears of the common run of men, by the feet as if beneath some thick skins of enigmatic and unclear phrases, but naked, as one might say, manifest and clear, and we, like filth or some mire, carrying our own human words, pour them ^D upon them.

It is enough, therefore, to have sinned thus far; or now at last we must begin to be wise, and bring this speech to a close here, without drawing it out any further. I would indeed wish to do so; but let it be permitted to one who has once overstepped the bounds of modesty to first state the cause which led me into this contest, in case perhaps some pardon might be granted me for this rashness.

^B III. To me, ingratitude appears a terrible thing, truly terrible and most terrible. For that one who has received some kindness, if he cannot otherwise repay it, should at least not endeavor to return thanks by word, is the mark of a man who is entirely senseless and unaware of benefits, or unmindful of them. But for one who has both sense and knowledge of the good things he has received to fail first to preserve the memory of them for the time to come, and not to offer some thanks to the author of these good things, such a person is slothful, and ungrateful, and impious, guilty of a crime which neither the great nor the small should forgive; since, if he is a great and magnanimous person, he ought to carry abroad upon his lips, with all thanksgiving and honor, the benefactor’s great benefits; and if he is small and slight, he should not fail with all his might to praise and extol the bestower of not only great, but also small gifts. For those who are greater and excel in the power of the soul, as if from a greater abundance and wealth, it is necessary to render to benefactors greater and more noble praises to the best of their ability. But as for those who are small and placed in narrow circumstances, it is not fitting for them either to be negligent, or to be sluggish, ^C or to be disheartened as though they could bring nothing worthy or perfect; but as poor yet grateful people, measuring not the ability of the one being honored, but their own, they should offer honors from their present means—honors that will perhaps be grateful and pleasing to the one being honored, and not held in second place by him compared to those who offer great and many things, if they offer them with greater eagerness and a whole heart. For so it is written in the sacred Scriptures, that a certain small and poor woman, together with the rich and the powerful who were offering great and ^D costly things from their wealth, though she alone offered what was small and very little, yet by offering all that she had, she bore away the testimony and praise of the greater offering. For I do not think the sacred word judged the dignity and magnificence of the gift by the external quantity of the thing offered, but rather by the mind and intention of the one offering. Therefore, we ought by no means to shrink back out of a hollow fear that our gratitude will not be equal to the benefits, but on the contrary, we must dare and strive to do all we can, so as to render, if not equal honors, at least such honors as we are able in way of repayment; so that if we fail in the perfect ones, we might at least attain something in the particular ones, thus escaping the utter stain of ingratitude. For silence is truly useless when it is produced by the specious argument that one cannot...

^A speak worthily. Yet, even if my power is less than the dignity of the One to whom thanks are offered, I am always seeking ways to make recompense. For if I am not able to speak according to His worth, I shall not be silent; rather, I will fulfill all that is possible for me, and I shall be proud of it. Let this speech of mine, then, be a thank-offering, that is, an expression of gratitude; I would not dare to say it is for God, the ^B Creator of all things—although all the beginnings of good things for us are from Him, and from Him we ought to initiate our thanksgivings, hymns, and praises. But even if I were to offer myself entirely—not as I am now, profane and impure, stained and defiled by a foul and unclean evil; but if I were to offer myself stripped bare and most pure, most bright, most sincere, and free from every stain; if I were to offer my total self, just as I was born, as a gift—I would still have brought no gift worthy as a price or compensation to the Prince and Author of all things. Neither individuals privately, nor all together at once—even if all pure things were to coalesce into one and the same ^C entity, and, departing from themselves, were all to turn toward Him, united in one spirit and one consonant sense—could ever worthily venerate and praise Him. For whatever any human being might rightly think concerning God, and—if it is permitted to say this—perfectly speak of Him according to His dignity, because of that very faculty with which he is adorned, which he did not receive from any other, but from Him Himself, he can have nothing greater from elsewhere to return as an act of thanksgiving.

IV

^A even if he willed it (which it is wicked to say), he would leave the Father unpraised; for He alone is able to fulfill most perfectly all the weight of the praises that belong to Him. Him the Father of all, having made one with Himself, through Him—one might almost say—circulating around Himself, in every way honors through His equal power, and is honored; which thing the Only-Begotten, who is in Him, the Word of God, was the first and only one of all beings to receive by lot. Remaining as we all are, we are able to be grateful and pious in this way only: if, bearing upon Him alone, in return for all the good things that flow to us from the Father, we shall dedicate the power of worthy thanksgiving (confessing this to be the one way of piety, ^B that all remembrance through Him be dedicated to the Author of all).

Wherefore, as for that providence which is continuous for all, being concerned for us in matters both greatest and least, and having been brought even to this point, let that Word be acknowledged as worthy and continuous for thanksgiving and hymns—He who is most perfect and living, and is the animate Word of the first Mind. But let this, our own discourse, be a thanksgiving for all men, most especially to this holy man. And if I should wish to speak further of things not seen, yet more divine, and of those who have concern for men, to this one who, from my childhood, by some great judgment, was allotted to administer, to nurture, and to tutor me—the holy angel of God ^C who feeds me from my youth, as that man dear to God says, meaning, of course, his own—he indeed, being great, was aware of and praised some appropriately great one (either some other, whoever that may be, or perhaps the Angel of the great counsel Himself, the common Savior of all, having been allotted Him as guardian, through perfection alone—that I do not know clearly). But as for his own "great one," whoever he may be, he both recognized and proclaimed him.

We, however, besides the common Governor of all men, recognize also this one, whoever he is, as privately our tutor, being as we are children and infants; who, while being in all other respects ^D a good nurturer and guardian for me (not for me, nor for any of my friends—for we are blind and see nothing of what is before us so as to be able to judge what is necessary, but to Him who sees everything beforehand for the benefit of our soul, it appears to be beneficial) has, both long ago and even now...

nourished, educated, and led me by the hand. ^A And, in addition to all else, He arranged that I should be joined to this man—a thing surely the greatest of all—and live with him, a man who was neither by lineage nor by any blood-tie related to me, nor otherwise a kinsman, a neighbor, or a fellow-countryman at all (which are the bonds of love and union that usually exist among most men), but, to speak collectively, we were total strangers, aliens, foreigners, separated from one another by a vast distance, as much as lands, mountains, and rivers keep us apart. Yet, by His truly divine and wise providence, He brought us to the same place and brought about this meeting which was to be my salvation; procuring this for me, I believe, from my very birth and upbringing. ^B How, however, it came to pass would be a long story to recount, not only if I were to pursue everything accurately and try to omit nothing, but even if I were to pass over many things and merely wished to summarize a few of the most important points.

V. For my first education from birth was under the care of my parents, and involved ancestral customs that were erroneous; and that I would be delivered from these, I think no one else had expected, nor indeed was there any hope for me, being as I was still a child and devoid of reason, under a superstitious father. Then followed the loss of my father and the state of being an orphan: which was perhaps ^C for me the beginning of the knowledge of the truth. For then, for the first time, I was brought to the saving and true Word, I know not how—compelled, perhaps, rather than willing. For what judgment could I have, being only fourteen years old? Nevertheless, from that time, this sacred Word began to come to me, as if by the common reason of all men, now perfected; it came, certainly, at that first moment. This, indeed, I do not consider a small thing, for even if I did not ^D consider it so at the time, now that I reflect upon it, I take it as a sign of the holy and admirable Providence concerning me—this sequence of events, so measured by the years, that all things preceding this age, all the works of error, might be attributed to infancy and the lack of reason; that the sacred Word might not be given in vain to a soul not yet reaching the capacity of reason; and that when it had already become capable of reason, even if not yet of divine and pure reason, at least of the fear in accordance with that reason, it should not be destitute of it; but that at once the human and the divine Word might begin within me: the latter assisting with a power surely inexplicable to me, but proper to Himself; the former being assisted. While I reflect upon this, I am filled with both joy and fear: joy, certainly, at the progress; but fearing, lest having been affected by such great benefits, I should nonetheless fall short of the goal. But I know not how, in this part, while I desired to narrate the admirable dispensation of our journey to this man, my speech has been delayed by a longer digression: though it was in haste, even with a few words, to move quickly on to what follows, not as the praise owed to Him who thus arranged it

^A nor as the thanksgiving and piety (for we are not being importunate in calling them such, nor are we stating what is unworthy, as if we brought nothing to the table), but as a simple narrative and confession, or by employing some of the more modest names for these things. It seemed good to her who alone survived of my parents, my mother, who took care of us, that I should be imbued with other letters, such as children of noble birth and upbringing are accustomed to, and should attend a rhetor, as if we were to become rhetoricians. And indeed we did attend, and those who were judging at that time said that we would not be rhetoricians for long. I, however, neither know how to say this, nor would I wish to; for there was no reason for these things, nor was there yet any foundation of the causes that could bring us hither. But that vigilant divine pedagogue and true guardian, when neither those at home were considering it, nor I myself was desiring it, was present and, having suggested it to one of my teachers (who had otherwise been entrusted with training me in the Latin tongue—not that I might reach its summit, but that I might not be entirely ignorant and unacquainted with this language; and he happened to be not unskilled in the laws), having cast this into his mind, he urged me through him to learn the laws of the Romans. And that man did this insistently, and I indeed complied, rather to gratify the man than because I was a lover of the art. And he, having received me as a student, began with great zeal to teach me; but he also uttered something ^B which, in reality, proved most true for me, namely, that the study of the laws would be the greatest provision for me (for that is the name he called it), whether I might wish to be one of the rhetoricians who contend in the courts, or anyone else. He spoke thus, directing his speech to human affairs; but to me it seems that, by some more divine inspiration, he had prophesied this, beyond his own understanding. For after I had been instructed, whether I would or no, in these laws, soon there was cast, as it were, a certain bond, cause, and occasion for coming to these regions—the city of the Berytians; for that city, being not far from here, is in a way more Roman and is believed to be a school of these laws. And as for this holy man, other things were drawing and transferring him from Egypt, from the city of the Alexandrians, where he formerly had his home, to this place, as if he were about to meet us there. I, for my part, do not know how to provide a balanced explanation of these events, and I will gladly pass over them; yet, not even now has ^C

the necessity of coming hither, so far ^A as concerns our laws, been as great as the possibility it afforded for traveling to the city of the Romans. How, then, was this also brought about? A husband of my sister, a relative by marriage, who was at that time the governor of the Palestinians, suddenly took him, though he was unwilling and separated only from the woman who slept by his side, and brought him hither, that he might share in the burdens of the ruler of that nation; for he was a jurist, and perhaps still is. He, having come, was destined not long after to receive his wife, for whom he grievingly longed, she being summoned, and he intended to draw us along with her.

Suddenly, then—I know not how—while we were planning to travel abroad, but to a place other than these regions, a soldier arrived with orders to conduct our sister to her husband, who was coming, and to bring us along as her traveling companions; he was doing a favor not only to our kinsman, but especially to our sister (so that she might be neither less decorous nor too reluctant toward the journey), an honor paid by the servants themselves and their relatives. And we were encouraged by no small matter, if we were to go to the city of Berytus, to complete our study of the laws there. ^B Therefore, everything moved us: the duty toward our sister, and our own studies; furthermore, the soldier—since this, too, must be mentioned—brought authorization for the use of more public vehicles than were needed, and provided warrants of a greater number than just for our sister.

And these things, indeed, were manifest; but the hidden things, yet more true, were our association with this man, the true knowledge and doctrine of the Word through him, and the benefit to our souls unto salvation. This led us, though we were blind and ignorant, by a salutary plan. Wherefore, it was not a soldier, but some divine traveling companion and a good leader and guardian, who protects us throughout this whole life as if through a long pilgrimage; and by passing over other things, and even Berytus, which we thought we most desired, he led us here straightway and settled us here, doing and moving all things, ^C so that he might bind us with all his might to this man who is the cause of so many good things for us. And he indeed—the divine angel who had come for the sake of these things, entrusting his care to this man—perhaps rested here, not broken by any toil or labor (for the race of divine ministers is tireless), but because he had handed us over to a man who would fulfill every providence and care that could be applied.

VI. The Initiation into Philosophy

VI. But as for him, having received us from the first day, which truly dawned for me as the first of all days, if it must be said, and the most honorable of all, when the true ^D sun first began to rise for me, he began from the first, as if taming some wild beasts...

or fish, or birds ^A that had fallen into his nets or seines, yet were striving to slip away and escape, and were wishing to withdraw from him towards Berytus or towards their homeland; he contrived by every means to bind them fast, turning every argument, and moving every cable (as the proverb goes), and bringing to bear all his powers. He was praising the lovers of philosophy with many and fitting praises, saying that they alone truly live the life that befits those endowed with reason—those who practice living rightly, and who know themselves—first, who they are, and then the truly good things that a man must pursue, and the truly evil things from which he must flee. On the other hand, he was blaming ignorance and all the ignorant—and this is a very large crowd, all those who, like cattle, with blinded minds, not even knowing what they are, wander about just as if they were irrational creatures, neither knowing themselves what good or evil is ^B, nor wishing to learn, but rushing and panting after what they think is good: money, glory, honors from the multitude, and bodily well-being. Holding these to be of great, or rather of absolute importance, along with the arts that can provide them, and the kinds of life that offer them—military service, law, and the learning of the laws—these, he said (and very appropriately), are what make us most idle and ignorant, for they disregard the reason that ought to rule within us. I cannot now say how many such utterances he made, exhorting us to philosophize; not for one day only, but for many, as often as we came to him from the start, being struck as with an arrow ^C by his word from the very first (for it was compounded with a certain sweet grace and persuasiveness, and at the same time with a certain necessity), yet still wavering and of doubtful mind, desiring indeed to philosophize, but not yet entirely persuaded and convinced, and yet, I do not know how, unable to depart, being always drawn towards him by his words as if by some greater necessity. For he asserted that it was not even possible for anyone at all to be pious towards the Lord of all—a thing which man alone of all living creatures on earth has been honored and deemed worthy to possess, and which every single person, both wise and ignorant, rightly clings to, unless they have completely lost their senses through some mental derangement—he declared, therefore, that it was not even possible to be pious at all without having philosophized. And by pouring out many such arguments, one upon another, ^D as if enchanting us, he finally fixed us firmly to his own skills in a way that is hard to explain, guiding us by his words, I know not how, with some divine power. For he also implanted in us a goad of friendship that was not easily overcome, but sharp and very irresistible, because of his skill and good disposition, as much as was favorable to us in his very words.

^A For he did not attempt to entrap us with words, but rather, with a right, humane, and most noble intention, he strove both to save us and to make us partakers, not only of those goods derived from philosophy, but especially of those others, which God granted to him alone, above most—or perhaps above all—men who are now living: I mean the master of piety, the saving Word. It is a Word that visits many and works upon all whom it encounters (for there is nothing that can resist him who is King of all, both present and to come); yet it is hidden, and is not known by the many either easily or with difficulty, such that they might, if questioned, be able to speak clearly about it. As a spark, therefore, which had fallen into the midst of our soul, there was kindled and inflamed twofold: both the love for the sacred and most lovable Word Himself, who by an ineffable beauty draws all to Himself, and the love for this man, His friend and interpreter. Struck most vehemently by this, I persuaded myself to spurn all things and studies that seemed appropriate to us—both other matters and even my own excellent laws; and I spurned my country and kinsfolk, both those present and those from whom I had departed. And one thing alone seemed to me desirable and lovable: philosophy and its guide, this divine man. ^B "And the soul of Jonathan was knit to the soul of David" [I Reg. xviii, 1]. This I read later in the holy Scriptures, but I had experienced it before just as clearly as it was declared, though it had been prophesied most clearly. For not simply was Jonathan knit to David, but those very things which occupy the preeminent place, their souls—things which, even when the visible and manifest parts of a man are separated, could not be forced by any device to be separated, and certainly not against their will. For the soul is something free and in no way to be enclosed, not even if you keep it confined in a small cell. For it is its natural state to be, primarily, where the mind is; and if it seems to you to be in a cell, it is only appearing there in a certain secondary sense. It is in no way prohibited by this from being wherever it might wish to be; rather, it is able, and is rightly believed, to be truly and entirely where its own unique activities are occurring. Wherefore, that which happened to me, the Scripture declared in very few words, saying that the soul of Jonathan was knit to the soul of David; ^C these, I say, which cannot be separated against their will in any way, yet would not easily consent to be separated willingly. For the power of dissolving these sacred bonds of love, I suppose, does not reside in the inferior person—who was varied in his ways and more prone to change, and in whom there was not even any power of binding at the start—but in the better person, who was constant and ^D immovable, and in whom it was more suitable that these bonds and this sacred knitting should be wrought. Thus, the soul of Jonathan was knit to the soul of David by the divine word—no, not the soul of David to the soul of

Jonathan; but, on the contrary, the soul of the inferior is said to be knit to the soul of David. For the superior part, being self-sufficient, would not choose to be bound to the inferior; but it was necessary that the inferior, which stands in need of the help of the better, should be knit and attached to the superior, so that the former, remaining in itself, might receive no harm from fellowship with the inferior, while the latter—which was of itself disordered—might be bound and fitted to the superior, and, doing it no harm, might be conquered by the ties of these bonds and drawn to the superior. Therefore, it was the part of the more excellent to create the bonds, not the inferior; but it was the part of the ^A inferior, ^B however, to be attached; and this indeed in such a way that it could in no manner release itself from these bonds. With such shackles of necessity this David of ours, having tightened his hold upon us, keeps us captive from that time, so that not even if we wished could we be able to free ourselves from his bonds. Therefore, even if we should depart, he will not let our souls go, which, according to the divine Scripture, he thus holds knit together.

VII. How he won us over from the beginning, and trained us by his husbandry.

^C VII. But since he had thus won us over from the beginning and hemmed us in on every side—since what was superior was already made perfect, and we were pleased to remain with him—thereafter, just as some good husbandman finding a plot of land idle and vacant, and not altogether fertile, but rather salty and scorched, and choked with rocks and sand; or perhaps not entirely sterile and unproductive, but naturally excellent yet uncultivated and neglected, bristling with thorns and wild thickets and difficult to work; or, as some planter finding a wild plant or tree, one that brings forth no sweet fruit, yet is not entirely useless, but, by his horticultural skill, brings a branch of a cultivated tree, and splitting the middle, then joining and binding it, until they ^D grow together as one (for so you might see a mixed tree, one that is bastard indeed but fruitful, having been made fertile from the unfruitful, nourishing the fruits of a fine olive tree upon wild roots; or again, a wild tree rendered not useless by the industrious husbandman; or finally, a cultivated one, fertile indeed in other respects but, for lack of skill, unpruned and unwatered and dry, choked by the many superfluous sprouts that grow upon it, and perfected by the pruning and germination, and giving fruit which previously was hindered by the redundant growth)—taking us for such as these, and by his own agricultural skill going about and observing, not only the things manifested to all and visible on the surface, but also digging deeper and testing the innermost parts, asking questions and setting forth propositions, and listening to our answers; as soon as he perceived there was in us something not unfruitful nor useless nor futile, he would dig, turn, water, move everything, applying all his skill and care from his own treasury, and began to work us diligently; the thorns and thistles and every kind of wild herb or plant, as much as our soul, when stirred up, sent forth and delivered in its wildness...

he cut away and rooted out, through reproof and restraint. Sometimes, in the Socratic manner, he would cleverly nettle us; at other times, he would overthrow us with his discourse, wherever he saw us, like wild horses, kicking against the bit, leaping off the path, and racing about at random, until through a certain persuasion and necessity—as with a bridle—he rendered us quiet and obedient to his own word. This was indeed troublesome to us, and did not happen without pain at the beginning, as he applied his discourses to us and purged us, unused as we were and not yet taught to obey reason. But when he had rendered us fit and had duly prepared us to receive the discourses of truth, then, as if we were a well-tilled and soft earth ready to return the seeds cast into it, he bestowed the sowing of seeds in abundance. He exercised at the same time all ^A the rest of the cultivation, working each thing in appropriate ways, sharpening and refining whatever was dull or spurious in the soul—whether born so or thickened by the superfluous nourishment of the body—by means of the subtle discourses and methods of proper affections. These things, having unfolded from the most simple first principles, one from another, and turned in various ways, advanced into a certain admirable and inexplicable texture, awakening us as if from sleep, and teaching us to stand always by the matter at hand, and in no way to slip, neither through length nor through subtlety.

^B Furthermore, whatever was without judgment and headlong in us—whether by assenting to things that were merely obvious, whatever they might be, even if they happened to be false; or by often contradicting, even when certain things said were true—he would chastise and correct this again, both by the discourses we have mentioned and by other diverse discourses (for this kind of philosophy is manifold and varied). He accustomed us not to cast our assent rashly or as chance might have it, and afterwards to deny it, but to examine diligently not only open things, but also hidden ones. For many things, shining and reputable in themselves, having stolen into our ears under plausible words as if they were true, when they were in fact treacherous and false, managed to snatch from us a vote of truth; yet not long after, they were detected to be unsound and unworthy of trust, vainly pretending to be the truth; and they proved us to have been easily and ridiculously deceived, and to have testified rashly to things that ought not to have been affirmed. On the other hand, other things [were] truly honest and not at all deceptive, but, not being expressed in persuasive words, seemed paradoxical and altogether unbelievable at first sight, and were rejected as false and undeservedly exploded with insults; yet later, upon those who considered and investigated them more accurately, they were recognized as being the most true of all and greater than any exception, though but a little before they were thought to be such as should be rejected and condemned. He taught us not only to examine the open and prominent things—which are sometimes fallacious and painted over—but also, by exploring and penetrating every interior part, that nothing decayed should

^A be concealed. Thus, then, was that part of our soul which exercises judgment regarding words and discourse trained in a rational manner; not according to the judgments of fine rhetoricians—as to whether something in the expression is Greek or barbarian (that small and unnecessary piece of learning)—but rather [was trained in] that which is most necessary for all, Greeks and barbarians alike, the wise and the simple, and, in a word, that I may not make a long speech by going through individual arts and pursuits, for all men, whoever they may be, who have chosen any manner of life: since it is a matter of care and concern for all who converse about anything whatsoever, not to be deceived.

VIII. Nor was this the only part that dialectic alone ^B was allotted to correct. Rather, that humble part of our soul—which was astonished indeed at the magnificence, the miraculous nature, and the varied and all-wise creation of the world, and which used to wonder without reason, and was struck with abject fear, and was unable to calculate anything at all, like brute beasts—he would awaken and lift up through other, natural, sciences. Explaining and distinguishing each of the things that exist, and resolving them very clearly into their primary elements, and weaving them together with reason, ^C and inquiring into the nature of the whole and of each part, as well as the manifold conversion and change of things in the world; until, through the clear teaching he provided and the arguments he had both learned and discovered, he brought us, regarding the sacred dispensation of the whole and the immaculate nature of God, to possess in our souls a rational wonder in place of an irrational one. This high and divine instruction, which is most beloved of all, is what physics teaches. What need is there to speak of the sacred mathematical sciences: geometry, which is dear and indubitable to all, and astronomy, which travels the heights? Each of these he would imprint upon our souls, whether teaching them or calling them to mind—I do not know what one should call it—setting geometry before us as the foundation of all things simply, and as a safe and unshakable base; and, through astronomy, ^D leading us up to the highest things, as if by some ladder reaching to the heavens, making the sky accessible to us through the work of both sciences.

IX. But what is by far the greatest of all, and for the sake of which the entire philosophical race labors—gathering good fruits as if from the varied planting of all the other sciences and the long study of philosophy—are the divine virtues regarding character, from which the tranquil and stable condition of the soul’s impulses arises. He strove to make us truly happy and godlike, free from sorrow and unaffected by any evils, and steady and composed. And he accomplished this and brought it about, both through his own proper discourses—which were gentle and learned and no less necessary, which he delivered concerning our morals and ways of life—and truly not

^A by words alone, but already also by deeds, he governed our impulses; by the very contemplation and knowledge of the movements of the soul and of its perturbations, from which, when it is most thoroughly understood, our soul is naturally disposed to be set straight from disorder and to be transformed from its confused state into one that is judged and well-ordered. So that, contemplating itself as if in a mirror (the very principles and roots of evils, all that in it which is irrational, from which absurd passions rise up against us; and again, the best portion of it, the rational [part], under whose control it remains—so far as it lies within itself—intact and free from passion); and then, examining these things accurately within itself, it might discard and put to flight all those things which arise from the worse [part]—which either offend us through intemperance, or contract and stifle us through dejection of spirit, such as pleasures and desires, or sorrows and fears, and the whole throng of evils that follows upon these kinds—meeting them while they are still beginning and just being born, and not allowing them even to grow in the slightest degree, but destroying and blotting them out on the spot. But those goods which spring up for us from the better [part], these it might nourish and cherish, suckling them as they begin and preserving them until they ^B reach perfection. For thus might the divine virtues eventually be born in the soul: prudence, which is first able to discern these very movements of the soul from themselves, and which becomes a knowledge of the good and evil things that are external to us, if there be any such; and temperance, the power which rightly chooses these things at their beginning; and justice, which assigns to each what is fitting; and its preserver of all these, fortitude. He did not, therefore, accustom us with words which might announce and profess that prudence is a knowledge of good and evil, or of things to be done and not to be done; for that is a hollow and useless discipline if words lack deeds, and that prudence is vain which does not do the things that ought to be done, nor deter us from those things which ought not to be done, but merely supplies the knowledge of these to those who possess it, such as we see ^C to be very many. Nor, again, [did he teach that] temperance is some sort of knowledge of things to be chosen or avoided—a thing which the other philosophers, and especially the moderns, do not teach very much, who are indeed strenuous and strong in words (such as I have often admired when they would demonstrate that the same virtue belongs to God and to men, and that the wise man on earth is in the highest degree like unto God); nor, indeed, are they able to impart prudence, so that someone might do the things of prudence, nor temperance, so that he might choose the things he has learned; and they dispute just as vainly concerning justice and fortitude. Not so did he discourse to us about the virtues by words alone, but he exhorted us rather to works; and he exhorted us more by works and deeds than by what he said.

X. I ask, however, the philosophers who are now, as many as I myself have known, and as many as I have heard of from the reports of ^D others

from those I heard; and let other men, too, receive what is now being said by us with an equitable mind. Let no one suspect ^A that I say these things out of love for the man or hatred towards the rest of the philosophers (whom, if anyone else does, I myself desire to love for their discourses, and to praise, and to hear others speaking most beautifully of them; but their concerns are such that the very name of philosophy is brought into the utmost contempt by almost everyone; and I, for my part, would almost choose to be completely unlearned than to learn any of those things which they profess—to whom, for the rest of my life, I deemed it unworthy even to approach; perhaps, though, thinking not rightly in this). But let no one assume I say these things out of any ambition—whether for the praises devoted to the man, or for this other ambition 92 regarding external philosophers—but rather let him be persuaded that I am speaking even of things smaller than his deeds, so that I might not appear to fawn, ^B not seeking out words and names and artful occasions for praise; I, who not even when a youth, being taught popular rhetoric by a rhetor, could bring myself to pursue the praises of anyone that were not true. Wherefore, not even now, purposing simply to praise, do I think he ought to be extolled by the disparagement of others. And I should certainly be acting unjustly toward the man if, using the faults of others so as to have something greater to say about him, I were to compare his blessed life; I am not so senseless. But what has happened to me, without any contention or artifice of speech, I shall confess.

XI. This man, first and alone, urged me to apply myself to the philosophy of the Greeks, persuading me by his own morals ^C to hear and to endure the discourse concerning morals, by which I had not been persuaded—so far as concerned the other philosophers (again I confess)—not rightly, indeed, but unfortunately, almost, for us. Yet, 95 I did not encounter many at the beginning, but a few who professed to be teachers, but who established philosophy only as far as words. But this man, first of all, urged me to philosophize also with my words, having anticipated his verbal exhortation with his deeds, not merely announcing rehearsed words, but not even deeming it worthy to speak unless he did so with a sincere mind and one striving ^D to execute the things that were spoken, or striving to show himself to be such as he described the one who is to live well to be; proposing, I wished to say, a pattern of a wise man. But since the discourse from the beginning promised us truth, not pomp and ornament, I do not yet call him a pattern of a wise man (although I desire to say it, and that it be true) 97; but I leave this now.

It is not, then, an absolute example, but one who was very desirous of being made like unto him, and who exerted himself with all diligence and readiness, if it be lawful to say it, even beyond the power of men; and who, in truth, even fashioned us into such men 98—not those who are masters of words and learned in the things concerning the motions of the soul, but those who are masters of the motions themselves—calling 99 us to deeds and words, and bestowing upon us in that very contemplation not a small part of every virtue, but perhaps the entire share, if we were able to receive it.

He compelled us, so to speak, to act righteously, ^B by the example of his own private conduct (if it be lawful to say it); and he persuaded us to adhere to this, withdrawing us entirely from many of the cares of life and the tumult of the forum, and raising us up to examine ourselves and truly to attend to the things that are our own. That this is to act righteously, and that this is true justice, some of the ancient philosophers have also affirmed (naming it "the doing of one's own"), and it seems to me both more effective for blessedness, both for themselves and for those who approach them; since it is the characteristic of this virtue to distribute to each according to their desert, ^C and to give each person their own. For what could be more peculiar to the soul, or what so worthy and becoming, as to care for itself—not looking without, nor doing the business of others, nor, to sum it up, doing itself the greatest injustice, but turned inward toward itself, rendering to itself its own, and in every way acting justly?

In this way, then, he taught us to act justly, even forcing us, if one may say so. No less did he instruct us to be prudent, to be with ourselves, and to desire and strive to know ourselves; for this is indeed the most excellent work of philosophy, which is even attributed to the most prophetic of the demons as a most wise commandment: "Know thyself." That this is indeed the work of prudence, and that this is divine prudence, is well said by the ancients; that it is the very same virtue of God and man, when the soul itself strives to see itself as in a mirror, and if it should become worthy of this communion, to represent within itself the divine mind, and to search out some indescribable way of this deification.

^D Consequently, he taught us also to be sober-minded and to be courageous; to be sober-minded, in that the soul preserves this prudence, knowing itself, if ever such a state might be theirs—for this is again what sobriety is, a certain safe prudence—and to be courageous towards truth, if one must say the truth, the truth itself.

^A And in like manner to live temperately and also courageously: temperately indeed, by preserving this same self-knowledge of the soul, if ever it should fall to it—for this again is temperance, which is a certain prudent preserve—and courageously, by persisting in all the aforementioned duties and never swerving or deflecting from them, either of one's own accord or by any necessity, but clinging to all things, as they have been spoken, and guarding them, since he taught that this virtue is a guardian and protector.

^B XII. And indeed, to make us just and prudent or temperate and courageous—such as we are, through our own sloth and sluggishness—though he exerted every effort, he could not yet accomplish, for we possess no virtue of man or God, nor have we even come near to one; we are very far away, for these are the greatest and highest, and neither can be compared, nor is it lawful for anyone to attain them unless God has certainly breathed the power into him. We, for our part, are not naturally so well-disposed, nor do we even yet claim to be worthy of attaining them, as we have not done from sheer idleness and weakness all the things that those who desire the best and strive for perfection ought to do. We are, then, not yet just, or temperate, or possessed of any other of the virtues; but as for being lovers, loving with the most ardent love—which perhaps was the only thing that could be granted by him—this, that admirable friend and herald of the virtues has long since brought about. He infused into us love for his own virtue, and for the beauty of justice, whose truly golden face he showed to us; and for that prudence desirable to all, and most lovely true wisdom; and for that most excellent temperance, which is the soul's stability and peace to all who possess it; and for that most admirable courage; for our endurance; and, above all, for piety, which they rightly say is the mother of the virtues. ^C For this is the beginning and the end of all the virtues; for when we set out from this, the other virtues would most easily come to us. If, desiring and hastening to acquire for ourselves what every man, provided he is not godless or fond of pleasure, ought to prepare for himself—namely, to be a friend and familiar of God—we should take care of the remaining virtues, so that we might not be unworthy and defiled, but rather, with all virtue and wisdom, as if under some good guide and most wise priest, draw near to God. I consider the end of all things to be nothing other than to approach God, having been conformed to the likeness of a pure mind, and to remain in Him.

The name proper to this health is temperance, which produces within the man of understanding the salvation of what is in us.

^A XIII. Now, besides all other industry and study, how can I express in words the teaching and reverence regarding theology, and how he entered into the very disposition of the man, and with what intent and preparation he desired us to learn all the accounts regarding the Divine, taking care lest we should anywhere be in danger concerning the most necessary thing of all, the knowledge of the Author of all? For he required us to philosophize by gathering together all the writings of the ancients, both philosophers and poets, and to reject nothing at all, and to repudiate nothing (for we were not yet able to have the power of judging), except for those things which were the work of atheists, who, departing from the common sense of men, deny that there is a God or Providence (for these are not even worthy of being read, lest by any chance our soul, which ought to cultivate piety, be defiled by listening to words that are repugnant to the service of God. For neither do those who approach the temples for the sake of piety, as they suppose, believe it right to handle anything profane at all. Therefore, the books of such as these ought not to be numbered at all among those who profess piety). But he believed that the rest of the writings should be unrolled and read in such a way that no one kind of book or scholarly discourse should be preferred, ^B and conversely none rejected, whether it be Greek or barbarian, but that all should be heard. This was wise and very cleverly done, so that no single opinion of this or that person, once heard and held in high regard—even if it should not happen to be true—might, as if it were the only truth, slip into our soul, deceive it, and, claiming us for itself, so affect us that we could neither depart from it nor wash it away, like wool that has been dyed with some indelible color. For human speech is a vehement and slippery thing, varied with sophistries and fallacies, so that when it has entered the ears, it quickly inserts and engraves upon the mind what it wishes; and those whom it has once occupied, it fully persuades to cherish it as true. ^C Thus it sticks within, however false and deceptive it may be, and like some prestidigitator, it holds sway, defended and protected by the guard of the very person it has deceived. On the other hand, the human mind is prone to receive the fraud of speech, and is headlong and ready for assent; and before it can judge and explore everything in every way, whether on account of its own dullness and weakness, or because of the subtlety of the speech itself, it grows weary of the exact examination and often surrenders itself too easily to false words and doctrines, which, while being led astray, ^D are made to appear like the truth.

^A XIV. For what else is the cause that has brought in contrary and clashing opinions, and the contentions of philosophers, while some oppose the doctrines of others, some cling tenaciously to their own, and others prefer to pursue still others? And yet all wish to philosophize, and they declare this from the moment they first set out, asserting that they have no less desire for it now, while engaged in the disputes themselves, than when they first began; nay, rather, that they are held by a more intense zeal for philosophy now that they have had a taste of it (so to speak) and have spent time in study, than when they were first inexperienced and were caught up by a certain impulse to philosophize. They say these things, but they no longer obey the words ^B of any who hold differing views. Thus, no one among the ancients has persuaded any of the younger generation, or those of the Peripatetic school, to turn to him and study his philosophy, nor vice versa, nor, in short, has anyone persuaded anyone else. For no one can easily be induced to change his opinion and assent to those of others—even to those very doctrines to which, if one had been persuaded to look into them before beginning to philosophize, one would have at the first most readily assented, since the soul would not yet have been preoccupied, and would not yet have admitted other things. Nay, once it is possessed by its first opinions, it does not even rest content in them, but on their account it resists those things which it now holds as true and possesses. ^C Such is the philosophy that our excellent, most eloquent, and most inquisitive Greeks have presented to us: each of them, led by a certain impulse, says that what he first happened upon is alone the truth, and regards everything else belonging to other philosophers as deceit and nonsense; even though he himself confirms his own views no better than all the others defend their own, lest he should have to depart from his position and be compelled by force or persuasion to change his mind. Indeed, he has no other reason (if one must tell the truth) for this attraction ^D to these dogmas and tenets—which he believes are true—than a blind impulse toward philosophy, and a judgment of what he thinks is his own.

^A For each person loves those things upon which he happened first, and, being as it were bound by them, is no longer able to pay attention to others; and if he should happen to have anything to say with a demonstration of the truth of his own arguments on all matters, and how to show that those of his opponents are false—aided by his own reasoning, since even if he is unaided, having abandoned himself and delivering himself to 19 rashly as though to a windfall—he has pledged himself to the arguments that seized him first. ^B And these [arguments], while they deceive their followers in other matters, do so most of all in the greatest and most necessary thing of all, namely, in the knowledge of God and in piety. And yet they remain bound to them in a certain way, and no one could easily rescue them, just as from a marsh in a vast, impassable plain, which no longer lets those who have fallen in turn back or cross over and escape, but holds them fast within it until the end; or just as from a deep, thick, and tall forest, into which a traveler has entered, as though he would soon come out of it again and return to the open plain, but because of its length and density he cannot—for turning himself in all directions and finding continuous paths within, he wanders through these and those, as if he were about to find an exit through one of them; but they lead only to the interior, and nowhere lead out, as they are paths only of the forest itself: wherefore the traveler, weary at last and despairing, as if all things were forest and no other habitation remained on earth, decides to remain there and settle his home, procuring for himself, as far as he is able, space in the forest. ^C Or, finally, as from a labyrinth, to which, when a single entrance appears, no one, suspecting nothing treacherous from what is outside, enters through the visible gate; then, having progressed to the very interior, after he has contemplated the ingenious and skillful workmanship, accessible in every direction and woven and fashioned with continuous entrances and exits, he desires to get out but is by no means able, intercepted by the structure which he had judged to be ingenious. Furthermore, there is no labyrinth so difficult to explain and varied, nor forest, however dense and varied, nor field or marsh ^D that retains those who have fallen into it and entered it, as does the discourse, if any such discourse of certain philosophers should lay hold of them. In order, therefore, that we might not suffer the same fate as the many, he did not lead [us] to any one of the philosophers' arguments.

^A And he would enter along with us, leading the way and guiding us by the hand, as if on a journey, if ever we should chance upon anything crooked, treacherous, or sophistical; like a skilled craftsman, who, out of long use and exercise in philosophizing, has found nothing to be unusual or untried, while remaining himself on safe ground and reaching out a hand to others, drawing them up as if they were drowning. Thus, whatever was useful and true among each of the philosophers he would gather and set before us, while culling out whatever was false; and in other matters too, and especially those things that are proper to human piety.

XV. ^B Exhorting us to pay no attention to these matters, not even if someone were to be testified to by all men as most wise, but to pay attention only to God and to his prophets; while he himself acted as an interpreter ^C and explained whatever was dark and enigmatical (as there is much that is so in the sacred utterances; whether it is thus pleasing to God to converse with men, so that the divine Word might not enter naked and uncovered into an unworthy soul, whereof there are many; or whether by nature every divine oracle is most clear and most simple, but to us who have departed from God and have unlearned how to listen through time and antiquity, it appears obscure and dark, I cannot say); yet, explaining and bringing to light, whether they happen to be enigmas—being a skilled and most intelligent listener to God—or whether they have by nature nothing crooked or incomprehensible to him, since he alone of the men now living—of those whom I myself have known or have heard of from others—after meditating on the pure nature of the oracles, is able to perceive them in his mind and teach others; since He who is the Prince of all, who suggests and inspires every prophecy and mystical and divine word to the prophets dear to God, has honored him as a friend and established him as an interpreter: teaching through him those things which He had only hinted at through others. And whatever he, being most trustworthy, either commanded in a kingly manner or even declared, He granted to him the power to investigate and discover their reasons: so that if anyone happens to be hard-hearted ^D and faithless, or even one desirous of learning, by learning from him, he might be compelled, in a certain way, to understand and to choose to believe, and to follow God. And he declares these things not otherwise, I believe, than in communion with the divine Spirit; for the same power is needed by those who prophesy and by those who hear the prophets; and no one could grasp a prophet, to whom the very Spirit who prophesied did not grant the understanding of His own words. Such is the power contained

^A in the holy Scriptures as well: that the divine Word alone, who shuts, also opens; and he who opens, clears up what was locked, explaining the riddles. This greatest of gifts he received from God, and a truly beautiful portion from heaven, to be an interpreter of God’s words to men, to understand the things of God as God speaking, and to narrate them to men, so that men might hear. Therefore nothing was unspoken to us, for it was not hidden nor inaccessible; but it was possible to learn every word, both barbarian and Greek, and mystical and political, and divine and human, with all boldness exploring and investigating everything, and being filled with all things, and enjoying the goods of the soul; whether it was some ancient lesson of truth, ^B or if one might wish to name it by another name, we had in him the wonderful and full store and authority of the most beautiful sights. And (to speak in summary) this was truly for us a paradise, a copy of the great paradise of God, in which it was not permitted to till the earth below, nor to grow fat on the nourishment of the body; but only to increase the soul’s own advantages, like certain beautiful trees planted by ourselves, or implanted in us by the Author of all, rejoicing and delighting ourselves.

XVI. A True Paradise of Pleasure

This is truly a paradise of pleasure, this is the true gladness and delight in which we have luxuriated during the time that has passed, and that over no small period; yet one altogether small, if our end is to be here as we migrate and depart from this place. For I know not by what misfortune of mine, or sin, I am departing again, I am being cast out. What to say, I know not; save that, like another Adam, I have begun to speak ^C outside of paradise. How rightly I was living, hearing the teacher speak, and keeping silent; as I ought to have remained silent even now, I was learning by being silent; but this was no new spectacle, in which I would make the teacher himself the auditor. For what need had I of these words? Why also to address him with such things, when it was my duty not to depart, but to persist? But these faults seem akin to the ancient deceit, and those penalties of old still await me. Am I not seen to be recalcitrant and resisting again, daring to transgress the voice of God, when I ought to have insisted and remained in it? But as for my departing, fleeing from this blessed life, I am none the less ^D that old man of long ago fleeing from the face of God, and returning to the earth from which

I was taken ^A. I shall therefore eat of the earth all the days of my life there, and I shall till the earth, and it shall bring forth thorns and thistles for me—my sorrows and these disgraceful cares—bereft of noble and good-hearted concerns. And returning again to those things which I have left behind, to the earth whence I departed, and to my kindred below, and to the house of my father; leaving behind the good land, where the good fatherland that was mine had long been unknown to me, and kinsmen whom, though they were familiar to my soul, I only began to know later; and the house of our true Father, in which the Father remains, and is reverently honored and worshipped by the true sons who desire to dwell in it.

But I, void of piety and gravity, depart from these things, turning my eyes and my steps backward. ^B It is said that a certain son, having received from his father the portion of the inheritance falling to him, along with another brother, departed from the father into a far country, having desired this. Living profligately, he squandered the paternal estate and completely wasted it; and finally, pressed by need, he hired himself out to herd swine. Forced by famine, he desired to share in the food of the swine, yet could not even obtain that. He paid the penalty, therefore, for his profligate life, having exchanged the paternal table—that royal and splendid board—for swine’s food, and the food of servitude, which he had not before looked upon. A similar fate seems likely to befall us if we depart, though not even with our proper and full inheritance. For even without having received what was meet, we nonetheless depart, leaving behind with you and near you that which is good and dear, while exchanging it for all that is worse. ^C For all that is gloomy shall receive us: tumult and confusion instead of peace, and a restless and turbulent life instead of a tranquil and orderly one; and instead of this liberty, grievous slavery, marketplaces, lawsuits, and crowds; and luxury, and no leisure left to us for better things, not even in the slightest. We shall no longer speak the divine oracles; we shall speak of the deeds of men (a thing which, indeed, was considered by a prophet to be even a terrible thing), and we, truly, of the deeds of evil men. It is night indeed instead of day; darkness instead of clear light; mourning instead of the festal celebration; ^D and for our fatherland, a hostile soil.

that will receive me, in which it is not permitted for me to sing a sacred song ^A (for how, in a strange land, is it possible for my soul, where those who dwell cannot approach God?), but only to weep and sigh, remembering the things that were here, if indeed even this shall be granted to me. They say that enemies once came upon a great and holy city in which the Divine was worshipped, and dragged away the inhabitants, both singers and theologians, into their own land, which was Babylonia; and those who were brought into it, not even being considered worthy by their masters to sing of the Divine or to chant in a profane land, hung their musical instruments upon the willows, and wept by the rivers of Babylon. I seem to be one of their number, driven by force from this holy city of mine and my fatherland (where, by day and by night, the sacred laws are recited, and hymns, and odes, and mystical discourses; and the light of the sun and the perpetual ^B light of day are present, while we are occupied with divine mysteries, and by night we are possessed by the imagery of those things which the soul saw and did by day [(47)]; and, in short, to speak summarily, where the divinely-inspired possession is constant); from this I am driven forth, brought as a captive into a strange land, where it will not be permitted me to play the flute [(48)], having hung my instrument, just as they did, upon the willows. Rather, I shall be by the rivers, and I shall work in the mud, and I will not desire to sing hymns, remembering; but perhaps, through the long-continued labor of the other, I shall even forget, being despoiled of my memories [(49)]. But if, in departing, I go away not only unwillingly, as captives are wont to do, but even willingly, being attacked not by another, but by myself, when it was possible to remain—perhaps ^C even in departing from here, I shall not travel safely, as one who has left a safe and peaceful city; but it is likely that, as I travel, I shall encounter robbers, and be seized, and having been stripped, I shall be wounded with many blows, and shall lie somewhere half-dead [(50)], abandoned. ^D

^A XVII. But why do I lament these things? The Savior of all is indeed the curator and physician of both the half-dead and those who have been pillaged by robbers, the Word, the vigilant guardian of all men. We also have the seeds which you showed us that we possess, and whatever we have received from you, those noble charges with which we depart—weeping, as we make our journey, yet carrying these seeds with us nonetheless. Perhaps, then, the guardian, standing by, will save us; perhaps we will return to you again, bringing from those seeds both the fruits and the sheaves—not indeed perfect (for how could they be?), but such as we are able to provide from the actions of our daily life, corrupted though they be by the power of either a fruitless or an evil-producing something, yet not to be further corrupted by us ^B if God should assent.

XVIII. Here, then, let my speech end, having been bolder than it ought to have been. But I have spoken gratefully and, if I am not mistaken, according to our strength, saying nothing worthy of the subject, yet not keeping silent altogether; and I have also lamented, as those who are departing from their friends are wont to do. Whether there is anything childish in it, or anything containing flattery, or anything outdated, or anything superfluous, I do not know; but this I do clearly know, that there is nothing here that is feigned, and that it is true in every respect, with a sound mind and a sincere and wholehearted purpose. ^C

XIX. But do you arise, O dear head, and having prayed, send us away now, you who have preserved us while present with your sacred teachings; preserve us also as we depart with your prayers. And truly, deliver and commit ^D us—or rather, commit us to God, who brought us to you; commit us to him who brought us to you