FUNERAL ORATION FOR THE GREAT MELETIUS, BISHOP OF ANTIOCH
A The new apostle, who has been co-opted into the order of the apostles, has increased the number of the apostles for us. For the saints have drawn to themselves one like them in character; the athlete, the athlete; the crowned, the crowned; the chaste in spirit, those pure in heart; the herald of the Word, the ministers of the Word. But our Father is indeed to be called blessed, both for his apostolic fellowship and for his departure to Christ; we, however, are miserable. For the untimely nature of our orphanhood does not allow us to call ourselves blessed on the grounds that we had obtained such a good and beneficial father. For him, it was better to be with Christ through his departure, but for us, it is bitter and burdensome to be deprived of paternal protection and patronage. For behold, it is a time of counsel, and the one who was accustomed to give counsel is silent. War surrounds us, a heretical war; and there is no one to offer himself as our leader. The common body of the Church labors under infirmities, and we do not find a physician. See in what a state our affairs are. I wish, if it were at all possible, that my weakness could be strengthened to match the magnitude of this calamity, and that I might break forth with some voice that would respond to our misfortune, just as those noble men have done, who lamented with a loud voice the calamity of the lost father. B But what shall I do? How shall I constrain my tongue to serve the oration, when it is as if shackled by a heavy bond, impeded by calamity? How shall I open my mouth, when it is taken captive by taciturnity and silence? By what reason shall I send forth a voice that slides by habit into passions and laments? How shall I look up with the eyes of the soul, when I am surrounded by the gloom of calamity? Who, having dispersed this dense and dark cloud of sadness for me, will again reveal from the serenity the bright ray of peace? And from where will the ray even shine forth, when the star has set for us? O wretched dark night, which hopes not for the rising of light! In how contrary a manner are words spoken by us in this place and at this time, compared to how they were spoken but a moment ago! Then we danced as if at a wedding; now we groan, miserably lamenting in our grief. Then we sang an epithalamium; now we sing a funeral dirge. For you remember when we feasted you at the spiritual wedding, settling the virgin with the good bridegroom, and
bringing forth the wedding gifts of speech according to our ability, rejoicing in the part and being rejoiced with. But now our joy has been turned into lamentation, and our garment of gladness has become a sackcloth. Or was it perhaps fitting to keep silent about the calamity and to close up the sorrow within by silence, so as not to trouble the sons of the bridal chamber, having no bright wedding garment, but mournfully attired in word? For since the good bridegroom has been taken from us, we have suddenly turned black with grief, and it is not possible to adorn the speech in the customary way, since envy has despoiled us of the robe that adorned us. A We approached you full of good things; naked and poor we depart from you. We held a torch straight over our head, shining with rich light; we return it extinguished, the splendor having dissipated into smoke and ash. We had that great treasure in an earthen vessel. But the treasure is hidden, and escapes the sight; but the earthen vessel, empty of wealth, remains for those who gave it. What shall we say, who sent it forth? What will they answer, from whom it is demanded? O evil shipwreck! How have we suffered shipwreck in the midst of the harbor of our hope? How has the ship, laden with a thousand mercies, sunk with all its cargo, leaving us who were once rich, naked? Where is that brilliant sail, which was always steered by the Holy Spirit? Where is the safe rudder of our souls, by which we steered through heretical storms without harm? Where is the unshakable anchor of [our] resolve, in which we rested with all security after our labors? Where is the good helmsman, who directed the ship toward the goal above? B Are the things that have happened minor, and do I grieve in vain? Or rather, do I not attain to the [depth of the] grief, even if I strain my voice in speech? Lend us, brothers, lend us tears from your sympathy. For when you were rejoicing, we shared in your joy. Therefore, return to us this bitter exchange. "Rejoice with those who rejoice"—this we have done. "Weep with those who weep"—this do you return. Once, a foreign people wept over the patriarch Jacob, and made the alien calamity their own, when those who transported the father out of Egypt, with the whole populace—all, without regard for sex or age—lamented his passing in a foreign land, continuing the mourning and lamentation for him, in his name, for thirty days and just as many nights. C You who are brothers and fellow-countrymen, imitate the foreigners and aliens. Those tears of the travelers and the natives were then common; let them be common now also, since the calamity is also common. Look at these patriarchs; all these are children of our Jacob. All were born of a free woman. No one is a bastard or a supposititious child. For it was not fitting for him to introduce servile lineage into the nobility of the faith. Therefore, he is also our father, because he was the father of our Father. D
You have heard just now from Ephraim and Manasseh what and how many things they recounted concerning the Father, so that speech cannot attain to the miracles. Give me leave also to speak concerning these things. For it is henceforth safe to set forth his blessed deeds; nor do I fear envy. For what greater evil can it inflict upon me? Therefore, recognize what manner of man he is: noble from the rising of the sun, blameless, just, truthful, pious and religious, abstaining from every evil deed. For the great Job will surely not be jealous if even an imitator of his is adorned with the testimonies that are reported of him. But envy, which beholds all noble things, looked also upon our good with a bitter eye; and the one who walks about the world walked also among us, leaving a broad footprint of affliction impressed upon our prosperous affairs. It did not scatter herds of oxen and sheep, unless one would take "the flock" in the mystical sense as the Church. However, envy did not cause us damage in these things, nor did it inflict injury in asses and camels; nor did it afflict our senses with sharp pain by a wound of the flesh; but it deprived us of our head. And with the head, our honorable and noble instruments of sense were taken away. No longer is there an eye that may contemplate heavenly things; nor an ear that may hear the divine voice; nor that tongue, the pure offering of truth. Where is that sweet serenity of the eyes? Where is that pleasant and charming smile upon his lips? Where is that gracious right hand, ready for greeting, which used to beckon with the fingers along with the blessing of the mouth? But I am being carried away, as if on the stage, to proclaim the calamity with a loud voice: I pity you, holy Church; I address you, O city of Antioch! I pity you on account of this sudden and abrupt change. How has your beauty been despoiled! How has your adornment been taken away! How has the flower suddenly fallen! Truly, the grass has withered, and the flower has fallen. C What evil eye, what wicked witchcraft has rioted and raged against that Church? For what, and for what has it exchanged them! The fountain has failed. The river has dried up. The water has again been turned into blood. O the miserable messenger who shall announce this calamity to the Church! Who will tell the children that they have been orphaned and left destitute? Who will announce to the bride that she has become a widow? O these evils! What have they sent forth, and what do they receive? They sent forth an Ark, and they receive a sarcophagus. The Ark, brethren, was that man of God, an ark containing within itself the divine mysteries; there was the golden urn full of the divine manna, full of that heavenly food. In it were the tablets of the covenant, inscribed on the tablets of the heart by the Spirit of the living God, not with ink. D For no dark and black intellect was branded or impressed upon that purity of heart. In it were the pillars, the bases, and the supports, the capitals, the censer, the lampstand, the propitiatory, the basins, the veils extended at the entrances, and the curtains; in it was the rod of the priesthood, which blossomed in his hands. And if we hear of anything else that the Ark contained, all these things were contained in the soul of the man.
A But what is to be said instead of these things? Let the discourse be silent. Clean shrouds and silk cloths; the liberality and abundance of ointments and aromatics—these are the show of a woman who is orderly and virtuous. For it will be said, as if these too might become a testimony to her, what she did for the priest, when she poured the alabaster of ointment lavishly upon the priest’s head. But what is it that is preserved within these things? Dead bones, which even before death had meditated upon mortality: burdensome monuments of our calamities. Oh, what a voice will again be heard in Rama! Rachel weeping not for her children, but for her husband, and not admitting consolation. "Cease, O ye who console, cease. Do not contend so as to console." Let the widow bear the heaviness and mourn. Let her feel the loss she has sustained. Although she is not inexperienced in separation, as she had already been accustomed to bear solitude and destitution in the struggles of the athlete. You remember completely how the discourse before us set forth B to you the struggles of the man, and how through everything he honored the holy Trinity, and preserved that honor even in the number of his struggles, as one who contended through three onsets of temptations. You heard the sequence, the context and series of his labors, what he was like in the beginning, what he was like in the middle, what he was like in the end. I deem a repetition of things well-spoken to be superfluous. But to say this much, perhaps, would not be untimely. When that sober Church first saw the man, she saw a face truly fashioned in the image of God; she saw love gushing forth like a fountain; she saw grace poured upon his lips; she saw the highest degree of humility, after which nothing more can be conceived: she saw C gentleness and clemency, such as was in David; intelligence and prudence, such as in Solomon; goodness, such as in Moses; perfection, such as in Samuel; continence and modesty, such as in Joseph; wisdom, such as in Daniel; such as the great Elias, endowed with zeal for the faith; such as the sublime John, adorned with the integrity of his body; such as Paul, endowed with insuperable love. She saw such an assembly of so many good things around one soul; she was wounded with blessed love, having loved her own bridegroom with a chaste and good affection. But before she could satisfy her desire, before she could rest her longing—still burning with his love—she was left alone, while the tempter called the athlete to the struggles. And he indeed was struggling in the sweats for the sake of piety, while she remained in temperance, guarding the marriage. A long time was in the D interval, and some one tried to violate the immaculate bridal chamber. But the bride was not defiled; and again there was a return, and again exile; and this happened a third time, until the Lord, having dispersed the heretical darkness and applied the ray of peace, gave some hope of rest from the long labors; but after they saw one another again, and the chaste love and spiritual delights of the soul were renewed, and the desire was again ignited, this last departure immediately severs and interrupts the perception of pleasure.
A He came to adorn you as a bride and to prepare the wedding, nor did he undertake this in vain. He placed the crowns of blessing upon this noble union; he imitated the Lord, as the Lord in Cana of Galilee, so too this imitator of Christ here. For the Jewish water jars, filled with the water of heresy, by the power of faith he caused to be transformed, making them full of pure and incorrupt wine, changing their nature. He often set before you a sober chalice, pouring forth grace abundantly with his sweet voice; often he set before you the rational feast. He, indeed, led the way in blessing; these noble disciples then ministered, explaining the word in detail to the crowds. And we rejoice, taking your glory as our own. How splendid are these narratives thus far; how blessed and desirable it would be to conclude and finish the discourse here! But what after this? B "Call the mourning women," says Jeremiah. For in no other way can a burning heart, swelling with grief, be softened and assuaged, unless it be lightened by groans and tears. Then, the separation was consoled by the hope of return; but now, our final separation has been sundered. A great chasm is fixed in the middle between him and the Church; he indeed rests in the bosom of Abraham, but there is no one to bring a drop of water so that the tongue of the tormented might be cooled. That beauty has departed, the voice is silent; the lips are closed, the grace has flown away. Like a narrative of something past, such happiness has vanished. It was once grievous even to the people of Israel that Elijah was taken up from earth to God. But Elisha, adorned with the fur mantle of his master, consoled the departure. C Now, however, the wound exceeds the art of healing: for both Elijah has been taken up, and Elisha has not been left behind. You have heard certain sad and mournful voices from Jeremiah, with which he laments the city of Jerusalem as desolate, who, while he utters other things with compassion, also says this: "The ways of Sion mourn" (Lam. I, 4). These things were said then, but now they are fulfilled. For when the report of the suffering is proclaimed, then the ways will be full of mourners, and those who were shepherded by him will pour forth, imitating the voice of the Ninevites in their calamity; nay, rather, groaning even more painfully and bitterly than they. For to them their lamentation dissolved their fear; but for these, no remedy for evils is hoped for from lamentations. D I know also another voice of Jeremiah, counted among the books of the Psalms, which he uttered in the name of the Israelite captivity. The words of Scripture are as follows: "On the willows we hung our instruments" (Ps. CXXXVI, 2), condemning both ourselves and our instruments to silence. I usurp this chant for my own case. For if I see the heretical confusion (and Babylon is confusion), and if I see the temptations which flow through that confusion; these I declare to be those Babylonian rivers, by which we sit and weep, because we do not have one who might lead us through them. And if you speak of the willows, and the instruments hanging upon them, this too shall be my enigma, for indeed the willow is
A a barren tree: and from us the sweet fruit of life has fallen away. Therefore we have become barren willows, since we hang the instruments of love, idle and motionless, upon the wood. If I forget you, it says, O Jerusalem, let my right hand be forgotten. Grant me to change the scripture a little and alter it, by saying that it is not we who have forgotten the right hand, but rather the right hand that has forgotten us; and the tongue, sticking to its own throat, has blocked and stopped up the outlets of the voice, so that we may no longer hear that sweet voice again. But wipe away my tears; for I feel that I am weeping over this calamity in an unmanly fashion, beyond what is proper. The bridegroom has not been taken from us; he stands in our midst, even if we do not see him. B The priest is in the inner sanctum, in the interior parts of the veil, where Christ entered as a forerunner for us; he has laid aside the veil of the flesh. No longer does he serve the pattern and shadow of heavenly things, but he gazes upon the very image of the realities; no longer through a mirror and in an enigma, but face to face he makes intercession before God. And he intercedes for us and for the errors of the people. He has laid aside the garments of skin; for there is no need of such garments for those who dwell in paradise. But he has garments which he wove with the purity of his own life, and with these he has adorned himself. Precious is the death of such a one before the Lord. Or rather, it is not death, but a breaking of chains. For you have broken, he says, my bonds. Simeon has been released, he has been freed from the bonds of the body. The snare was broken, and the little bird flew away. He has left Egypt, the material life; he has passed over, not this Red Sea, but that dark and gloomy sea of life; he has entered into the land of promise; upon the mountain he philosophizes with God; he has loosed the sandal of his soul, so that with a pure plant of the mind he might tread upon the holy ground, where God is beheld.
Having this consolation, brothers—you who are transporting the bones of Joseph to the land of blessing—hear the words of Paul as he charges us: Do not grieve as the rest who have no hope. Tell the people who are there; relate the good accounts. Tell of the miracle, to which faith can hardly be given: how the myriad-headed crowd, becoming condensed in the manner of the sea, D were all one single continuous body, surging like a sort of water around the procession of the tabernacle. How noble David, dividing himself in many parts and in many ways into myriad ranks, danced around the tabernacle among those both of different and of the same language. How on either side rivers of fire, flowing in a continuous and unbroken draught with the torches held by the people, extended as far as the eye could reach. Proclaim the zeal of the whole people, the gathering of the apostles. How the sweat-cloths from his face were distributed as safeguards for the faithful. Let there be added to the account the king