John Chrysostom
What then, you ask? Is nothing to be done with those who are wavering in the faith? "But the firm foundation of God stands," the Apostle says, "having this seal: The Lord knows those who are His; and, Let everyone who names the name of the Lord depart from unrighteousness."
Here it is shown that they were not firm even before they were shaken. Otherwise they would not have been shaken by the first assault, just as Adam was not firm before the temptation. The firm not only suffer nothing from deceivers, but even deserve admiration. "The firm foundation," he says. Thus one must be devoted to the faith.
Read more (1675 words)
"Having this seal: The Lord knows those who are His." What does this mean? The Apostle borrowed this from Deuteronomy, or more exactly, from Numbers 16:5. It means that firm souls stand firm and unmoved. And from what is this evident? From the fact that such words are inscribed upon their deeds: God knows them and does not permit them to perish, and they depart from unrighteousness.
"Let everyone who names the name of the Lord depart from unrighteousness." These are the marks of the foundation. Such a man appears as a firm foundation. Just as an inscription is made on a stone so that it may serve as its mark, so this inscription is expressed in him through deeds.
"Having," he says, this seal inscribed: "Let everyone who names the name of the Lord depart from unrighteousness." Therefore whoever does unrighteousness does not have this foundation. The mark of this seal is not to do unrighteousness.
Let us not deprive ourselves of this royal seal and sign, lest we remain unsealed and unstable. Let us stand upon foundations, and upon firm foundations, and not be carried away. Here is the mark of people who belong to God: to depart from unrighteousness. How can the one who does unrighteousness belong to God, who is righteous, when he opposes Him by his deeds and offends Him by his actions?
Yet again we condemn unrighteousness, and again we stir up against ourselves a multitude of the discontented. Passion, like a tyrant, has taken possession of the souls of all. What is fearful is that it has possessed them not by compulsion or violence, but by persuasion and enticement, so that they are even grateful for such slavery.
This is truly fearful. If they were held by violence and not by attachment, they would soon break away. And why does that which is in itself very unpleasant appear pleasant? Conversely, why does righteousness appear unpleasant, though it is very pleasant? This depends on our dispositions. Some have found even honey bitter, while they have taken some harmful thing with pleasure. The cause is not in the nature of things, but in the corruption of the wicked themselves.
Think of the tribunal in our soul. When the plumb line is not properly fixed, scales falsely show the weight of the things being weighed. So also the soul cannot judge things well, but wavers and is carried away, when the plumb line of its thoughts is not established and firmly attached to the law of God.
If one looks carefully, one can see that unrighteousness is very bitter, not only for those who suffer from it, but also for those who do it. Indeed, it is much more bitter for the latter than for the former. Let us not yet speak of the future, but only of the present. Are lawsuits, trials, condemnation, envy, and slander not its companions? What could be more unpleasant than this?
Are hatred, enmity, reproaches, and the constant torments and gnawings of conscience not its companions? I wish, if it were possible, to draw the soul of an unjust man out of his body. Then you would see how it grows pale, trembles, is ashamed, is troubled, and condemns itself.
Whatever depth of evil we may have fallen into, the judge of our soul is not destroyed. He remains incorruptible. No one will openly say that unrighteousness is good. Rather, he invents pretexts and uses every means at least to justify himself in words. Yet he cannot receive justification from conscience.
Among us, eloquence, the corruption of rulers, and the multitude of flatterers can darken the truth. But within, in the conscience, there is nothing of this kind. There are no flatterers there, no money to bribe the judge. This judge has been implanted in us by God by nature, and what is from God cannot suffer anything of this kind.
On the contrary, unpleasant dreams, apparitions, and the constant remembrance of the evil done disturb our peace. For example, has someone unjustly appropriated another's house? Then not only the one deprived suffers, but also the one who appropriated it, if he believes in the future judgment. If he believes in it, he grieves deeply and weeps. If he does not believe in the future, even then he is ashamed and blushes.
Indeed, there is no man who does not fear judgment, whether he is pagan, Jew, or heretic. If he does not think of the future, he fears and trembles over this life. He fears lest he suffer misfortune in money, or children, or household, or soul, because God sends many such things.
Since the teaching about the resurrection cannot bring all to their senses, God even here gives and shows us many signs of His justice. Such a covetous man had no children. Another fell in war. Another was maimed. Another lost his son. He knows and imagines all this, and therefore remains in constant fear.
Or do you not know how unjust men suffer, and how unpleasant this is? Even if they experienced none of these things, does not everyone despise them? Does not everyone hate them? Does not everyone turn away from them? Does not everyone call them more senseless than wild beasts, even the ungodly who are like them?
If they condemn themselves, still more do they condemn another, calling him a robber, a covetous man, and a villain. What, then, is pleasant in covetousness? Nothing, except that anxiety over preserving wealth increases, cares and sorrows multiply, and the more one accumulates wealth, the greater insomnia one acquires for himself.
And what shall we say of the curses and complaints of those who have been wronged? What if illness occurs? Truly, there is no man who, when he is in illness and unable to do anything, does not become anxious and tormented, even if he were the most godless of all.
While we live here, the pleasure-loving soul estranges itself from everything sorrowful. But when the time comes for it to be separated from the body, then great fear seizes it, as though it were entering the very forecourt of the tribunal.
Robbers, while they remain in prison, live without fear. But when they are brought to the very curtain, to the place of judgment, then they lose themselves from fear. Indeed, when the fear of death comes, it burns up everything else like fire. It compels the soul to come to its senses and care for the future.
Then neither desire for wealth, nor the passion of covetousness, nor sensual pleasure rules it. All this passes like a cloud. The inner judge becomes clear, and the sorrow that has seized the soul softens its hardness. Nothing so hinders the love of wisdom as a life of pleasures. Conversely, affliction helps the love of wisdom.
Imagine what will then happen to the covetous man. "A moment of suffering," says the Wise One, "makes one forget delights" (Sir 11:27). What will it be like for him to remember those he robbed, those he wronged, and those who suffered from his greed? What will it be like to see others enjoying the gain, while he himself is preparing to receive punishment?
It is impossible, truly impossible, that one who has fallen ill should not think of this. Often in such cases the soul, losing itself and suffering torment, shudders. Tell me, what kind of torment is this? It necessarily occurs in every illness. And what will he not suffer when he sees others punished and dying?
And this is here. What will be there cannot be expressed in words: what recompense there will be, what punishments, what torments, what lacerations. Therefore we say: "He who has ears to hear, let him hear" (Lk 8:8).
We speak of this often, not because we wish to speak of it often, but because we are compelled to do so. We would wish that there were no need even to begin speaking of it. But if it is impossible not to begin, then at least we would wish, by a small remedy, to free you from sickness and restore you to health.
But when you persist in sickness, it would be base and pitiful to abandon the treatment. It would even be cruel and inhuman. If we entreat physicians who despair of healing the body, saying to them, do not leave us and do not cease using your remedies until the last breath, should we not much more urge ourselves on?
Perhaps someone, even after reaching the very gates of Hades and the forecourt of the very depth of evils, will be able to come to himself, rise, be strengthened, and receive eternal life. How many people, after hearing exhortations ten times, do not come to repentance, but later are converted by a single exhortation?
Or rather, not by a single exhortation. Although they remained insensible during the previous ten, they nevertheless received benefit from them, and afterward showed the whole fruit all at once. A tree receives ten blows and does not fall from the ten. Then suddenly it falls from one later blow. Yet, strictly speaking, the effect of the last blow comes not from the one, but from the ten. Whoever looks at the root sees this. Whoever looks from above at the trunk cannot see anything of the kind.
So it is here. Physicians often give many medicines without benefit. Then someone gives his medicine and sets everything right. Yet this is not his work alone, but also the work of the earlier medicines, which had already acted upon the disease. So also we, if we do not show the fruits of hearing now, will show them later. That we shall show them, I am entirely confident.
It is impossible, truly impossible, that such love and such zeal of yours for hearing should remain fruitless. May this not be. Rather, may all of us, who have been counted worthy to hear the commandments of Christ, be counted worthy of eternal good things.