Leaves from St. John Chrysostom

by Saint John Chrysostom

To Olympias.
(From Arabissus, A.D. 406. Ὀλυμπίαδι, xv., t. iii., p. 601.)

Would you, who have given proof of so much mortification from your youth upwards, and have trodden human pride under foot, expect to live a quiet life without combat? How should this be? For if men who are fighting other men receive a thousand wounds in combats and wars, you who have been armed against principalities, and powers, and the lords of darkness in this world, against spiritual forces of wickedness, who have fought thus valiantly, and set up victorious trophies, and thus vexed the devil,—how should you hope to lead a peaceful and untroubled life? Therefore you should not be disquieted because battles, and agitation, and fears assail you on every side. You should wonder, on the contrary, if none of these things came to pass. Labour and peril are the lot of goodness. You knew this well enough before my letter, and do not need to learn it from others. I write this, then, since I am not instructing one who is ignorant. For we know that neither banishment from our country nor the loss of money, though insupportable to most men—neither contempt nor any other suffering of the kind, will be able to disturb you. For if the companions of those who have suffered these things have become enviable, how much more those who are actually suffering them? Therefore, on both accounts, Paul proclaims believers amongst the Hebrews, saying: Call to mind the former days, wherein, being illuminated, you endured a great fight of afflictions, and on the one hand, indeed, by reproaches and tribulations, were made a gazing-stock, and on the other became companions of them that were used in such sort. Therefore, there is no need for me to write a long letter. No man, indeed, goes to offer assistance to a conqueror who holds a splendid trophy of victory in his hands, but only praise. I, too, know how much interior spirit you have shown in what has befallen you. I account you blessed, and admire you for your patience in the present, as well as for the rewards which it will bring to you. I am well aware, however, that you wish to hear how I am getting on, for I have been silent for a very long time. I have thrown off the violence of my illness, but still feel its effects. I have had excellent physicians, yet the want of necessaries destroys the good of my cure. For not only are there no remedies here, and no one of the things required for a suffering body, but both famine and pestilence are imminent.

· · · · · · ·

To Pœanius. ‘Glory be to God in all things.’
(A.D. 404. Παιανιῳ, cxciii., tom. iii., p. 708.)

You greatly refreshed me and made me rejoice, when, in telling me of your misfortunes, you added the word, which we should always say in everything befalling us: ‘Glory be to God in all things’. This is a stroke which hits the devil in the right place; this is great security and happiness in every danger to the man who utters it. In giving voice to it, dark despondency vanishes. Cease not, then, from saying it and from teaching it to others. Thus a destructive storm, even should it increase in fury, will be changed into peace; thus the storm-tossed will reap a greater reward, whilst they are also removed from evils. This it was which crowned Job; this word overthrew the devil, and made him retire in confusion; this removes all anxiety. Continue, therefore, to use it on all occasions. Let no one be in trouble about this place. For if Kucusus be indeed a solitude, I enjoy much quiet there, and I have been able to cure a large part of the no small infirmity contracted through weakness on my journey, by sitting constantly in the house.

· · · · · · ·

Vanity of Vanities.
(Homily on Eutropius,[30] Benedictine Edition, tom. iii., p. 381.)

At all times, but especially now, it is pertinent to say, Vanity of vanities, and all is vanity. Where is now that splendid consulship, those magnificent torches and applauding assemblies, those balls and banquets and stately feasts? Where are those crowns and curtains, those gatherings of a whole city, the cheerings of amphitheatres, the flatteries of crowded houses? All these things have vanished: a mighty gale has blown down the leaves, and shown us a naked tree, one shaken from its foundations. Such has been the force of the wind that, after sapping the tree’s life, it threatens to tear it up by the roots. Where are now those false friends, and those drinking parties and banquets? Where are those swarms of parasites, that wine which never ceased flowing all day long, those wonderful dishes produced by the cooks, those servants of the consulate,—all those who spoke and acted to curry favour? They were a night’s dream, and they vanished with the daylight; they were spring blossoms scorched by summer heat: they were passing shadows, dissolving smoke, bubbles which have burst, a cobweb torn away. Therefore I would put before you the frequent use of those spiritual words: Vanity of vanities, all is vanity.

These are words which should be engraved on walls, on clothes, on the market-place, in dwelling-houses, by the wayside, on doors and thresholds, and, most of all, in the conscience of each one of us, which we should regard through everything, since trickery and masks and hypocrisy seem to be truth amongst the majority of men. These are words which every man should speak to his neighbour both at the morning and the evening meal, and at meetings, and which he should hear from others: Vanity of vanities, and all is vanity. Was I not always telling you that riches are fleeting? You would not believe me. Did I not tell you that wealth is an arrogant companion? You would not be persuaded. Now, a personal experience has shown you that it is not only fleeting, not only arrogant, but also murderous, for it has caused your fear and trembling at this hour. Did I not tell you, when you so often reproached me for speaking the truth to your face, that I loved you better than your flatterers? Am not I, your reprover, in greater trouble about you than those who fawned upon you? Did I not add to these words that the wounds inflicted by a friend are more to be trusted than the kisses of enemies? If you had borne my wounds those kisses of theirs would not now have brought forth death, for my wounds work health, whereas their kisses prepared a fatal disease! Where are now your cup-bearers? Where are those who cleared the market-place before you, and who were full of your praises in the crowd? They have fled, and given up your friendship; they provide for their own safety at the cost of your agony. It is not so with us, but we would not be rebuffed even when you did not want us, and now that you have fallen we stand by you and protect you. That Church, which was warred upon by you, has opened her heart to receive you; whereas those fostered theatres, which you often fought us about, have delivered you up to destruction. Still we ceased not to say, ‘Why do you act thus? You rage against the Church and are walking towards a precipice,’ and you heeded nothing. Yet the races, those squanderers of your wealth, have sharpened their sword against you, whilst the Church, the object of your unseemly wrath, hastens to meet you, wishing to rescue you from their wiles.

I say these things now, not desiring to insult the fallen, but in order to increase the security of those who have not fallen: not to tear open the sores of the wounded, but to maintain in sound health those who are not wounded: not to shipwreck the man tossed by the waves, but to warn those who are sailing in calm seas so that they may avoid sinking. How can this be done? By taking to heart the vicissitudes of human things. For if this man had feared a change of fortune, it would not have come upon him, but neither his own lot nor that of others improved him: now do you who are nursing your riches gather your lesson from this man’s misfortune, for nothing is more insecure than human things. Consequently, if a man were to call them neediness itself, he would say less than the truth, whether he liken them to smoke or mire, or a dream, or spring blossoms, or anything else, so perishable are they, and so less than nothing. That nothingness has indeed much that is insecure is evident from this: who was ever a mightier man than he? Did he not surpass the whole world by his wealth? Did he not rise to the height of honours? Did not all men hold him in fear and awe? Yet see, he is more miserable than slaves, and more to be pitied than menials, in greater want than the poor who are pinched with hunger, having before his eyes day by day swords pointed at him, and dungeons and executioners, and the road leading to death. Nor does he enjoy the memory of his past pleasure, nor is he conscious even of the light; but in the midst of day, as if in darkest night, encompassed by anguish, he is deprived of his sight. Try as I will, however, I cannot measure that suffering by words, which delivers him up to an hourly expectation of death. But what need is there of our words since he bears them distinctly written on himself for us, as if engraven on a statue? For yesterday men came to him from the imperial court, wishing to drag him away by force, and he took refuge amongst the sacred vessels: he looked already nothing better than a dead man, his teeth were chattering, his whole body shivering and trembling, his voice was broken, his tongue faltering, and he himself as if the life in him had turned to stone.