THEOSISJohn Chrysostom
“Who also informed us,” he says, “of your love in the Spirit,” that is, of your spiritual love for us. But if he is a servant of Christ, how do you say that you were brought through angels?
“Who also informed us,” he says, “of your love in the Spirit.” This love is wondrous and firm, while others bear only the name of love. Some are not of this kind. That is not friendship, and therefore it is easily dissolved.
There are many occasions for acquiring friendship. We shall not now mention shameful ones, for no one will object that they are evil. But if you wish, let us bring to light natural and worldly occasions.
Worldly occasions include these: when someone receives some good from another, gains a friend from his ancestors, shares a table or a journey with someone, or lives nearby. These occasions are also good. Similarity of occupations also belongs to them, though sincerity is not found there. There is room there for rivalry and envy.
Natural occasions of friendship include a father toward a son, a son toward a father, a brother toward a brother, a grandfather toward a grandson, and a mother toward children. Let us add, if you wish, a wife toward a husband. For all marital occasions belong among the worldly and earthly.
The latter seem stronger than the former. I say they seem, because they are often overcome by the former. Sometimes friends by worldly relationships are more sincerely disposed than brothers toward brothers, or sons toward fathers. One man, though related, will not help, while another, not even acquainted, will come and help.
But spiritual love is higher than every other love. Like a queen, it rules over its own and is therefore more splendidly adorned than they. Nothing earthly gives birth to it, as it does to the others. Neither habit, nor benefaction, nor nature, nor time does this. It descends from above, from heaven.
And what is wondrous if it has no need of benefaction in order to exist, since it is not destroyed even by sufferings? Hear Paul’s words, showing that it is greater than the other: “I could wish that I myself were accursed from Christ for my brethren” (Rom 9:3).
What father would wish to be in misery for his children? Again he says, “To depart and be with Christ is far better; but to remain in the flesh is more necessary for you” (Phil 1:23-24). What mother would resolve to say this, expressing disregard for her children?
Again, hear what he says: “Having been taken away from you for a short time in presence, not in heart” (1 Thess 2:17). There, when a father is insulted, he ends the friendship. But here it is not so. Here he goes to those who stone him, with the aim of benefiting them.
There is nothing, truly nothing, so strong as the bonds of the Spirit. Whoever becomes a friend by receiving benefactions will become an enemy if they are not continuous. Whoever became inseparable by habit extinguishes friendship when the habit is interrupted.
A wife, when strife occurs between the spouses, leaves her husband and ends the love. A son, when he sees that his father lives long, begins to be burdened. But in spiritual love there is nothing of this kind. It is not destroyed by any such thing, since its composition is not such.
Neither time, nor the long journey of life, nor suffering, nor hearing unpleasant things, nor anger, nor insult penetrates this love or can destroy it. Know this: Moses was being stoned by the Jews, and he prayed for them (Ex 17). What father would do this for a son who threw a stone at him? Would he not, on the contrary, attack him himself?
This is the spiritual friendship we must seek, because it is strong and indissoluble. We must not seek the friendship of the table, which is forbidden to be introduced there, into the life of the spirit.
Indeed, hear what Christ says in the Gospel: “Do not invite your friends, nor your rich neighbors. When you give a feast, invite the poor, the maimed, the lame” (Lk 14:12-13). This is just, because a great reward is appointed for them.
But you cannot do it. You do not have the strength to feast with the lame and the blind. You consider it heavy and dull. Of course, you should not avoid this. Yet if there is no necessity, and if you do not seat them with you, then send them food from your table.
For whoever has invited friends has done nothing great, and has already received his reward here. But whoever invites the weak and the poor has God as his debtor. Therefore we must grieve not because we do not receive repayment here, but because we do receive it here. For there we shall not receive it.
Or, what is the same, if a man repays, God does not repay. But if man does not repay, God will repay.
Let us strive, then, to benefit not those who can repay us, and not to benefit with such hopes. This is a cold calculation. If you invite a friend, you gain gratitude until evening. Therefore this temporary friendship is spent sooner than the expense.
But if you invite the poor and the weak, the gratitude never perishes, because in this case you have God as your debtor. He always remembers and never forgets.
Tell me, how great is the pettiness of a soul that cannot sit with the poor. What are you saying? The poor man is unclean and filthy? Then wash him, and afterward bring him to your table. Does he have torn clothing? Change it and give him clean clothes.
Do you not see how much benefit there is here? Through him Christ comes to you, and because of him you dishonor Christ? When you invite the King to your table, do you fear Him in the persons of the poor?
Let two tables be set. Let one be full of these people: blind, bent, lame, lacking hands or legs, unshod, covered only with an outer garment, and that one torn. At the other let noblemen, military commanders, governors, and great rulers sit, clothed in costly garments and fine fabrics, and girded with golden belts.
Again, at the table of the poor let there be no silver and no abundance of wine, but only as much as is needed to gladden a man. Let the cups and other vessels be only glass. On the contrary, at the table of the rich let all the vessels be of silver and gold.
Let the semicircular table be such that one man cannot even carry it away, and only two servants can barely move it. Let the cup also be gilded, weighing half a talent, so that two young men can carry it only with difficulty.
Let a whole row of amphorae stand there, shining not with silver, but with what is far better, with gold. Let the whole semicircular table be covered with a soft cloth. Again, let many servants stand there, adorned with garments no less than those who recline. Let them be splendidly dressed, in wide trousers, beautiful in appearance, flourishing in age, strong, and full-bodied.
At the other table let only two servants stand, having trampled down all pomp. Before the former let many costly dishes be set, and before the latter only as much as is needed to satisfy hunger and strengthen a man.
Have I said enough? Have both tables been prepared in the proper way? Is anything lacking? I do not think so. I have touched on the guests, the preciousness of the vessels, the decorations, and the foods. Still, if we have omitted anything, we shall find what was omitted in what follows.
Now that both tables have received a fitting appearance from us, let us see where you will recline. I shall go where the blind and the lame sit. Many of you, perhaps, will choose that solemn and splendid table of the commanders.
Let us see which is filled with greater pleasure. We shall not yet examine the future, because in the future my table excels. Why? Because Christ will recline at that one, and men at this one; the Master at that one, and servants at this one.
But let us not speak of this for now. Let us see at which table there is more pleasure in the present. Even from this side, the pleasure of sitting with the poor is greater. Reclining at table with the King certainly brings more pleasure than reclining with servants. But let us set this aside and examine the matter in itself.
I, and those who have chosen this table with me, shall speak about everything with great freedom and boldness, and we shall listen to one another. But you, fearing and trembling and ashamed before those reclining with you, will not dare even to stretch out your hand. It will be as though you came not to dinner, but to school, and were trembling before cruel masters.
This is not how it is with those others. But you will say, “What great honor!” Yes, I enjoy greater honor. Your insignificance is revealed sharply precisely when, taking part in that table, you speak servilely. For a servant especially appears to be a servant when he reclines at table with his master.
Being where he ought not to be, he does not receive honor so much as undergo humiliation through that closeness. Then indeed he is greatly humiliated. You will see a servant glorious when he is by himself, and a poor man glorious when he is by himself, not when he walks beside a rich man.
What is low appears low when it stands beside what is high. By comparison, what is low becomes lower, not higher. In the same way, reclining at table with those men makes you more insignificant, not us.
We have advantage over you in two respects: freedom and honor. When pleasure is in question, nothing can be compared with them. I would rather agree to eat bread while enjoying freedom than many dishes while enduring servitude.
“Better,” says the Wise Man, “is a dish of herbs where love is, than a fatted ox with hatred” (Prov 15:17).
Those who have taken their place among dependents, or have become even worse than they, must necessarily either praise those present or offend them, whatever they say. They, though with shame and irritation, still have boldness to speak. You do not even have this. Such is your insignificance: you fear and crawl, and there is no honor at all.
Therefore that table is deprived of every pleasure. This one, on the contrary, is filled with every consolation. But let us also examine the very quality of the foods. There, even unwillingly, you necessarily harm yourself with much wine. Here, whoever does not wish may neither eat nor drink.
Thus there, both the preceding feeling of humiliation and the heaviness following satiety destroy the pleasure aroused by the quality of the foods. Indeed, satiety, no less than hunger, and even much more, destroys bodies and subjects them to illnesses.
Give me anyone you wish, and I shall more quickly ruin him by satiety than by hunger. Without question, the latter is more bearable than the former. Hunger can be borne for twenty days, but satiety cannot be borne even for two.
Constantly struggling with hunger, peasants enjoy health and do not need physicians. But even those who are always summoning physicians cannot endure satiety. Or rather, the tyranny of satiety often puts their help to shame.
Therefore, as far as pleasure is concerned, the table of the poor has the advantage. If it is more pleasant to be honored than dishonored, more pleasant to have authority than to be subject, more pleasant to preserve boldness than to tremble and fear. And more pleasant to enjoy as much as is needed than to be plunged beyond measure in waves of luxury, then with respect to pleasure this table is better than that one.
It is better also with respect to expenses. That table is ruinous, while this one is not. But what? Is this table more pleasant only for those reclining, or does it also bring more pleasure to the one who invites them than that table does? This is what is especially being asked.
The one who summons noble guests prepares for many days. He is compelled to fuss, worry, and be anxious. He forgets sleep at night and rest by day. He must think about many things by himself, and speak with cooks, bakers, and table stewards.
Then, when the appointed day arrives, you see him more anxious than one entering battle. He fears that something unexpected may happen, that people may speak badly, and that he may gain many accusers.