On the Priesthood, Book 6

1. That, then, is our situation here, as you have heard. But how will we bear our situation in the next life, when we are made to give an account for each of those who have been entrusted to us? For our penalty is not limited to shame; everlasting punishment awaits us as well. As for the passage, “Obey those who rule over you, and submit to them, for they keep watch on behalf of your souls as those who will give an account”: though I have mentioned it once already, I will not keep silent about it now, because the fear its warning inspires constantly shakes my soul. For if, for the one who causes just one person, and the least at that, to stumble, it would be better that “a great millstone should be hung around his neck, and that he should be sunk in the depth of the sea”; and if those who wound the consciences of the brothers sin against Christ Himself, then what will they one day suffer, and what kind of penalty will they pay, who destroy not just one, or two, or three, but such huge multitudes? For they cannot plead inexperience as an excuse, or take refuge in ignorance, or offer necessity or compulsion as a defense. In fact, if such a refuge were available at all, one of the people under their charge could use it for his own sins more easily than bishops could for the sins of others. Do you ask why? Because the one who has been appointed to correct the ignorance of others, and to warn them in advance of the conflict with the devil that is coming upon them, will not be able to plead ignorance as his excuse, or to say, “I never heard the trumpet sound; I did not foresee the conflict.” For he is placed there for that very purpose, says Ezekiel, to sound the trumpet for others and warn them of the dangers at hand. That is why his punishment is inevitable, even if only one person happens to perish. “For if, when the sword comes, the watchman does not sound the trumpet to the people or give them a signal, and the sword comes and takes any man away, that man is indeed taken away because of his iniquity, but I will require his blood at the watchman’s hands.”

2. So stop pushing us toward a penalty that cannot be escaped. We are not talking about an army or a kingdom, but about an office that requires the virtues of an angel. For the soul of the Priest ought to be purer than the very rays of the sun, so that the Holy Spirit may not leave him desolate, and so that he may be able to say, “Now I live, and yet no longer I, but Christ lives in me.” Consider those who live in the desert, far removed from the city and the marketplace and all the commotion there, who enjoy a harbor of rest and peace all their days. They are not willing to rely on the security of that way of life; instead they add countless other safeguards, hedging themselves in on every side and taking great care in everything they say and do, so that, as far as human power allows, they may draw near to God with confidence and with spotless purity. If that is so, how much power and strength, do you think, does the ordained Priest need in order to tear his soul away from every defilement and keep its spiritual beauty unstained? For he needs far greater purity than they do; and whoever needs greater purity is also exposed to more pressing temptations than they are, temptations that can defile him unless he makes his soul inaccessible to them through constant self-denial and much labor. For a beautiful face, graceful movement, an affected walk and a lisping voice, penciled eyebrows and painted cheeks, elaborate braiding and dyeing of hair, expensive clothes, all kinds of gold ornaments, the splendor of precious stones, the scent of perfumes, and all the other things that women devote themselves to, are enough to throw the mind into disorder, unless it happens to be hardened against them through a very strict discipline of self-restraint. Now, it is no wonder that such things are disturbing. But that the devil should be able to strike and shoot down men’s souls with the very opposite of these things—that is something that fills us with astonishment and bewilderment.

3. For before now some men who escaped these snares have been caught by others very different from them. Even a neglected appearance, unkempt hair, shabby clothes, and an unpainted face, simple behavior and plain speech, an unstudied walk and a natural voice, a life of poverty, a despised, lonely condition without patrons, have first drawn the onlooker to pity, and then to utter ruin. And many who escaped the first set of nets—gold ornaments and perfumes and clothing and all the rest that I described as going with them—have easily fallen into these very different ones and perished. So when war is stirred up in the soul of the onlooker both by poverty and by wealth, both by the adornment and by the neglect of one’s appearance, both by studied and by natural manners, in short by every means I have listed, and its schemes surround him on every side, how will he ever be able to breathe freely with so many snares all around him? And what hiding place will he be able to find—I do not mean so as to avoid being seized by them by force (for that is not altogether difficult), but so as to keep his own soul undisturbed by polluting thoughts? And I pass over honors, which cause countless evils. Those that come from women are ruinous to the strength of self-restraint, and often overthrow it when a man does not know how to keep constant watch against such designs. As for those that come from men, unless a man receives them with great nobility of mind, he is gripped by two opposite emotions: servile flattery and senseless pride. He is forced to grovel before those who patronize him, while toward those beneath him he becomes puffed up because of the honors the others give him, and he is driven into the gulf of arrogance. We have mentioned these things, but how harmful they actually are no one could really learn without experiencing them. For whoever lives his life in the world must face not only these snares but others greater and more deceptive than these. But the one who is content with solitude is free from all this. And if at any time a stray thought conjures up an image of this kind, the image is weak and can be quickly subdued, because no fuel from outside, coming from actually seeing things, is added to the flame. For the recluse has only himself to fear for; or if he is compelled to take care of others, they are easily counted. And even if they are many, they are still fewer than those in our Churches, and they give the one who is over them much less anxiety, not only because they are few, but because they are all free from worldly concerns and have no wife or children or anything of that sort to care about. This makes them very respectful toward those who lead them, and allows them to live under the same roof, so that their leaders can take in their failings accurately at a glance and correct them, since the constant supervision of a teacher is no small help toward progress in virtue.

4. But most of those under the Priest’s care are weighed down with the cares of this life, and this makes them slower in carrying out their spiritual duties. That is why the teacher has to sow every day, so to speak, so that by sheer frequency, at least, the word of doctrine may be grasped by those who hear it. For excessive wealth, abundant power, laziness born of luxury, and many other things besides choke the seeds that have been sown. Often, too, the thick growth of thorns does not even let the seed fall onto the surface of the soil. On the other hand, excessive trouble, the pressure of poverty, constant insults, and other such things, the reverse of those just mentioned, draw the mind away from concern for divine things. And of their people’s sins, not even the smallest part can come to light; for how could it, when the Priests do not even know most of them by sight? That is how much difficulty is involved in the Priest’s relationship with his people. But if anyone looks into his relationship with God, he will find that the rest is nothing by comparison, since this requires a greater and more thorough earnestness. For the one who acts as an ambassador on behalf of the whole city—but why do I say the city? On behalf of the whole world—and prays that God would be merciful to the sins of all, not only of the living but also of the departed: what kind of man ought he to be? For my part, I think that the boldness of speech of Moses and Elijah is not enough for such a petition. For he draws near to God as though he had been entrusted with the whole world and were himself the father of all people, begging that wars may be put out everywhere and that disturbances may be quelled, asking for peace and plenty, and for swift deliverance from all the ills that afflict each person, publicly and privately. And he ought to surpass, in every respect, all those for whom he prays, as much as rulers ought to surpass their subjects. And when he calls on the Holy Spirit, and offers the most awesome sacrifice, and constantly handles the common Lord of all, tell me, what rank should we give him? What great purity and what genuine piety must we require of him? Think about what kind of hands should minister in these things, and what kind of tongue should speak such words; and shouldn’t the soul that receives so great a spirit be purer and holier than anything in the world? At such a time angels stand beside the Priest, and the whole sanctuary and the space around the altar are filled with the powers of heaven, in honor of Him who lies upon it. This, in fact, can be proved from the very rites being celebrated at that time. I myself, moreover, once heard someone tell how a certain elderly, venerable man, who was accustomed to seeing revelations, used to tell him that he had been counted worthy of a vision of this kind: at such a time he suddenly saw, as far as was possible for him, a multitude of angels dressed in shining robes, surrounding the altar and bowing down, as one might see soldiers in the presence of their King. And for my part, I believe it. Another person also told me—not having learned it from someone else, but having himself been counted worthy to be both an ear- and eyewitness of it—that when those who are about to depart this life have partaken of the mysteries with a pure conscience, then, as they are about to breathe their last, angels keep guard over them for the sake of what they have received, and carry them away from here. And do you still not tremble at bringing into so sacred a mystery as this, and promoting to the dignity of the Priesthood, a soul dressed in filthy clothes, one whom Christ has shut out from the rest of the company of guests? The soul of the Priest should shine like a light beaming over the whole world. But mine has such darkness hanging over it, because of my bad conscience, that it is always downcast and never able to look up to its Lord with confidence. Priests are the salt of the earth. But who would easily put up with my lack of understanding and my inexperience in everything, except you, who have always loved me beyond measure? For the Priest must not only be pure in this way, as one who has been honored with so high a ministry, but also very discreet and skilled in many matters. He must be as well versed in the affairs of this life as those who are engaged in the world, and yet be freer from them all than the recluses who live in the mountains. For since he has to mix with men who have wives and are raising children, who own servants, are surrounded by wealth, hold public office, and are people of influence, he too needs to be a many-sided man—I say many-sided, not false, nor fawning and hypocritical, but full of great freedom and confidence, knowing how to adapt himself usefully where the circumstances require it, and how to be both kind and severe. For it is not possible to treat everyone under one’s care in the same way, just as it is not good for doctors to give all their patients the same treatment, or for a pilot to know only one way of fighting the winds. For, in fact, constant storms beat upon this ship of ours, and these storms do not only attack from outside but also arise from within. There is need of much accommodation and caution, and all these different things have one goal in view: the glory of God and the building up of the Church.

5. The struggle that recluses undergo is great, and their toil is heavy. But if anyone compares their efforts with those involved in the right exercise of the Priesthood, he will find the difference as great as the distance between a king and a commoner. For there, though the labor is indeed great, the struggle is shared by body and soul, or rather most of it is carried out through the condition of the body; and if the body is not strong, the desire stays undeveloped and cannot come out into action. For the practice of intense fasting, sleeping on the ground, keeping vigils, going without bathing, hard labor, and all the other means they use to afflict the body are given up when the body that is to be disciplined this way is not strong. But in this case purity of soul is what is at stake, and no bodily vigor is needed to show its excellence. For what does strength of body contribute toward our not being self-willed, or proud, or headstrong, but sober and prudent and orderly, and everything else with which St. Paul completed his portrait of the perfect Priest? But no one could say this about the virtues of the recluse.

6. With wonder-workers, a great deal of equipment is needed—wheels and ropes and daggers—while the philosopher has his whole art stored up in his mind and needs no external equipment. So it is in the case before us. The recluse needs both a healthy body and a place suited to his way of life, so that such men may not be settled too far from contact with other people, may have the quiet that belongs to deserted places, and, beyond that, may not lack the most favorable climate. For nothing is as unbearable to a body worn out by fasting as a climate that is not temperate. And I need not speak now about how much trouble they are forced to take in preparing their clothing and daily food, since they are eager to do everything with their own hands. But the Priest will need none of these things to supply his needs. He is not concerned about them; he shares in everything that is harmless, while keeping all his skill stored up in the treasure house of his mind. And if anyone admires a solitary life and withdrawal from the company of the crowd, I myself would say that such a life is a sign of patience, but not sufficient proof of complete strength of soul. For the man who sits at the helm in harbor does not yet give any sure proof of his skill. But if someone can steer his ship safely in the middle of the sea, no one would deny that he is an excellent helmsman.

7. So it would not be at all surprising to us that the recluse, living by himself as he does, is undisturbed and does not commit many great sins. For he does not encounter things that irritate and excite his mind. But if someone who has devoted himself to whole multitudes, and has been compelled to bear the sins of many, has remained steadfast and firm, steering his soul in the middle of the storm as if he were in a calm, he is the one who deserves to be applauded and admired by all, for he has given sufficient proof of his own manliness. So do not be surprised if I, who avoid the marketplace and the places where crowds gather, do not have many accusers. For I should not be surprised if I did not sin while asleep, or did not fall when I was not wrestling, or was not hit when I was not fighting. For who, tell me, who will be able to speak against me and expose my depravity? This roof or this cell? No, they could not speak a word. My mother, who knows my affairs better than anyone? Well, I certainly have no dealings with her, and we have never had a quarrel; and even if that had happened, no mother is so heartless and so lacking in affection for her child as to insult and accuse in front of everyone the son she carried, gave birth to, and raised, unless there were some reason to force her or someone to push her into it. Nevertheless, if anyone wants to examine my mind carefully, he will find much that is corrupt there. And you are not unaware of this yourself, you who are especially in the habit of praising me in front of everyone. Now, to show that I am not saying these things out of mere modesty, remember how often I said to you, when we were discussing this subject, “If someone gave me the choice of whether I would rather gain distinction in the oversight of the Church or in the life of a recluse, I would vote a thousand times over to accept the former. For I have never stopped congratulating those who have been able to carry out this office well, and no one will dispute that I would not have avoided what I considered blessed if I were able to take part in it properly. But what am I to do? Nothing is as harmful to the oversight of the Church as this inactivity and negligence of mine. Others think it is a kind of self-discipline, but I consider it a sort of veil over my personal weakness, covering most of my defects and not letting them show. For a man who is used to enjoying so much freedom from business and spending his time in great quiet, even if he has a noble nature, is thrown into confusion by his inexperience and becomes agitated, and his inactivity robs him of no small part of his natural ability. But when he is also slow-witted and has no experience of these severe trials, as I take to be my case, he will carry out the ministry he has received no better than a statue would. That is why, of those who have come from that school to such a great trial, few shine; most of them expose themselves, fall, and undergo much hardship and suffering. And no wonder. For when the trials and the training concern different things, the person competing is no better off than someone untrained. Whoever enters this arena should despise glory, rise above anger, and be full of great discretion. But the man who chooses a secluded life has no opportunity to exercise these qualities. For he does not have many people to provoke him, so that he can practice disciplining the force of his anger, nor admirers and people applauding him, so that he can be trained to despise the praise of the crowds. And as for the discretion required in the Church, it does not come into account in their case at all. So whenever they come to trials they have never had practical experience of, they become bewildered, their heads spin, they fall into helplessness, and besides adding nothing to their excellence, they have often lost what they brought with them.

8. Basil: What then? Should we put in charge of the administration of the Church those who move in society, who are absorbed in the concerns of this world, who are experts at quarreling and abuse, are full of countless schemes, and are at home in a life of luxury? Chrysostom: Hush, my dear friend! You should never even consider such men when the Priesthood is under discussion, but only those who are able, after mixing and associating with everyone, to keep their purity undefiled, their unworldliness, holiness, steadfastness and sobriety unshaken, and to possess all the other virtues that belong to recluses to a greater degree than they do. A man who has many defects but is able to hide them through his seclusion and keep them from doing any harm, because he does not associate with anyone, will gain nothing when he goes into society except becoming a laughingstock, and he will run still greater risks. I very nearly experienced this myself, and would have, if the providence of God had not quickly warded such fire off my head. For a man in such a position cannot escape notice when he is placed so conspicuously; everything is detected then. And as fire tests the material of metals, so the trial of the clerical office searches the souls of mortal men. If anyone is hot-tempered or petty or hungry for fame, if he is boastful or anything else of the kind, it uncovers everything. It quickly lays bare his defects, and not only lays them bare but makes them more painful and more powerful. For just as wounds of the body become harder to heal when they are rubbed raw, so the emotions of the mind, when chafed and irritated, naturally become more inflamed and drive those who have them to commit greater sins. For they stir up the man who does not restrain them to love of glory, to boastfulness, and to desire for the goods of this world, and they drag him down both to luxury and slackness of life and to laziness, and, little by little, to the still worse evils that follow from these. For there are many circumstances in society that can upset the balance of the mind and keep it from going straight ahead, and first of all is his social dealings with women. For the Bishop, the one responsible for the whole flock, cannot take care of the male portion of it and neglect the female portion, which needs more particular attention because of its tendency to sin. The man appointed to administer a Bishopric must care for their moral health, if not to a greater degree, then at least to no lesser degree than for the others. He has to visit them when they are sick, comfort them when they are grieving, rebuke them when they are idle, and help them when they are in distress. And in such cases the evil one would find many openings to approach, if a man did not fortify himself with a very strict guard. For the eye, not only of the unchaste woman but even of the modest one, pierces and disturbs the mind. Flattery weakens it, favors enslave it, and fervent love—the source, one might say, of everything good—becomes the cause of countless evils for those who do not use it rightly. Constant worries, too, have before now dulled the edge of the understanding and made what was buoyant heavier than lead, while anger has burst in like smoke and taken possession of the whole inner man.

9. Why speak of the harm that comes from grief, of the insults, the abuse, the criticism from superiors and from inferiors, from the wise and from fools? For people who lack sound judgment are especially fond of criticizing and will never readily accept any explanation. Yet the truly excellent Bishop should not take these lightly, but should clear himself with everyone of the charges they bring against him, with great patience and gentleness, forgiving their unreasonable faultfinding rather than becoming indignant and angry about it. For if St. Paul was afraid of falling under suspicion of theft among his disciples, and therefore brought in others to manage the money, so that “no one,” he says, “should blame us in this abundance that is administered by us,” how should we not do everything we can to remove evil suspicions, even if they happen to be false, completely unreasonable, and very far from our thoughts? For we are not as far removed from any sin as St. Paul was from theft. Yet, though he was so far from this evil practice, he did not on that account brush aside the suspicion of the world, even though it was very absurd, even insane. For it was madness to have any such suspicion about that blessed and admirable man. Nevertheless, he removed the causes of this suspicion far away, unreasonable as it was, and such as no one in his right mind would entertain. He did not dismiss the foolishness of the crowds, nor did he say, “To whom would it ever occur to suspect such things of us, after the signs I have worked and the restraint that has marked my life, and when all of you revered and admired us?” Quite the opposite: he foresaw and expected this base suspicion and pulled it up by the roots, or rather did not let it grow at all. Why? “Because,” he says, “we take care to do what is honorable not only before the Lord but before all men.” We must use as much zeal as that, and far more, to root out and prevent rumors that are not good—to see from far off where they are coming from and remove in advance the causes that produce them, and not wait until they have taken hold and are on everyone’s lips. For then it is not easy to destroy them afterward, but very difficult, perhaps impossible, and not without harm, because it is being done after many have already been hurt. But how long will I keep chasing the unattainable? For listing all the difficulties in this area is nothing more or less than measuring the ocean. Even if someone were to free himself from every passion (which is impossible), he would still have to undergo countless trials in order to correct the failings of others. And when his own weaknesses are added, look at the abyss of toil and worry, and all that a man must suffer who wants to overcome the evils in himself and in those around him!

10. Basil: And now, are you free from toil? Do you have no cares while you live by yourself? Chrysostom: Yes, I have them even now. For how is it possible for someone who is human and living this toilsome life of ours to be free from cares and struggle? But plunging into a boundless ocean and crossing a river are not quite the same thing; that is how great the difference is between these cares and those. For now, if I were able to be of use to others, I would want it myself, and it would be something I prayed for. But if it is not possible to help someone else, still, if I can save and rescue myself from the waves, I will be content. Basil: Do you think that is a great thing, then? And do you imagine you will be saved when you are of no use to anyone else? Chrysostom: You have spoken well and nobly. For I myself cannot believe that it is possible for someone who has not worked for the salvation of his neighbor to be saved. It did the wretched man in the Gospel no good at all that he had not reduced his talent; he perished because he did not increase it and bring it back doubled to his master. Nevertheless, I think my punishment will be milder when I am called to account for not having saved others than it would be if I destroyed myself and others too by becoming far worse after receiving so great an honor. For now I trust that my punishment will be proportionate to the amount of my sins; but after receiving this office, I fear it would be not double or triple but many times greater, because I would have caused a great many to stumble, and after receiving further honor I would have offended the God who honored me.

11. That is exactly why God accuses the Israelites more severely and shows that they deserved greater punishment, because they sinned after receiving so many honors from Him. He says in one place, “But you only have I known of all the families of the earth; therefore I will punish you for your iniquities,” and again, “and I raised up some of your sons as prophets, and some of your young men as Nazirites.” And before the times of the prophets, wanting to show that sins are punished far more severely when committed by the Priest than when committed by the laity, He commands that as great a sacrifice be offered for the Priest as for the whole people. This amounts to proof on his part that the wounds of the Priesthood need more help—that is, as much as those of all the people put together. And they would not have needed more unless they were worse; and they are not worse by their nature, but are made heavier by the dignity of the Priest who dares to commit them. And why do I speak of the men who carry out this ministry? Even the daughters of the Priests, who have no share in the Priestly office, nevertheless undergo a far harsher punishment than others for the same sins because of their father’s dignity. The offense is the same in their case and in the case of the daughters of the laity, namely sexual immorality in both, yet the penalty is far more severe for the former. Do you see how abundantly God proves to you that he requires much greater punishment for the ruler than for the ruled? For surely the one who punishes a certain man’s daughter more severely than others for that man’s sake will not exact the same penalty from the man who is the cause of her added punishment as from others, but a much heavier one. And that is very reasonable, for the harm does not involve only himself; it destroys the souls of the weaker brothers and of those who look up to him. Ezekiel, writing to show this, distinguishes between the judgment of the rams and the judgment of the sheep.

12. So does our fear seem reasonable to you? For in addition to what has been said, although I have to work hard so as not to be completely overwhelmed by the passions of my soul, I do endure the toil and do not run from the struggle. For even now I am taken captive by a craving for empty praise; but I often recover myself and see at once that I have been captured, and there are times when I rebuke my enslaved soul. Outrageous desires come over me even now, but they kindle only a weak flame, since my bodily eyes cannot fix on any fuel to feed the fire. As for speaking ill of anyone, or hearing anyone spoken ill of, I am completely removed from that, since I have no one to talk to; these walls, surely, would never speak. Yet it is not altogether possible to avoid anger in the same way, even when there is no one to provoke it. For often, when the memory of outrageous men and of what they have done comes over me, my heart swells. But not for long, because I quickly put out the flare-up and persuade it to be quiet, telling it that it is very unwise and utterly contemptible to leave one’s own faults alone and busy oneself with the faults of one’s neighbors. But if I came among the crowd and were caught up in countless provocations, I would not be able to benefit from this warning or to have the reflections that take me to task this way. Just as those who are swept over cliffs by a torrent, or in some other way, can foresee the destruction they are headed for in the end but can think of no means of help, so I, once I have fallen into the great turmoil of my passions, will be able to see at a glance my punishment growing every day. But to master myself as I do now, and to rebuke diseases of this kind raging on every side, would not be as easy for me as it was before. For my soul is weak and puny and easily overpowered, not only by these passions but by envy, which is more bitter than all of them. Nor does it know how to bear insults or honors with moderation; the latter puff it up enormously, while the former crush it. Savage wild beasts, when they are in good condition and at full strength, overcome those who fight them, especially if their opponents are weak and unskilled; but if someone weakens them by starvation, he will put their rage to sleep and drain away most of their strength, so that even someone not especially brave could take up the fight and battle with them. So it is also with the passions of the soul. Whoever makes them weak brings them under the control of right reason; but whoever carefully feeds them makes his battle with them harder and makes them so formidable that he spends all his time in slavery and fear. What, then, is the food of these wild beasts? For the craving for empty praise, it is honors and applause; for pride, an abundance of authority and power; for envy, the reputation of one’s neighbors; for greed, the generosity of those who give freely; for lack of self-control, luxury and the constant company of women; and don’t the other passions each have their own proper food? All these things will attack me fiercely if I go out into the world; they will tear my soul to pieces, will be all the more formidable, and will make my battle with them harder. Whereas while I stay here, they will be subdued—only with great effort, it is true; but at the same time, by the Grace of God, they will be subdued, and they will do nothing worse than bark. That is why I keep to this cell and am inaccessible, self-contained and unsociable, and I put up with hearing countless complaints of this kind, though I would gladly wipe them out, and I have been upset and grieved that I cannot. For it is not easy for me to become sociable and at the same time remain in my present security. So I beg you, too, to pity rather than to blame a man beset by such great difficulty. But we still cannot persuade you. So the time has now come for me to tell you the one thing I have left unsaid. Perhaps many will find it unbelievable, but even so I will not be ashamed to make it public. For even though what I say is proof of a bad conscience and of many sins, still, since God, who is going to judge us, knows everything exactly, what would we gain from people’s ignorance? What, then, is this thing still unsaid? From the day you first hinted to me about the bishopric, my whole constitution has often been in danger of completely falling apart, such was the fear, such the dejection that gripped my soul. For when I considered the glory of the Bride of Christ, her holiness, her spiritual beauty and wisdom and loveliness, and then counted up my own faults, I could not stop lamenting both for her and for myself. And amid constant distress and perplexity I kept saying: Who made such a suggestion as this? Why has the Church of God made so great a mistake? Why has she so provoked her Master as to be handed over to me, the most unworthy of all men, and to suffer such great disgrace? Thinking these things over often by myself, and unable to bear the thought of something so monstrous, I would become like people who are thunderstruck, speechless, unable to see or hear. And when this state of complete helplessness left me—for there were times when it passed—tears and dejection took its place; and after the flood of tears, fear came in again in their place, disturbing, confusing, and shaking my mind. That is the kind of storm I lived through during the time that has passed. But you did not know it, and thought I was spending my time in perfect calm. Now, however, I will try to reveal to you the storm in my soul, for perhaps from now on you will forgive me and drop your accusations. How, then, will I reveal it to you? If you want to see it clearly, there is no other way than by laying bare my own heart; but since that is impossible, I will try to show you as well as I can, by a faint sort of illustration, the gloom of my dejection, and from this image please infer my condition. Let us suppose that the daughter of the King of all the earth under the sun is engaged to a certain man, and that this young woman has incomparable beauty, surpassing human nature, so that in this respect she far outstrips the whole race of women. Suppose too that she has such great virtues of soul that she leaves far behind the whole generation of men who have been or ever will be; that the grace of her manners surpasses every standard of art; and that the loveliness of her form is outshone by the beauty of her face. And suppose that her fiancé is in love with the young woman not only for these reasons, but loves her apart from them as well, and in his ardor puts in the shade the most passionate lovers who ever lived. Then let us suppose that, while he is burning with love, he hears from somewhere that some mean, contemptible man, lowborn and crippled in body, in fact a thoroughly bad sort, is about to marry this wonderful, dearly loved young woman. Have we now given you some small sense of our grief? And is it enough to stop my illustration here? As far as my dejection is concerned, I think it is enough, since that was the only purpose for which I introduced the comparison. But to show you the extent of my fear and terror, let me go on to another description. Imagine an armed force made up of infantry, cavalry and marines. Let a number of triremes cover the sea, and let phalanxes of foot soldiers and horsemen cover most of the plains and the ridges of the mountains. Let the metal of their armor reflect the sunshine, and the glitter of the helmets and shields be reflected by the beams they give off. Let the clashing of spears and the neighing of horses rise to the very heavens, and let neither sea nor land be visible, but only bronze and iron in every direction. Facing them, let the enemy be drawn up in battle formation, fierce and savage men, and let the moment of the battle now be at hand. Then let someone suddenly seize some young boy, one of those raised in the country who knows nothing but how to use a shepherd’s pipe and crook. Let him be dressed in bronze armor and led around the whole camp, and be shown the squadrons and their officers, the archers, slingers, captains, generals, the foot and horse, the spearmen, the triremes and their commanders, the dense mass of soldiers on the ships, and the multitude of war machines lying ready on board. Let him also be shown the whole array of the enemy, their repulsive appearance, and the varied supply and extraordinary quantity of their weapons, and also the ravines and cliffs of the mountains, deep and difficult. Let him be shown further, on the enemy’s side, horses flying by some enchantment, infantry carried through the air, and sorcery of every power and form. And let him consider the disasters of war: the cloud of spears, the hailstorm of arrows, that great mist and darkness, that gloomiest night, which the multitude of weapons produces as they blot out the sunlight with their cloud, the dust blinding the eyes no less than the darkness. The torrents of blood, the groans of the falling, the shouts of the survivors, the heaps of the slain, wheels bathed in blood, horses and their riders thrown headlong because of the number of corpses, the ground a scene of total confusion—blood and bows and arrows, horses’ hooves and men’s heads lying together, a human arm and a chariot wheel and a helmet, a chest pierced through, brains stuck to swords, the broken-off point of a dart with an eye impaled on it. Then let him count up the sufferings of the naval force: the triremes burning in the middle of the waves and sinking with their armed crews, the roar of the sea, the uproar of the sailors, the shouting of the soldiers, the foam of the waves mixed with blood and washing over into all the ships, the corpses on the decks, some sinking, some floating, some thrown up on the beach, overwhelmed by the waves and blocking the passage of the ships. And when he has been carefully taught the whole tragedy of warfare, let the horrors of captivity and slavery be added to it, worse than any kind of death. And after telling him all this, order him to mount his horse at once and take command of that entire force. Do you really think this boy would be up to anything more than hearing the description, and would not lose heart at the very first glance?

13. Do not think that I have exaggerated the matter in my account, or suppose that what I have said is overstated just because we are shut up in this body as in a prison and cannot see anything of the invisible world. For you would see a far greater and more terrifying conflict than this if you could ever catch sight of, with these eyes of yours, the devil’s grim battle array and his frenzied attack. There is no bronze or iron there, no horses or chariots or wheels, no fire and darts; those are visible things. But there are other war machines much more fearful than these. Against these enemies one does not need breastplate or shield, sword and spear; yet the mere sight of this accursed army is enough to paralyze the soul, unless it happens to be very noble and to enjoy in a high degree the providential care of God as a protection for its own courage. And if it were possible, by putting off this body or even while still keeping it, to see clearly and fearlessly with the naked eye his whole battle array and his warfare against us, you would see no torrents of blood or dead bodies, but so many fallen souls and such terrible wounds that you would think the whole description of warfare I just gave you was mere child’s play and a pastime rather than war. That is how many are struck down every day. And the wounds in the two cases do not bring about the same death; rather, as great as the difference between the soul and the body is, so great is the difference between that death and this. For when the soul receives a wound and falls, it does not lie there like a lifeless body; from then on it is tormented, gnawed by a bad conscience, and after it is taken from here, at the time of judgment, it is handed over to eternal punishment. And if anyone feels no grief over the wounds the devil inflicts, his danger becomes all the greater because of his insensibility. For whoever is not pained by the first wound will readily receive a second, and after that a third. For the unclean spirit will not stop attacking to the last breath whenever he finds a soul careless and indifferent to its first wounds. And if you were to look into his method of attack, you would find it much more severe and varied. For no one ever knew as many forms of cunning and deceit as that unclean spirit; in fact, it is by this that he has gained most of his power. Nor can anyone have so relentless a hatred for his worst enemies as the evil one has for the human race. And if anyone looks into the ferocity with which he fights, here again it would be ridiculous to compare men with him. But if anyone picks out the fiercest and most savage of beasts and decides to set their fury against his, he will find that they are gentle and calm by comparison, such is the rage he breathes out when he attacks our souls. And the duration of the warfare in the former case is short, and even in that short span there are breaks: nightfall, the exhaustion of slaughter, mealtimes, and many other things give the soldier a respite, so that he can take off his armor and catch his breath a little, refresh himself with food and drink, and recover his former strength in many other ways. But with the evil one it is never possible to lay aside one’s armor; it is not even possible to sleep, for one who wants to remain always unharmed. For one of two things is bound to happen: either one falls and perishes unarmed, or one stands fully armed and always on watch. For he always stands with his own battle array, watching for our laziness and working harder for our destruction than we do for our salvation. And the fact that he is not seen by us, and attacks us suddenly—things that are a source of countless evils for those who are not always on guard—proves this kind of war to be harder than the other. Would you want us, then, to command the soldiers of Christ in such a war? Why, that would be commanding them for the devil’s service. For whenever the one who should be marshaling and directing others is the most inexperienced and weakest of all men, by betraying through his inexperience those who have been entrusted to his care, he commands them in the devil’s interests rather than Christ’s. But why are you sighing? Why are you crying? My case does not call for weeping now, but for joy and gladness. Basil: But mine does not; mine calls for countless laments. For I can hardly yet grasp how deep an evil you have brought me into. I came to you wanting to learn what defense I should make on your behalf to those who find fault with you; but you send me back having given me another case in place of the one I had. For I am no longer concerned about what defense I will give them on your behalf, but about what defense I will make to God for myself and my own faults. But I beg you and implore you, if my welfare means anything to you, if there is any consolation in Christ, if any comfort of love, if any deep affection and mercies—for you know that you yourself, more than anyone, have brought me into this danger—reach out your hand, saying and doing whatever can restore me. Do not have the heart to leave me for even the briefest moment, but now, more than before, let me spend my life with you. Chrysostom: But I smiled and said, “How will I be able to help you, how can I be of use to you under so great a burden of office? But since this would please you, take courage, dear soul. For whenever you are able to find some leisure amid your own cares, I will come and comfort you, and nothing within my power will be lacking.” At this, weeping even more, he got up. But I embraced him, kissed his head, and walked him out, urging him to bear his lot bravely. “For I believe,” I said, “that through Christ, who has called you and set you over his own sheep, you will gain such confidence from this ministry that you will receive me too, if I am in danger on the last day, into your everlasting tabernacle.”