Homilies on Romans, Homily 12

“I speak in human terms because of the weakness of your flesh: for just as you yielded your members (so 4 mss. Sav. the members of your flesh) as servants to uncleanness and to lawlessness leading to further lawlessness, so now yield your members as servants to righteousness leading to holiness.” Since he had demanded a very strict life, telling us to be dead to the world, to have died to wickedness, and to remain without any inclination toward the workings of sin, he seemed to be asking something great and burdensome, something beyond human nature. He wants to show that he is making no excessive demand, not even as much as might be expected of someone who has received so great a gift, but a very moderate and easy one. So he proves his point by comparing opposites and says, “I speak in human terms,” meaning, I am following human reasoning, the kind we ordinarily encounter. For by the expression “in human terms,” he means either this or the moderation of his demand. Elsewhere he uses the same word: “No temptation has overtaken you except what is common to humanity” (1 Cor. x. 13), that is, moderate and small. “For just as you yielded your members as servants to uncleanness and to lawlessness leading to further lawlessness, so now yield your members as servants to righteousness leading to holiness.” The masters certainly are very different, but I am still asking for an equal amount of service. People ought to give much more, as much more as this master's rule is greater and better than the other's. Nevertheless, I ask no more “because of the weakness”—and he does not say of your free will or willingness of spirit, but “of your flesh,” softening what he says. Yet on one side there is uncleanness, on the other holiness; on one side lawlessness, on the other righteousness. And who, he asks, is so miserable and so hard pressed that he cannot put as much effort into serving Christ as into serving sin and the devil? Listen to what follows, and you will see clearly that we do not give even this little. Stated so bluntly, it seems unbelievable and hard to accept, and no one would stand to hear that he does not serve Christ as much as he used to serve the devil. So he proves it by what follows, making it believable by setting that slavery before us and describing how they served him. Ver. 20. “For when you were servants of sin, you were free from righteousness.” What he says is something like this: When you lived in wickedness, impiety, and the worst evils, your obedience was so complete that you did absolutely nothing good. That is what “you were free from righteousness” means. You were not subject to it but completely estranged from it. You did not even divide your service between righteousness and sin, but gave yourselves entirely to wickedness. Now, therefore, since you have gone over to righteousness, give yourselves entirely to virtue, doing nothing vicious at all, so that the measure of your service may at least be equal. Yet the vast difference is not only in the masters' rule but also in the service itself. He explains this too very clearly, showing the terms on which they served then and those on which they serve now. So far he says nothing about the harm that results from it; up to this point he speaks of the shame. Ver. 21. “What fruit did you have then from those things you are now ashamed of?” The slavery was so great that even remembering it now makes you ashamed; and if the memory makes someone ashamed, the reality would do so much more. So you have now benefited in two ways: you have been freed from the shame, and you have come to understand the condition you were in. Just so, you were harmed then in two ways: you did shameful things, and you did not even know enough to be ashamed. This second injury is worse than the first. Yet you remained in slavery. Having thoroughly proved the harm of what happened then by its shamefulness, he comes to the matter at issue. And what is that? “For the end of those things is death.” Since shame seems to be no very serious evil, he moves on to something truly terrifying: death. Though, in truth, what he mentioned before was enough. Consider how enormously harmful it must be, since even after being freed from the punishment it deserved, they could not escape the shame. What wages, then, he asks, do you expect from the reality, when the mere memory makes you hide your face and blush, even though you have been freed from punishment and live under such grace? But things are very different on God's side. Ver. 22. “But now, having been freed from sin and become servants of God, you have your fruit leading to holiness, and the end is everlasting life.” The fruit of the former things was shame, even after being set free. The fruit of these things is holiness, and where there is holiness, there is complete confidence. The end of those things is death, and of these, everlasting life. Do you see how he points to some things as already given and others as still hoped for, and uses what has been given—the holiness of their lives—to prove the others as well? To keep you from saying (i.e. as an objection) that everything rests on hope, he points out that you have already reaped fruit: first, being freed from wickedness and from evils whose very memory makes a person ashamed; second, becoming a servant of righteousness; third, enjoying holiness; fourth, obtaining life, and life not for a time but everlasting. Yet despite all this, he says, just serve as you served sin. Although the master is far better, the service has many advantages, and so do the rewards for which you serve, I still ask no more. Next, since he has mentioned weapons and a king, he continues the metaphor in these words: Ver. 23. “For the wages of sin is death, but the gift of God is eternal life, through Jesus Christ our Lord.” After speaking of the wages of sin, he does not follow the same pattern (τάξιν, rank or relation) when speaking of the blessings. He does not say, the wages of good deeds, “but the gift of God.” This shows that they were not freed by their own efforts, nor did they receive something owed to them, a return, or a reward for their labors. All these things came about by grace. So this too made the new condition superior: He not only freed them and changed their condition for the better, but did so without any labor or trouble on their part. And He not only freed them, but gave them much more than they had before, and did so through His Son. He has inserted this whole passage after discussing grace and just before going on to overturn the Law. To keep these two arguments from making them careless, he inserted the passage about living strictly, taking every opportunity to stir his hearers to practice virtue. For when he calls death the wages of sin, he alarms them again and protects them against future dangers. He uses the words that remind them of their former condition both to make them thankful and to protect them better against the attacks of temptation. Here, then, he brings the exhortation to an end and returns to doctrine, speaking as follows. Chap. vii. ver. 1. “Do you not know, brothers and sisters—for I am speaking to those who know the Law—” Since he has said that we are “dead to sin,” he now shows that not only sin but also the Law has no dominion over them. And if the Law has none, sin has even less. To make his words easier to accept, he makes this clear through an example from human life. He seems to be making one point, but he presents two arguments at once for his claim. One is that when a husband dies, the woman is no longer subject to him, and nothing prevents her from becoming another man's wife. The other is that in the present case, not only the husband but also the wife has died. So there are two grounds for freedom. If the husband's death frees her from his power, she is much more at liberty when the woman is shown to have died as well. For if one event frees her from his power, both together do so all the more. As he prepares to prove these points, he begins by praising his hearers: “Do you not know, brothers and sisters—for I am speaking to those who know the Law—” That is, I am saying something fully agreed on and clear, and saying it to people who understand all these things accurately, “that the Law has dominion over a person as long as that person lives?” He does not say husband or wife, but “person,” a word common to both; for, he says, “the one who has died is freed (Gr. justified) from sin.” The Law, then, is given for the living, but for the dead it ceases to apply (or to give commands). Do you see how he presents a twofold freedom? Next, after hinting at this at the beginning, he continues by proving his point through the woman's case, as follows. Ver. 2, 3. “For a woman who has a husband is bound by the Law to her husband as long as he lives; but if her husband dies, she is released from the Law of her husband. So then, if she marries another man while her husband lives, she is called an adulteress; but if her husband dies, she is free from that law, so that she is no adulteress even if she marries another man.” He keeps returning to this point, and with great precision, because he is completely confident in the proof based on it. In the husband's place he puts the Law, and in the woman's place, all believers. Then he adds a conclusion that does not match the premise. For the context would call for, “And so, my brothers and sisters, the Law does not rule over you, because it is dead.” But he does not say this. He only hints at it in the premise, and afterward, in the conclusion, to keep his words from offending them, he presents the woman as dead by saying, “Therefore, my brothers and sisters, you too have become dead to the Law.” Since either event brings about the same freedom, what prevents him from showing consideration for the Law without harming his argument? “For a woman who has a husband is bound by the Law to her husband as long as he lives.” Where now (3 mss. then) are those who speak evil of the Law? Let them hear how, even when his argument forces him to this point, he does not strip it of its dignity but speaks highly of its power: while it is alive, the Jew is bound, and those who break it and leave it while it lives are to be called adulterers. But if they leave it after it has died, there is nothing surprising about that. In human affairs no one is blamed for doing this: “But if her husband dies, she is released from the law of her husband.” You see how, in the example, he presents the Law as dead, but does not do so in the conclusion. If, then, her husband is still living, the woman is called an adulteress. See how he dwells on the charges against those who break the Law while it is still alive. But since he has brought it to an end, he can afterward show it consideration with complete confidence, without harming the faith. “For if she marries another man while her husband lives, she is called an adulteress.” The natural next thing to say would therefore have been, You too, my brothers and sisters, now that the Law is dead, will not be judged guilty of adultery if you marry another husband. Yet he does not use these words. What does he say? “You have become dead to the Law.” If you have been made dead, you are no longer under the Law. For if the husband's death releases the woman from it, she is much more fully freed from the former bond when she herself has died as well. Do you notice Paul's wisdom, how he shows that the Law itself intends us to be divorced from it and married to another? For, he means, nothing prevents your living with another husband now that the former one is dead. How could it, since even while the husband was alive, it allowed this to a woman who had a certificate of divorce? But he does not state this, because it was more of a charge against the woman: although it had been permitted, it was still not free from blame. (Matt. xix. 7, 8.) For when he has won his case through necessary and accepted proofs, he does not pursue questions beyond his purpose; he is not looking for a quarrel. The remarkable thing, then, is that the Law itself clears us who have divorced it of every charge, and so its intention was that we should become Christ's. For it is dead, and we are dead, and its grounds for exercising power over us have been removed in two ways. But he is not content with this alone; he adds the reason for it. He has not mentioned death without a particular purpose, but brings in the cross again, which accomplished these things, and in this way too places us under an obligation. For, he means, you have not simply been freed; it happened through the Lord's death. For he says, “You have become dead to the Law through the Body of Christ.” He bases his exhortation not only on this, but also on the superiority of this second husband. So he continues: “that you should be married to another, to Him Who is raised from the dead.” Then he anticipates their objection: What if we do not choose to live with another husband? For although the Law does not make a widow an adulteress when she enters a second marriage, it still does not force her into it. To keep them from saying this, he shows that the benefits already given oblige us to choose it. He states this more clearly elsewhere, where he says, “You are not your own,” and, “You were bought with a price,” and, “Do not become servants of men” (1 Cor. vi. 19, 20; vii. 23); and again, “One died for all, so that those who live should no longer live for themselves, but for Him Who died for them.” (2 Cor. v. 15.) This, then, is what he alludes to here in the words “through the Body.” Next he encourages them with better hopes, saying, “That we should bear fruit for God.” For then, he means, you bore fruit for death, but now for God. Ver. 5. “For when we were in the flesh, the sinful passions that were through the Law worked in our members to bear fruit for death.” You see, then, what there was to gain from the former husband! He does not say, when we were in the Law; in every passage he avoids giving heretics an opening. Instead he says, “when we were in the flesh,” that is, engaged in evil deeds, living a fleshly life. He is not saying that they were previously in the flesh but now walked around without bodies. Yet in speaking this way, he neither says that the Law causes sins nor entirely shields it from resentment. For it held the position of a harsh accuser by exposing their sins, since imposing more commands on someone who has no intention of obeying at all makes the offense greater. This is why he does not say the “sinful passions” that were produced by the Law, but those that “were through the Law” (Rom. ii. 27), adding no word like “produced,” but simply “through the Law.” That is, through the Law they became apparent and were made known. Next, to avoid accusing the flesh either, he does not say, which the members produced, but “which worked (or were wrought) in our members.” This shows that the source of the harm was elsewhere: in the thoughts that worked within us, rather than in the members in which they were working. For the soul plays the part of a musician, and the structure of the flesh is like a lyre, sounding as the musician makes it sound. So the discordant tune should be attributed to the musician rather than to the instrument. Ver. 6. “But now,” he says, “we are released from the Law.” (κατηργήθημεν, “made of no effect.”) See how here again he spares both the flesh and the Law. He does not say that the Law was made ineffective, or that the flesh was made ineffective, but that we were made ineffective (i.e., were delivered). And how were we released? By the death and burial of the old man, who was held down by sin. This is what he expresses in the words, “having died to that in which we were held.” It is as though he said, The chain that held us down was put out of action and broken, so that what held us down, namely sin, no longer did so. But do not fall back or grow careless. You have been freed in order to serve again, though not in the same way, but “in the new way of the spirit, and not in the old way of the letter.” Now what does he mean here? We need to explain it here so that when we reach the passage we will not be puzzled by it. When Adam sinned, he means, and his body became subject to death and suffering, it also suffered many physical impairments, and the horse became less active and less obedient. But when Christ came, He made it more agile for us through baptism, stirring it with the wing of the Spirit. This is why the goals of the race that people in ancient times had to run are not the same as ours. The race was not as easy then as it is now. For this reason, He requires them to be free not only from murder, as He required of people in ancient times, but also from anger. He commands them to avoid not only adultery but even an unchaste look, and to refrain not only from false oaths but even from true ones. (Matt. v. 21, 27, 33.) He commands them to love their enemies as well as their friends. In every other duty too, He gives us a longer course to run, and if we fail to obey, He threatens us with hell. This shows that these duties are not voluntary offerings for the contestants, as celibacy and poverty are, but absolute obligations for us to fulfill. They are essential and urgent requirements, and anyone who fails to carry them out will be punished to the utmost. This is why He said, “Unless your righteousness exceeds the righteousness of the Scribes and Pharisees, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.” (Matt. v. 20.) But anyone who does not see the kingdom will certainly fall into hell. For this reason Paul too says, “Sin will not have dominion over you, because you are not under the Law, but under grace.” And here again, “that you should serve in the new way of the spirit, and not in the old way of the letter.” For it is no longer the condemning letter, that is, the old Law, but the helping Spirit. This is why, among the ancients, it was astonishing if anyone was found practicing virginity. But now it is spread throughout the world. In those times only a few men managed, with difficulty, to despise death; now villages and cities contain countless hosts of martyrs, consisting not only of men but even of women. Next, having finished with this, he again meets an objection that is arising, and in answering it strengthens his own case. He does not introduce its solution as his main argument, but as an answer to the objection. The need to answer it gives him an opportunity to say what he wishes and makes his accusation easier to accept. Having said, then, “in the new way of the Spirit, and not in the old way of the letter,” he continues. Ver. 7. “What then? Is the Law sin? Certainly not.” Even before this he had been saying that “the sinful passions that were through the Law worked in our members” (ver. 5), and, “Sin will have no dominion over you, for you are not under the Law.” (vi. 14.) And that “where there is no law, there is no transgression.” (iv. 15.) And, “But the Law came in so that the offense might increase” (v. 20); and, “The Law produces anger.” (iv. 15.) Since all these statements seem to discredit the Law, he raises an objection to correct the suspicion they create, saying, “What then? Is the Law sin? Certainly not.” Before giving his proof, he uses this solemn rejection to win over the hearer and soothe anyone troubled by the statement. After hearing this and being reassured about the speaker's attitude, the hearer would join him in examining the apparent difficulty without suspecting him. So he frames the objection in a way that includes the other person with himself. That is why he does not say, What am I to say? but, “What shall we say then?” It is as though they were deliberating and reaching a judgment, with a general assembly called together, and the objection arose not from him personally, but during the discussion and from the actual facts of the case. For, he means, no one will deny that the letter kills or that the Spirit gives life (2 Cor. iii. 6); this too is clear, and no one will dispute it. If these are acknowledged truths, then what are we to say about the Law? That “it is sin? Certainly not.” Explain the difficulty, then. Do you see how he imagines the opponent present and, taking on the authority of the teacher, proceeds to explain it? And what is his explanation? The Law, he says, is not sin. “No, I would not have known sin except through the Law.” Notice the scope of his wisdom! He has presented what the Law is not as an objection, so that by dismissing it and thus pleasing the Jew, he may persuade him to accept the lesser claim. And what is that? “I would not have known sin except through the Law. For I would not have known lust unless the Law had said, You shall not covet.” Do you see how he gradually shows it to be not only an accuser of sin, but to some extent its producer? Yet he proves that this happened through no fault of its own, but through the fault of the stubborn Jews. He has taken great care to silence the Manichees, who accuse the Law. So after saying, “No, I would not have known sin except through the Law,” and, “I would not have known lust unless the Law had said, You shall not covet,” he adds, Ver. 8. “But sin, taking its opportunity through the commandment, produced in me every kind of lust.” Do you see how he has cleared it of all blame? It was “sin,” he says, “taking its opportunity through the commandment,” and not the Law, that increased lust, bringing about the opposite of what the Law intended. This came from weakness, not from any badness in the Law. For when we desire something and are then prevented from having it, the flame of desire only grows. This did not come from the Law; the Law itself restrained us (3 mss. endeavored) to keep us away from it. But sin—that is, your own carelessness and bad disposition—used what was good to achieve the opposite. This is the fault of the patient who misuses the medicine, not of the physician. The Law was given to extinguish lust, not to inflame it, even though the opposite resulted. Yet the blame belongs to us, not to it. Suppose someone had a fever and wanted a cold drink when it was bad for him, and someone refused to let him drink his fill, increasing his desire for this destructive pleasure as a result. The person refusing him could not justly be blamed. The physician's task is simply to forbid it; restraining himself is the patient's task. And what if sin did take an opportunity from it? Surely many bad people grow more wicked because of good commands. This was how the devil ruined Judas: by plunging him into greed and making him steal what belonged to the poor. Yet being entrusted with the money bag did not cause this; the wickedness of his own spirit did. And Eve, by getting Adam to eat from the tree, cast him out of Paradise. But there too, the tree was not the cause, even if it provided the occasion. If he discusses the Law somewhat forcefully, do not be surprised. Paul is confronting the need of the moment and does not allow his language to give an opening even to those who suspected otherwise; he takes great pains to state the present point accurately. So do not examine what he is about to say (4 mss. “here saying”) in isolation. Consider alongside it the purpose that leads him to speak of these things, and take into account the Jews' madness and their fierce contentiousness. Because he earnestly wishes to eliminate this, he seems to breathe fury (πολὺς πνεἵν) against the Law, to weaken their stubborn force rather than to blame it. For if it discredits the Law that sin takes its opportunity through it, the same will be found true in the New Testament as well. The New Testament contains thousands of laws, and they concern matters of much greater importance (“far more,” Field). There too one can see the same result, not only with covetousness (lust, as v. 7), but with every kind of wickedness. For He says, “If I had not come and spoken to them, they would not have had sin.” (John xv. 22.) Here, then, sin gains a foothold through this very fact, and with it comes greater punishment. Again, when Paul discusses grace, he says, “How much worse punishment do you think someone will deserve who has trampled the Son of God underfoot?” (Heb. x. 29.) Does not the worse punishment originate here, in the greater benefit? And his reason for saying that the Greeks were without excuse was that, although honored with the gift of reason, acquainted with the beauty of creation, and well placed to be led through it to the Creator, they did not use God's wisdom as they should. Do you see that in every case good things provide the wicked with occasions for greater punishment? But we will not accuse God's benefits on this account; rather, we will admire them all the more. We will put the blame on the disposition of those who misuse the blessings for the opposite purpose. Let us take the same approach to the Law. But this is easy and manageable; the other question is difficult. How can he say, “I would not have known lust unless the Law had said, You shall not covet”? If humanity did not know lust before receiving the Law, what was the reason for the flood or the burning of Sodom? What, then, does he mean? He means intense lust. That is why he did not say lust, but “every kind of lust,” indicating its intensity. And what good, someone will ask, is the Law if it increases the disease? None; indeed, it does great harm. Yet the charge is against the carelessness of those who received it, not against the Law. Sin produced this, though through the Law. But the Law's purpose was the very opposite. Sin, then, he says, grew stronger and more violent. Again, however, this is a charge against their obstinacy, not against the Law. “For without the Law sin is dead.” That is, it was not as clearly identifiable. Even those who lived before the Law knew that they had sinned, but after the Law was given they understood it more precisely. For this reason they faced a greater accusation. It was not the same to have nature accusing them as to have, in addition to nature, the Law, which distinctly stated every charge. Ver. 9. “For I was once alive without the Law.” When, I ask, was that? Before Moses. See how he sets out to show that the Law burdened human nature both through what it did and through what it did not do. For by “I was alive without the Law,” he means, I was not condemned as severely. “But when the commandment came, sin revived, and I died.” This certainly seems to accuse the Law. But anyone who looks closely will see that it actually praises it. For it did not bring into existence sin that had not existed before; it only exposed what had escaped notice. This is praise of the Law, if before it they had been sinning without realizing it. When it came, even if they gained nothing else from it, at least they clearly learned this: that they had been sinning. And this is no small help toward escaping wickedness. If they did not escape, that has nothing to do with the Law, which arranged everything toward this goal. The accusation falls entirely on their disposition, which was perverse beyond anything one could imagine. For what happened—their being harmed by beneficial things—was unnatural. This is why he says, “And the commandment, which was intended for life, I found to lead to death.” He does not say, “it was made,” or, “it produced” death, but, “was found,” explaining this strange and unusual contradiction and making the blame fall entirely on their own heads. For, he says, if you want to know its aim, it led to life and was given for that purpose. But if death was the result, the fault lies with those who received the commandment, not with the commandment that was leading them to life. He makes this point clearer in what follows. Ver. 11. “For sin, taking its opportunity through the commandment, deceived me and through it killed me.” You see how he always keeps the blame on sin and completely clears the Law of accusation. And so he continues as follows. Ver. 12. “Therefore the law is holy, and the commandment holy, and just, and good.” But, if you wish, we will present the words of those who twist these statements, since this will make our own explanation clearer. Some say that he is not speaking here about the Law of Moses: some understand him to mean the law of nature, others the commandment given in Paradise. Yet Paul's purpose throughout is to annul this Law, while he has no dispute with those other laws. And with good reason: it was fear and dread concerning this Law that made the Jews stubbornly oppose grace. But he never seems to have called the commandment in Paradise “Law,” nor has any other writer. To make this clearer from what he actually says, let us follow his words, retracing the argument a little. After speaking to them about living strictly, he continues, “Do you not know, brothers and sisters, that the Law has dominion over a person as long as that person lives? Therefore you have become dead to the Law.” If, then, these statements concern natural law, we turn out to be without natural law. And if that is true, we are more senseless than irrational creatures. But that certainly is not so. As for the law in Paradise, there is no need to argue, since we would be taking on needless work by entering a contest over matters people have already settled in their minds. In what sense, then, does he say, “I would not have known sin except through the Law”? He is speaking of more accurate knowledge, not of a complete lack of knowledge. For if this referred to the law of nature, how would what follows fit? “For I was once alive,” he says, “without the Law.” Yet neither Adam nor anyone else can be shown ever to have lived without the law of nature. As soon as God formed him, He placed that law of nature within him, making it dwell with him as a safeguard for the whole race (Gr. Nature, see p. 365). Besides, he never seems to have called the law of nature a commandment. But he calls this both a commandment, “just and holy,” and a “spiritual law.” The law of nature, however, was not given to us by the Spirit. Barbarians, Greeks, and all other people have this law. It is clear, then, that he is speaking of the Mosaic Law above, afterward, and in all these passages. This is also why he calls it holy, saying, “Therefore the Law is holy, and the commandment holy, and just, and good.” For even though the Jews have been unclean, unjust, and covetous since the Law was given, this does not destroy the Law's excellence, just as their unbelief does not nullify God's faithfulness. All these things, then, make it clear that he is speaking here of the Law of Moses. Ver. 13. “Did what is good, then, become death to me? Certainly not. But sin, so that it might appear to be sin.” (4 mss. om. ἡ.) That is, so that the great evil of sin might be exposed: a careless will, an inclination toward the worse course, the actual doing (3 mss. om. this clause), and corrupted judgment. This is the cause of all evils. He emphasizes its magnitude by pointing to Christ's surpassing grace and teaching them what an evil He freed the human race from—an evil that grew worse through the medicines used to cure it and increased through the measures meant to prevent it. So he goes on to say, “That sin, through the commandment, might become exceedingly sinful.” Do you see how these things are woven together everywhere? By the very means he uses to accuse sin, he again shows the Law's excellence. Nor is it a small achievement to show what an evil sin is, exposing all its poison and bringing it into view. This is what he shows by saying, “that sin through the commandment might become exceedingly sinful.” That is, so that it may become clear what an evil sin is, what a destructive thing. The commandment made this plain. Through this he also shows grace's superiority to the Law—its superiority to the Law, not its opposition to it. Do not focus on the fact that those who received it became worse because of it. Consider instead that the Law not only had no intention of extending wickedness further, but earnestly aimed to cut down what already existed. But if it lacked the strength, crown it for its intention, while worshiping all the more the power of Christ, which abolished, cut away, and uprooted an evil with so many forms and so hard to overthrow. When you hear me speak of sin, however, do not think of it as a power with an independent substance, but as wrongdoing, which continually comes upon people and leaves them, which does not exist before it takes place and vanishes again after it has taken place. This, then, was why the Law was given. No law is ever given to put an end to natural things, but to correct deliberately wicked conduct. Pagan lawmakers too, and humanity in general, understand this. They aim to correct only the evils that arise from vice; they do not undertake to uproot what has been assigned to us as part of our nature, since they cannot do that. For natural things remain unchangeable (Arist. Eth. b. 2, c. 1), as we have often told you in other discourses as well. So let us leave these disputes and turn again to exhortation. Or rather, this last part belongs to those disputes. For if we cast out wickedness, we should also bring virtue in. In this way we will clearly teach that wickedness is not an evil inherent in nature, and we will easily be able to silence those who ask about the origin of evil, through actions as well as words: we share the same nature as they do, yet are freed from their wickedness. Let us look at the possibility of succeeding in virtue rather than at the effort it takes. If we are earnest, it will become easy and pleasant for us. But if you tell me about the pleasure of vice, tell me its end as well. It ends in death, just as virtue leads us to life. Or, if you wish, let us examine both even before their end, for we will see that vice brings a great deal of pain, and virtue great pleasure. What, I ask, is as painful as a guilty conscience? And what is more pleasant than a good hope? Certainly nothing, nothing cuts us so deeply and weighs on us so heavily as the expectation of evil; nothing sustains us and almost gives us wings like a good conscience. We can learn this even from what happens before our eyes. People who live in prison awaiting a sentence against them, even if they enjoy luxury over and over without limit, live more painfully than those who beg along back roads with nothing on their consciences to trouble them. The expectation of a dreadful end keeps them from enjoying the pleasures within their reach. And why speak of prisoners? Even among those who live outside prison and have a fortune but carry a guilty conscience, craftsmen who work for their bread and spend the whole day at their labor are far better off than they are. This is also why we say, How miserable gladiators are! Although we see them in taverns, drunk, living luxuriously, and gorging themselves, we call them the most miserable of men, because the dreadful end they must expect is too great to compare with that pleasure. If such a life seems pleasant to them, remember what I keep telling you: it is no wonder that someone living in vice does not flee its misery and pain. See how something so detestable still seems delightful to those who practice it. Yet we do not therefore call them happy. This is precisely why we pity them: they have no idea of the evils surrounding them. And what would you say about adulterers, who for a little pleasure submit all at once to shameful slavery, loss of money, constant fear (Hor. Sat. II. vii. 58–67), and indeed the very life of Cain—or rather, one far worse than his? They are filled with fears about the present, tremble at the future, and suspect friend and enemy alike, those who know about it and those who know nothing. Even when they go to sleep, they are not free from this struggle; their guilty conscience shapes dreams full of all kinds of terrors and frightens them in this way. The chaste man's situation is very different: he passes through this life unshackled and completely free. Weigh, then, that little pleasure against all the turmoil of these terrors, and the brief effort of self-restraint against the calm of an entire life. You will find that the latter is more pleasant than the former. As for the man intent on plundering and seizing other people's goods, tell me whether he does not endure countless pains: running around, flattering slaves, free people, and doorkeepers; frightening and threatening others; behaving shamelessly; keeping watch, trembling, agonizing, and suspecting everything. The man who despises riches lives very differently: he too enjoys abundant pleasure, living without fear and in complete security. If anyone examined the other forms of vice, he would find much trouble and many rocks to strike against. But more significant still, with virtue the difficulties come first and the pleasure afterward, and even this lightens the trouble. With vice it is the reverse. After the pleasure come the pains and punishments, so that these also destroy the pleasure. Just as someone awaiting the crown does not feel his present discomfort, someone expecting punishments after his pleasures cannot gather any unmixed joy, because fear throws everything into confusion. Or rather, if anyone examined the matter carefully, even before the punishment that follows these things, he would find that a great deal of pain is felt at the very moment of boldly entering into vice. If you wish, let us examine this in people who plunder others' goods, or who accumulate money in any way. Setting aside the fears, dangers, trembling, agony, worry, and all such things, let us suppose a man who has grown rich without any trouble and feels certain he can preserve his present fortune (which he has no way of doing; still, let us grant it for the sake of argument). What pleasure will he get from having so much around him? On the contrary, this very thing will keep him from being glad. For as long as he desires still more, he remains on the rack. Desire gives pleasure when it has come to rest. If we are thirsty, for example, we feel refreshed when we have drunk as much as we want. But as long as we remain thirsty, even if we exhausted all the springs in the world, our torment would only grow; even if we drank up ten thousand rivers, our suffering would become more distressing. You too, if you received the goods of the whole world and still coveted more, would increase your punishment the more things you tasted. Do not imagine, then, that accumulating a great sum will give you any pleasure; that comes instead from refusing to be rich. But if you crave riches, you will always be under the lash. This is a kind of love that never reaches its goal: the farther you travel, the farther you remain from the end. Is this not a contradiction, a derangement, an extreme madness? Let us abandon this foremost evil—or rather, let us never even touch this covetousness. But if we have touched it, let us leap away from its first stirrings (προοιμίων). This is the advice the writer of Proverbs gives us when speaking about the prostitute: “Leap away,” he says, “do not linger, and do not go near the door of her house” (Prov. v. 8). I would say the same to you about the love of money. If, by entering little by little, you fall into this ocean of madness, you will not easily climb out. As though caught in whirlpools, however often you struggle, you will not easily escape. So after falling into this far worse abyss of covetousness, you will destroy yourself and everything that belongs to you. (Acts viii. 20.) My advice, then, is to guard against the beginnings and avoid small evils, for these give birth to great ones. Anyone who develops the habit of saying at every sin, This does not matter! will gradually ruin himself completely. At any rate, this is what has brought vice in, opened the doors to the robber (5 mss. devil), and broken down city walls: saying at each sin, “This does not matter!” In the body too, the greatest diseases develop when slight ones are dismissed. If Esau had not first betrayed his birthright, he would not have become unworthy of the blessings. If he had not made himself unworthy of the blessings, he would not have gone on to desire his brother's murder. If Cain had not fallen in love with first place, but had left that to God, he would not have taken second place. Again, once he had second place, if he had listened to the advice, he would not have gone through the birth pangs of murder. Again, if after committing the murder he had repented when God called him, instead of answering irreverently, he would not have had to suffer the evils that followed. But if people before the Law sank to the very depths of misery through this carelessness, consider what will become of us, who are called to a greater contest, unless we watch ourselves closely and hurry to extinguish the sparks of evil deeds before the whole pile catches fire. Take an example of what I mean. Are you in the habit of swearing falsely? Do not stop at avoiding this alone; give up all swearing, and you will need no further effort. It is much harder for someone who swears to avoid false oaths than to abstain from swearing altogether. Are you insulting and abusive? Do you strike people too? Make it a rule for yourself not to get angry or quarrel at all, and the fruit will be removed along with the root. Are you lustful and self-indulgent? Make it your rule not even to look at a woman (Job xxxi. 1), or go to the theater, or occupy yourself with the beauty of other people you see around you. It is much easier not even to look at a woman with a beautiful figure than, after looking and taking in lust, to drive out the turmoil it causes. The struggle is easier at the beginning (προοιμίοις). Or rather, we need no struggle at all if we do not open the gates to the enemy or take in the seeds of evil (κακίας). This is why Christ condemned the man who looks unchastely at a woman (Matt. v. 28): to free us from greater effort before the adversary grew strong, commanding us to throw him out of the house while he could still be thrown out easily. Why take on needless trouble and become entangled with enemies when we can erect the trophy without becoming entangled and seize the prize before the wrestling begins? Avoiding the sight of beautiful women is not as much trouble as restraining yourself while looking at them. Or rather, the first involves no trouble at all, while immense toil and effort follow the look. Since the trouble is less (most mss. add, “to the incontinent”)—or rather, there is no effort or trouble at all, but greater gain—why do we take pains to plunge into an ocean of countless evils? Furthermore, someone who does not look at a woman will overcome such lust not only more easily but with greater purity, while someone who does look escapes with more trouble and not without a kind of stain—if he escapes at all. For someone who does not gaze at the beautiful figure is also pure from the lust that might follow. But someone who longs to look first overthrows his reason and pollutes it in countless ways, and then has to cast out the stain caused by lust—if he does cast it out. This is why Christ, to keep us from suffering this way, prohibited not only murder but anger; not only adultery but even an unchaste look; not only perjury but every kind of swearing. Nor does He stop the measure of virtue here. After giving these laws, He goes still further. After keeping us far from murder and commanding us to be free from anger, He tells us to be ready even to suffer harm, and to be prepared to suffer not merely as much as our attacker pleases, but even more, overcoming his utmost madness through the overflowing abundance of our own Christian spirit (τἥς οἱκείας φιγοσοφίας). For He does not say, “If someone strikes you on your right cheek, bear it nobly and remain silent.” He adds that we should offer the other cheek too. For He says, “Turn the other to him also.” (Matt. v. 39.) This, then, is the splendid victory: to offer him even more than he wants and go beyond the limits of his evil desire through the abundance of your own patient endurance. In this way you will stop his madness and, through the second act, receive again the reward of the first, besides putting an end to your anger against him. Do you see how, in every case, the power to keep us from being harmed belongs to us, rather than to those who inflict the harm? Or rather, we have the power not only to avoid harm but even to receive benefits (Sav. conj. παθεἵν εὖ, so 2 mss.). This is the greatest wonder: if we have the right attitude, we are so far from being injured that we actually benefit, even through the very wrongs we unjustly suffer at others' hands. Think about it: has someone insulted you? You have the power to make this insult bring you honor. If you insult him in return, you only increase the disgrace. But if you bless the person who insulted you, you will see everyone declaring you the victor and proclaiming your praise. Do you see how, if we choose, the very things by which we are wronged can do us good? This can be seen in matters of money, in blows, and in everything else. If we repay them with the opposite, we weave a double crown around ourselves: one for the evils we have suffered, and another for the good we do. So whenever someone comes and tells you, “So-and-so has insulted you and keeps speaking badly about you to everyone,” praise that man to those who tell you about him. In this way, even if you want revenge, you will have the power to punish him. Those who hear you, however foolish they may be, will praise you and hate him as fiercer than any wild beast: he hurt you without having been wronged at all, while you, even when wronged, repaid him with the opposite. So you will have the power to show that everything he said was groundless. Someone who feels the bite of slander proves by his distress that he is conscious of the truth of what is said. But someone who smiles at it clears himself, by that very act, of all suspicion among those present. Consider how many good things you gather from this affair. First, you rid yourself of all distress and trouble. Second—though this should come first—even if you have sins, you cast them off, as the tax collector did by meekly bearing the Pharisee's accusation. Besides, through this practice you will make your soul heroic (Gr. philosophic), enjoy endless praise from everyone, and free yourself from any suspicion arising from what was said. Even if you desire revenge on the man, that too will follow in full measure: God will punish him for what he has said, and even before that punishment, your heroic conduct will strike him like a mortal blow. Nothing cuts those who insult us so deeply to the heart as seeing us smile at the insult. Just as behaving with Christian heroism will bring us so many honors, being petty will bring the opposite in every respect. We disgrace ourselves, seem to those present to be guilty of what was said, fill our souls with turmoil, give our enemy pleasure, provoke God, and add to our former sins. Considering all this, let us flee the abyss of pettiness (μικροψυχίας) and take refuge in the harbor of patient endurance (μακροθυμίας), so that here we may at once “find rest for our souls” (Matt. xi. 29), as Christ also declared, and attain the good things to come, through the grace and love for humanity of our Lord Jesus Christ, with Whom to the Father, together with the Holy Spirit, be glory, power, and honor, now and always, forever and ever. Amen.