On Himself, to His Father and Basil the Great

ORATIO X. On himself, to his father, and to Basil the Great, after his return from flight.

I. Nothing is stronger than old age, and nothing more venerable than friendship. ^A I have been brought to you by these, bound in Christ, not with chains of iron, but bound with the indissoluble bonds of the Spirit. For some time I thought myself strong and invincible, and—O, the folly!—I did not grant my words even to these, my most loving brothers and friends, in order that I might have leisure and practice philosophy in quiet, having left all things to those who wished for them, and conversing only with myself and the Spirit. I contemplated in my mind the Carmel of Elijah and the wilderness of John, and the heavenly manner of life of those who profess this kind of philosophy; and I considered present affairs to be a storm, and I searched for some rock, or a precipice, or a wall under which I might be sheltered. "Let the honors and the toils be others'," I said; "let the wars and the victories be others'; but for me, let this be sufficient: while fleeing from, wars, and casting my eyes upon myself, to live as I am able, like one crossing a small sea on a narrow raft, and through a poor and meager manner of life, obtaining for myself a small dwelling in the next age." ^B Perhaps this counsel is that of men of low estate, but it is certainly safer for those looking out for themselves; it is, in effect, to stand at an equal interval from both the highest peak and a fall.

II. So far as I was permitted to write these things, I was still able to paint shadows and dreams, and to feed my mind upon empty phantasms. But what now? Friendship has laid hold of me, and the gray hairs of my father have overcome me; a wisdom, I say, white-headed, a deadline of life, a safer harbor, and the friendship of one who is rich in God and makes others rich. For I am already casting off my anger (let the meek hear and be glad); ^C and I gaze with a peaceful countenance upon this hand which brought violence upon me, and I smile in the Spirit, and my breast is stilled, and my reason returns; and friendship, like some flame, though put to sleep and extinguished, lives again and is kindled once more from a tiny spark. My soul refused to be comforted, and my spirit was vexed within me. I said, "I shall never again put my trust in friendship." And why, I pray, should I place my hope in a man? Because every man walks deceitfully, and every brother will supplant his neighbor, and we are all ^D from the same

^A earth and the same lump of clay, and we have tasted of the same tree of vice. Why, then, does one man display a more specious mask than another? And what use, I used to say, was that famous and celebrated friendship to me, which started from the world and progressed to the spirit? What use was it to have had the same roof and the same table? What use the same teachers and the same disciplines? What, finally, was the point of that combination of ours, which surpassed brotherly love, or of this sincere consensus of minds that followed later, if I were not even permitted to remain in a humble station during a time of sovereignty and high office; especially when many strive for the contrary and gain their desire—that is, to possess power next in rank and to participate in the prosperity of their friends?

III. On the Duty of Friendship

^B III. But what point is there in recounting all those things which sorrow and despondency—which I call the darkness of the mind—dreamt up? For these things were indeed uttered, and even more absurd things than these; for I shall be the first to accuse myself, whether one ought to call it stubbornness or folly. But now I retract my speech and refashion it, and I shall say things that are both much truer and more worthy of us. And so that you may understand, my distinguished friend, how sincere this change of ours is, you have not only succeeded in breaking the silence for which you chided me, and about which you raised such a clamor, but you also have the words themselves as your defenders. This is already a sure proof of our pure friendship and of the Spirit that dwells in us. But what is this defense? And if I commit any error, you yourself must correct it, as you are accustomed to do in other matters. You could not bear to make friendship for the Spirit a second priority; for, while I perhaps value myself more highly than others, you value the Spirit in me far more highly. You could not bear ^C for the talent to be buried and hidden in the ground; you could not bear for the lamp to be covered for long by a bushel, because you consider this to be my light and my labor. You sought for Barnabas to be added to Paul for your sake; you sought for Titus to be joined to Silas and Timothy, so that your gift might run its course through those who sincerely care for you, and that you might fulfill the Gospel in a circle from Jerusalem to Illyricum.

^D IV. For this reason you bring me into the midst, and you lay hands upon me as I try to escape, and you seat me beside you. "This," you would say, "is that injury I have inflicted upon you," and you make me a partner in your cares and your crowns. For this reason you anoint me as high priest, and you clothe me in the long garment, and you place the miter upon my head, and you bring me to the altar of spiritual holocaust, and you sacrifice the

you consecrate your hands to the Spirit, and introduce them to the Holy of Holies to gaze upon the mysteries, and you make them a minister of the true tabernacle, which the Lord pitched, and not man. But if this anointing is worthy of you who anoint, and of him for whom it is performed, and toward whom it tends, the Father of that true and genuine Christ knows this—the One whom He anointed with the oil of gladness above His fellows, having anointed humanity with divinity, so as to make both one. God Himself, our Lord Jesus Christ, through whom we have obtained reconciliation, knows this—as does the Holy Spirit, who has set us in this ministry, in which we also stand and boast in the hope of the glory of our Lord Jesus Christ, to whom be glory forever and ever. Amen.

ORATION XI

I. There is no comparison for a faithful friend, and no weight is worthy of his goodness. A faithful friend is a strong protection, and a fortified palace. A faithful friend is a living treasure. A faithful friend is above gold and much precious stone. A faithful friend is a garden enclosed, a fountain sealed, which are opened and shared at the proper time. A faithful friend is a harbor of solace. But if he also excels in prudence and judgment, how highly should this be valued? And if he is, moreover, instructed in the highest learning, and indeed in learning of every kind—I mean both our own and that which was once ours—how much more brilliant is that? But if, in addition to these gifts, it is added that he is a son of light, or a man of God, or one approaching near to God, or a man of good desires, or worthy of being called by any of those names by which Scripture honors the godly, the exalted, and those of the heavenly portion, this is already a gift of God, and clearly beyond our own merit. But if he also comes to us from a friend, and one who is his equal in virtue and in his friendship toward us, it is even more delightful and pleasant, and more fragrant than that ointment that adorned the beard of the priest and the hem of his garment.