To Carthage I came, where there sang all around me in my ears a cauldron of unholy loves. I loved not yet, yet I loved to love, and out of a deep-seated want, I hated myself for wanting not. I sought what I might love, in love with loving, and safety I hated, and a way without snares. For within me was a famine of that inward food, Thyself, my God; yet, through that famine I was not hungered; but was without all longing for incorruptible sustenance, not because filled therewith, but the more empty, the more I loathed it. For this cause my soul was sickly and full of sores, it miserably cast itself forth, desiring to be scraped by the touch of objects of sense. Yet if these had not a soul, they would not be objects of love. To love then, and to be beloved, was sweet to me; but more, when I obtained to enjoy the person I loved, I defiled, therefore, the spring of friendship with the filth of concupiscence, and I beclouded its brightness with the hell of lustfulness; and thus foul and unseemly, I would fain, through exceeding vanity, be fine and courtly. I fell headlong then into the love wherein I longed to be ensnared. My God, my Mercy, with how much gall didst Thou out of Thy great goodness besprinkle for me that sweetness? For I was both beloved, and secretly arrived at the bond of enjoying; and was with joy fettered with sorrow-bringing bonds, that I might be scourged with the iron burning rods of jealousy, and suspicions, and fears, and angers, and quarrels.
I arrived in Carthage, where I was surrounded by a swirling chaos of destructive passions. Though I hadn't yet experienced love, I yearned to be in love—and in my deep-seated emptiness, I despised myself for not feeling it. I searched desperately for something to love, enchanted by the very idea of love, while rejecting anything safe or straightforward. Inside me was a spiritual hunger for You, my God, yet this hunger didn't manifest as actual appetite. I had no desire for pure nourishment—not because I was satisfied, but because the emptier I became, the more I rejected it. This made my soul sick and wounded, desperately reaching out for physical sensations to soothe itself. But these material things could only be truly loved if they had a soul. To love and be loved was intoxicating, but when I finally possessed the one I desired, I corrupted the purity of friendship with lust and darkened its light with base desires. Despite my ugliness, my vanity made me want to appear refined and sophisticated. I threw myself headlong into the very trap I wished would catch me. My God, my Mercy, how You mixed such bitterness into that sweetness, out of Your great kindness! For though I found love and secret pleasure, my joy came wrapped in chains of misery. I was whipped by the burning irons of jealousy, suspicion, fear, anger, and endless quarrels.
Stage-plays also carried me away, full of images of my miseries, and of fuel to my fire. Why is it, that man desires to be made sad, beholding doleful and tragical things, which yet himself would no means suffer? yet he desires as a spectator to feel sorrow at them, and this very sorrow is his pleasure. What is this but a miserable madness? for a man is the more affected with these actions, the less free he is from such affections. Howsoever, when he suffers in his own person, it uses to be styled misery: when he compassionates others, then it is mercy. But what sort of compassion is this for feigned and scenical passions? for the auditor is not called on to relieve, but only to grieve: and he applauds the actor of these fictions the more, the more he grieves. And if the calamities of those persons (whether of old times, or mere fiction) be so acted, that the spectator is not moved to tears, he goes away disgusted and criticising; but if he be moved to passion, he stays intent, and weeps for joy.
Theater captivated me, reflecting my own pain and fueling my inner turmoil. Why do we seek to experience sadness by watching tragic stories that we ourselves would never want to live through? We become willing spectators to sorrow, finding pleasure in that very sadness. Isn't this a kind of insanity? The more emotionally vulnerable we are, the more deeply these performances affect us. When we personally suffer, we call it misery, but when we feel for others, we call it compassion. Yet what kind of compassion is this, feeling for staged emotions and fictional pain? The audience isn't asked to help, only to feel grief—and the more grief they feel, the more they praise the actor. If these tragedies, whether historical or fictional, fail to bring tears, viewers leave disappointed and critical. But if they stir genuine emotion, viewers remain engrossed, finding joy even in their tears.
Are griefs then too loved? Verily all desire joy. Or whereas no man likes to be miserable, is he yet pleased to be merciful? which because it cannot be without passion, for this reason alone are passions loved? This also springs from that vein of friendship. But whither goes that vein? whither flows it? wherefore runs it into that torrent of pitch bubbling forth those monstrous tides of foul lustfulness, into which it is wilfully changed and transformed, being of its own will precipitated and corrupted from its heavenly clearness? Shall compassion then be put away? by no means. Be griefs then sometimes loved. But beware of uncleanness, O my soul, under the guardianship of my God, the God of our fathers, who is to be praised and exalted above all for ever, beware of uncleanness. For I have not now ceased to pity; but then in the theatres I rejoiced with lovers when they wickedly enjoyed one another, although this was imaginary only in the play. And when they lost one another, as if very compassionate, I sorrowed with them, yet had my delight in both. But now I much more pity him that rejoiceth in his wickedness, than him who is thought to suffer hardship, by missing some pernicious pleasure, and the loss of some miserable felicity. This certainly is the truer mercy, but in it grief delights not. For though he that grieves for the miserable, be commended for his office of charity; yet had he, who is genuinely compassionate, rather there were nothing for him to grieve for. For if good will be ill willed (which can never be), then may he, who truly and sincerely commiserates, wish there might be some miserable, that he might commiserate. Some sorrow may then be allowed, none loved. For thus dost Thou, O Lord God, who lovest souls far more purely than we, and hast more incorruptibly pity on them, yet are wounded with no sorrowfulness. And who is sufficient for these things?
Do we truly love our sorrows? Everyone seeks happiness, yet when someone is merciful, they must feel another's pain—so in a way, we love these emotions. This stems from our capacity for friendship, but where does that lead us? Why does it flow into that dark pit of destructive desires, transforming itself from something pure into something corrupt? Should we then abandon compassion? Never. We may sometimes need to embrace grief. But guard against impurity, my soul, under the protection of my God—the God of our ancestors, forever worthy of praise. I still feel compassion, but I now see how differently it once manifested. In theaters, I delighted in lovers' joys and sorrows, even though they were just acting. I felt false sympathy when they lost each other, finding pleasure in both their happiness and pain. Today, I feel more pity for those who find joy in wrongdoing than for those who suffer from losing harmful pleasures or false happiness. This is truer mercy, though it brings no pleasure in grief. While we praise those who sympathize with the suffering, any truly compassionate person would prefer there be no suffering at all. For if goodwill could become ill will (which is impossible), only then might a genuinely compassionate person wish for others' misfortune just to feel pity. We may accept some sorrow, but we shouldn't love it. You, Lord God, love souls more purely than we do, showing perfect compassion without being wounded by sadness. Who among us can fully comprehend this?
But I, miserable, then loved to grieve, and sought out what to grieve at, when in another's and that feigned and personated misery, that acting best pleased me, and attracted me the most vehemently, which drew tears from me. What marvel that an unhappy sheep, straying from Thy flock, and impatient of Thy keeping, I became infected with a foul disease? And hence the love of griefs; not such as should sink deep into me; for I loved not to suffer, what I loved to look on; but such as upon hearing their fictions should lightly scratch the surface; upon which, as on envenomed nails, followed inflamed swelling, impostumes, and a putrefied sore. My life being such, was it life, O my God?
In my misery, I found comfort in sorrow and actively sought reasons to grieve. I was drawn to the staged suffering of others, finding the most pleasure and strongest attraction in performances that brought me to tears. Is it any wonder that, like an unhappy sheep wandering from Your flock and rejecting Your protection, I became spiritually sick? This led to a love of shallow sorrows—not the kind that would truly touch my soul, for I didn't want to experience real pain, only to observe it. These superficial griefs were like light scratches that festered, swelling into infected wounds and spreading decay. Living such an existence—could that even be called living, my God?
And Thy faithful mercy hovered over me afar. Upon how grievous iniquities consumed I myself, pursuing a sacrilegious curiosity, that having forsaken Thee, it might bring me to the treacherous abyss, and the beguiling service of devils, to whom I sacrificed my evil actions, and in all these things Thou didst scourge me! I dared even, while Thy solemnities were celebrated within the walls of Thy Church, to desire, and to compass a business deserving death for its fruits, for which Thou scourgedst me with grievous punishments, though nothing to my fault, O Thou my exceeding mercy, my God, my refuge from those terrible destroyers, among whom I wandered with a stiff neck, withdrawing further from Thee, loving mine own ways, and not Thine; loving a vagrant liberty.
Your faithful mercy watched over me from afar. I consumed myself with terrible sins, chasing forbidden knowledge that led me away from You into a treacherous void of devil worship, where I sacrificed through my evil deeds. Through all of this, You disciplined me. I even dared, during holy ceremonies within Your Church's walls, to pursue deadly schemes—for which You justly punished me, though far less than I deserved. You showed exceptional mercy, my God, my shelter from those terrible demons among whom I stubbornly wandered. I kept pulling away from You, choosing my own path instead of Yours, embracing a false freedom.
Those studies also, which were accounted commendable, had a view to excelling in the courts of litigation; the more bepraised, the craftier. Such is men's blindness, glorying even in their blindness. And now I was chief in the rhetoric school, whereat I joyed proudly, and I swelled with arrogancy, though (Lord, Thou knowest) far quieter and altogether removed from the subvertings of those "Subverters" (for this ill-omened and devilish name was the very badge of gallantry) among whom I lived, with a shameless shame that I was not even as they. With them I lived, and was sometimes delighted with their friendship, whose doings I ever did abhor—i.e., their "subvertings," wherewith they wantonly persecuted the modesty of strangers, which they disturbed by a gratuitous jeering, feeding thereon their malicious birth. Nothing can be liker the very actions of devils than these. What then could they be more truly called than "Subverters"? themselves subverted and altogether perverted first, the deceiving spirits secretly deriding and seducing them, wherein themselves delight to jeer at and deceive others.
I excelled in my studies, particularly those aimed at winning court cases—the more cunning the approach, the more praise it received. Such is human nature, taking pride even in our flaws. I became the top student at the rhetoric school, which filled me with arrogant pride. Yet You know, Lord, that I was far more reserved than the "Subverters" (a devilish nickname they wore as a badge of honor). I lived among them, feeling ashamed that I wasn't truly one of them. While I sometimes enjoyed their friendship, I despised their actions—namely their "subverting," where they would needlessly harass and mock strangers, feeding their malicious tendencies. Their behavior perfectly mirrored that of demons. What better name for them than "Subverters"? They were themselves subverted and corrupted, manipulated by devious spirits who delighted in watching them deceive others.
Among such as these, in that unsettled age of mine, learned I books of eloquence, wherein I desired to be eminent, out of a damnable and vainglorious end, a joy in human vanity. In the ordinary course of study, I fell upon a certain book of Cicero, whose speech almost all admire, not so his heart. This book of his contains an exhortation to philosophy, and is called "Hortensius." But this book altered my affections, and turned my prayers to Thyself O Lord; and made me have other purposes and desires. Every vain hope at once became worthless to me; and I longed with an incredibly burning desire for an immortality of wisdom, and began now to arise, that I might return to Thee. For not to sharpen my tongue (which thing I seemed to be purchasing with my mother's allowances, in that my nineteenth year, my father being dead two years before), not to sharpen my tongue did I employ that book; nor did it infuse into me its style, but its matter.
In those unstable days of my youth, I studied books on eloquence, wanting to excel for shameful reasons—merely to feed my pride and vanity. During my regular studies, I discovered one of Cicero's books. While most people admired his eloquence more than his character, this particular work—called "Hortensius"—was a call to pursue philosophy. Reading it transformed me, redirecting my prayers to You, Lord, and giving me new purpose. Suddenly, all my shallow ambitions seemed meaningless. I developed an intense passion for lasting wisdom and began my journey back to You. I wasn't reading to improve my speaking skills (which seemed to be what my mother's money was funding in my nineteenth year, two years after my father's death). The book's impact wasn't about its style—it was the content that changed me.
How did I burn then, my God, how did I burn to re-mount from earthly things to Thee, nor knew I what Thou wouldest do with me? For with Thee is wisdom. But the love of wisdom is in Greek called "philosophy," with which that book inflamed me. Some there be that seduce through philosophy, under a great, and smooth, and honourable name colouring and disguising their own errors: and almost all who in that and former ages were such, are in that book censured and set forth: there also is made plain that wholesome advice of Thy Spirit, by Thy good and devout servant: Beware lest any man spoil you through philosophy and vain deceit, after the tradition of men, after the rudiments of the world, and not after Christ. For in Him dwelleth all the fulness of the Godhead bodily. And since at that time (Thou, O light of my heart, knowest) Apostolic Scripture was not known to me, I was delighted with that exhortation, so far only, that I was thereby strongly roused, and kindled, and inflamed to love, and seek, and obtain, and hold, and embrace not this or that sect, but wisdom itself whatever it were; and this alone checked me thus unkindled, that the name of Christ was not in it. For this name, according to Thy mercy, O Lord, this name of my Saviour Thy Son, had my tender heart, even with my mother's milk, devoutly drunk in and deeply treasured; and whatsoever was without that name, though never so learned, polished, or true, took not entire hold of me.
How I yearned, my God, how I yearned to rise from earthly matters back to You, not knowing what You had planned for me. For wisdom belongs to You. The Greeks call the love of wisdom "philosophy," and that book set my soul aflame. Some people use philosophy to deceive, hiding their false ideas behind an impressive and respectable name. That book exposes nearly all such deceivers, both past and present. It also reveals the Spirit's vital warning through Your faithful servant: "Don't let anyone capture you with empty philosophies and high-sounding nonsense that come from human thinking and from the spiritual powers of this world, rather than from Christ. For in Christ lives all the fullness of God in a human body." At that time (as You, the light of my heart, know), I wasn't familiar with Scripture. I was captivated by this message only because it intensely motivated me to love, pursue, obtain, hold, and embrace not any particular doctrine, but wisdom itself, whatever it might be. Only one thing held me back: Christ's name was absent. For that name—my Savior, Your Son—had, by Your mercy, Lord, been planted in my heart since infancy, absorbed with my mother's milk. Nothing, no matter how scholarly, elegant, or truthful, could fully capture me without that name.
I resolved then to bend my mind to the holy Scriptures, that I might see what they were. But behold, I see a thing not understood by the proud, nor laid open to children, lowly in access, in its recesses lofty, and veiled with mysteries; and I was not such as could enter into it, or stoop my neck to follow its steps. For not as I now speak, did I feel when I turned to those Scriptures; but they seemed to me unworthy to be compared to the stateliness of Tully: for my swelling pride shrunk from their lowliness, nor could my sharp wit pierce the interior thereof. Yet were they such as would grow up in a little one. But I disdained to be a little one; and, swollen with pride, took myself to be a great one.
I decided to study the holy Scriptures to understand their true nature. Yet I discovered something the proud cannot grasp and that isn't readily apparent to children—while accessible on the surface, its depths are profound and shrouded in mystery. I wasn't equipped to fully engage with it or humble myself to follow its guidance. My reaction to the Scriptures then was quite different from how I view them now. At the time, I felt they paled in comparison to Cicero's eloquence. My arrogance made me reject their simplicity, and even my sharp intellect couldn't penetrate their deeper meaning. These were teachings that could nurture a humble person's growth, but I was too proud to accept such humility. Inflated with self-importance, I convinced myself I was above such things.
Therefore I fell among men proudly doting, exceeding carnal and prating, in whose mouths were the snares of the Devil, limed with the mixture of the syllables of Thy name, and of our Lord Jesus Christ, and of the Holy Ghost, the Paraclete, our Comforter. These names departed not out of their mouth, but so far forth as the sound only and the noise of the tongue, for the heart was void of truth. Yet they cried out "Truth, Truth," and spake much thereof to me, yet it was not in them: but they spake falsehood, not of Thee only (who truly art Truth), but even of those elements of this world, Thy creatures. And I indeed ought to have passed by even philosophers who spake truth concerning them, for love of Thee, my Father, supremely good, Beauty of all things beautiful. O Truth, Truth, how inwardly did even then the marrow of my soul pant after Thee, when they often and diversely, and in many and huge books, echoed of Thee to me, though it was but an echo? And these were the dishes wherein to me, hungering after Thee, they, instead of Thee, served up the Sun and Moon, beautiful works of Thine, but yet Thy works, not Thyself, no nor Thy first works. For Thy spiritual works are before these corporeal works, celestial though they be, and shining. But I hungered and thirsted not even after those first works of Thine, but after Thee Thyself, the Truth, in whom is no variableness, neither shadow of turning: yet they still set before me in those dishes, glittering fantasies, than which better were it to love this very sun (which is real to our sight at least), than those fantasies which by our eyes deceive our mind. Yet because I thought them to be Thee, I fed thereon; not eagerly, for Thou didst not in them taste to me as Thou art; for Thou wast not these emptinesses, nor was I nourished by them, but exhausted rather. Food in sleep shows very like our food awake; yet are not those asleep nourished by it, for they are asleep. But those were not even any way like to Thee, as Thou hast now spoken to me; for those were corporeal fantasies, false bodies, than which these true bodies, celestial or terrestrial, which with our fleshly sight we behold, are far more certain: these things the beasts and birds discern as well as we, and they are more certain than when we fancy them. And again, we do with more certainty fancy them, than by them conjecture other vaster and infinite bodies which have no being. Such empty husks was I then fed on; and was not fed. But Thou, my soul's Love, in looking for whom I fail, that I may become strong, art neither those bodies which we see, though in heaven; nor those which we see not there; for Thou hast created them, nor dost Thou account them among the chiefest of Thy works. How far then art Thou from those fantasies of mine, fantasies of bodies which altogether are not, than which the images of those bodies, which are, are far more certain, and more certain still the bodies themselves, which yet Thou art not; no, nor yet the soul, which is the life of the bodies. So then, better and more certain is the life of the bodies than the bodies. But Thou art the life of souls, the life of lives, having life in Thyself; and changest not, life of my soul.
I found myself among arrogant people who were worldly and talkative. They spoke constantly of God, Jesus Christ, and the Holy Spirit (the Paraclete, our Comforter), but these were merely words on their tongues—their hearts lacked truth. They shouted "Truth, Truth!" and lectured me extensively, yet they themselves were empty of it. They spoke lies, not only about You, who are Truth itself, but even about Your created elements of this world. I should have looked past even those philosophers who spoke truthfully about these things, out of love for You, my Father, supremely good, the Beauty behind all beauty. O Truth, how my soul yearned for You when they spoke of You in their many vast books, though it was merely an echo! In my hunger for You, they offered me only the Sun and Moon—Your beautiful creations, but still just creations, not even Your primary works. Your spiritual works precede these physical ones, celestial and bright though they may be. But I hungered not even for these primary works, but for You alone, the unchanging Truth. Yet they kept serving me glittering illusions. Better to love the actual sun, visible to our eyes, than these fantasies that deceive our minds. Though I believed these illusions were You, consuming them left me empty—for You weren't truly in them. Like dream-food that fails to nourish the sleeper, these hollow concepts bore no resemblance to You as I now know You. They were merely physical fantasies, false forms, less real than the actual celestial and earthly bodies we see—things that even animals can perceive. I was fed these empty husks but received no nourishment. But You, my soul's Love—whom I seek to gain strength—are neither the visible heavenly bodies nor the invisible ones, for You created them all, and they aren't even Your greatest works. How far You are from my fantasies of bodies that don't exist, which are less real than images of actual bodies, which in turn are less real than the bodies themselves—yet You are none of these, not even the life-force animating these bodies. The life-force is more real than bodies, yet You are beyond even this—You are the life of souls, the life of all lives, self-sustaining and unchanging, the life of my soul.
Where then wert Thou then to me, and how far from me? Far verily was I straying from Thee, barred from the very husks of the swine, whom with husks I fed. For how much better are the fables of poets and grammarians than these snares? For verses, and poems, and "Medea flying," are more profitable truly than these men's five elements, variously disguised, answering to five dens of darkness, which have no being, yet slay the believer. For verses and poems I can turn to true food, and "Medea flying," though I did sing, I maintained not; though I heard it sung, I believed not: but those things I did believe. Woe, woe, by what steps was I brought down to the depths of hell! toiling and turmoiling through want of Truth, since I sought after Thee, my God (to Thee I confess it, who hadst mercy on me, not as yet confessing), not according to the understanding of the mind, wherein Thou willedst that I should excel the beasts, but according to the sense of the flesh. But Thou wert more inward to me than my most inward part; and higher than my highest. I lighted upon that bold woman, simple and knoweth nothing, shadowed out in Solomon, sitting at the door, and saying, Eat ye bread of secrecies willingly, and drink ye stolen waters which are sweet: she seduced me, because she found my soul dwelling abroad in the eye of my flesh, and ruminating on such food as through it I had devoured.
Where were You then, and why so distant from me? I had strayed far from You, not even worthy of the husks fed to swine. Even the fables of poets and scholars were more valuable than these traps I fell into. Verses, poems, and even "Medea in flight" held more truth than these five false elements—disguised forms of darkness that, though lacking substance, could destroy those who believed in them. At least I could extract real nourishment from poetry—and while I sang of Medea's flight, I knew it wasn't real. But these other falsehoods I truly believed. How terrible were the steps that led me into such depths! I exhausted myself searching for Truth, looking for You, my God (I confess this now to You, who showed me mercy before I could confess). Instead of using the intelligence You gave me—that which elevates us above animals—I followed only physical desires. Yet You were closer to me than my innermost self, higher than my highest thoughts. I encountered that brazen woman described by Solomon—the one who sits at her door in ignorance, saying "Come, eat the bread of secrets and drink sweet stolen waters." She led me astray because my soul was living only through my physical senses, consuming and dwelling on what they fed me.
For other than this, that which really is I knew not; and was, as it were through sharpness of wit, persuaded to assent to foolish deceivers, when they asked me, "whence is evil?" "is God bounded by a bodily shape, and has hairs and nails?" "are they to be esteemed righteous who had many wives at once, and did kill men, and sacrifice living creatures?" At which I, in my ignorance, was much troubled, and departing from the truth, seemed to myself to be making towards it; because as yet I knew not that evil was nothing but a privation of good, until at last a thing ceases altogether to be; which how should I see, the sight of whose eyes reached only to bodies, and of my mind to a phantasm? And I knew not God to be a Spirit, not one who hath parts extended in length and breadth, or whose being was bulk; for every bulk is less in a part than in the whole: and if it be infinite, it must be less in such part as is defined by a certain space, than in its infinitude; and so is not wholly every where, as Spirit, as God. And what that should be in us, by which we were like to God, and might be rightly said to be after the image of God, I was altogether ignorant.
I didn't understand evil's true nature and was fooled by clever deceivers who posed questions like: "Where does evil come from?" "Does God have a physical form with hair and nails?" "Were the ancient figures righteous who had multiple wives, killed people, and performed animal sacrifices?" These questions deeply troubled me in my ignorance. While trying to find truth, I was actually moving away from it. I didn't yet realize that evil is simply the absence of good, diminishing until nothing remains. How could I understand this when I could only comprehend physical things and mental images? I didn't know that God was Spirit, not a physical being with dimensions or mass. After all, any physical object is smaller in its parts than its whole. Even if infinite, a physical form would be limited where it's confined to space, unlike Spirit—unlike God—which exists completely everywhere. I also had no understanding of what quality within us made us similar to God, what gave us the right to say we were made in God's image.
Nor knew I that true inward righteousness which judgeth not according to custom, but out of the most rightful law of God Almighty, whereby the ways of places and times were disposed according to those times and places; itself meantime being the same always and every where, not one thing in one place, and another in another; according to which Abraham, and Isaac, and Jacob, and Moses, and David, were righteous, and all those commended by the mouth of God; but were judged unrighteous by silly men, judging out of man's judgment, and measuring by their own petty habits, the moral habits of the whole human race. As if in an armory, one ignorant what were adapted to each part should cover his head with greaves, or seek to be shod with a helmet, and complain that they fitted not: or as if on a day when business is publicly stopped in the afternoon, one were angered at not being allowed to keep open shop, because he had been in the forenoon; or when in one house he observeth some servant take a thing in his hand, which the butler is not suffered to meddle with; or something permitted out of doors, which is forbidden in the dining-room; and should be angry, that in one house, and one family, the same thing is not allotted every where, and to all. Even such are they who are fretted to hear something to have been lawful for righteous men formerly, which now is not; or that God, for certain temporal respects, commanded them one thing, and these another, obeying both the same righteousness: whereas they see, in one man, and one day, and one house, different things to be fit for different members, and a thing formerly lawful, after a certain time not so; in one corner permitted or commanded, but in another rightly forbidden and punished. Is justice therefore various or mutable? No, but the times, over which it presides, flow not evenly, because they are times. But men whose days are few upon the earth, for that by their senses they cannot harmonise the causes of things in former ages and other nations, which they had not experience of, with these which they have experience of, whereas in one and the same body, day, or family, they easily see what is fitting for each member, and season, part, and person; to the one they take exceptions, to the other they submit.
I did not understand that true inner righteousness judges not by custom, but by God's eternal law. This law adapts to different times and places while remaining fundamentally unchanged—not one thing here and another there. By this law, Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Moses, and David were righteous and praised by God, yet were deemed unrighteous by foolish people who judged by human standards and measured all of humanity by their own limited experiences. It's like someone in an armory, ignorant of proper equipment, trying to wear leg armor on their head or complaining that a helmet doesn't fit their feet. Or like someone getting angry that they can't keep their shop open during mandatory afternoon closures just because they were open in the morning. Or becoming upset that in one household, a servant can handle certain items that a butler cannot, or that something permitted outside is forbidden in the dining room. They fail to understand that different rules can apply within the same house and family. Similarly, some people become frustrated when learning that what was once lawful for righteous people is no longer permitted, or that God commanded different things to different people for specific temporal reasons—though all followed the same underlying righteousness. They fail to see that even in a single day, person, or household, different rules apply to different situations, and what is lawful at one time may not be at another, or what is permitted in one place may be rightly forbidden and punished in another. Is justice therefore inconsistent or changeable? No—but the times it governs flow unevenly, because that is the nature of time. People, whose lives are brief, struggle to understand historical and cultural contexts they haven't experienced. Yet these same people easily accept different rules for different situations within their own household, body, or family. They object to the former while accepting the latter.
These things I then knew not, nor observed; they struck my sight on all sides, and I saw them not. I indited verses, in which I might not place every foot every where, but differently in different metres; nor even in any one metre the self-same foot in all places. Yet the art itself, by which I indited, had not different principles for these different cases, but comprised all in one. Still I saw not how that righteousness, which good and holy men obeyed, did far more excellently and sublimely contain in one all those things which God commanded, and in no part varied; although in varying times it prescribed not every thing at once, but apportioned and enjoined what was fit for each. And I in my blindness, censured the holy Fathers, not only wherein they made use of things present as God commanded and inspired them, but also wherein they were foretelling things to come, as God was revealing in them.
Back then, I was unaware and unobservant—blind to what was right in front of me. I wrote poetry following strict rules, using different meters and varying the placement of syllables. Though each poem had different patterns, the underlying principles of poetry remained constant. Yet I failed to see how divine righteousness, which virtuous people followed, perfectly contained all of God's commandments in one unified whole. While its application varied with time, adapting to different circumstances, its essence never changed. In my ignorance, I criticized the holy Fathers, both for how they acted on God's commands in their present and for how they prophesied future events through divine revelation.
Can it at any time or place be unjust to love God with all his heart, with all his soul, and with all his mind; and his neighbour as himself? Therefore are those foul offences which be against nature, to be every where and at all times detested and punished; such as were those of the men of Sodom: which should all nations commit, they should all stand guilty of the same crime, by the law of God, which hath not so made men that they should so abuse one another. For even that intercourse which should be between God and us is violated, when that same nature, of which He is Author, is polluted by perversity of lust. But those actions which are offences against the customs of men, are to be avoided according to the customs severally prevailing; so that a thing agreed upon, and confirmed, by custom or law of any city or nation, may not be violated at the lawless pleasure of any, whether native or foreigner. For any part which harmoniseth not with its whole, is offensive. But when God commands a thing to be done, against the customs or compact of any people, though it were never by them done heretofore, it is to be done; and if intermitted, it is to be restored; and if never ordained, is now to be ordained. For lawful if it be for a king, in the state which he reigns over, to command that which no one before him, nor he himself heretofore, had commanded, and to obey him cannot be against the common weal of the state (nay, it were against it if he were not obeyed, for to obey princes is a general compact of human society); how much more unhesitatingly ought we to obey God, in all which He commands, the Ruler of all His creatures! For as among the powers in man's society, the greater authority is obeyed in preference to the lesser, so must God above all.
Is it ever wrong to love God completely—with all your heart, soul, and mind—and to love your neighbor as yourself? No. Therefore, unnatural acts that violate these principles must be condemned and punished everywhere and always, like the sins of Sodom. If all nations committed such acts, they would all be guilty under God's law, which did not create humans to abuse each other this way. Such acts violate our relationship with God by corrupting the natural order He created through perverted desires. Offenses against human customs, however, should be handled according to local traditions. Whatever is established by custom or law in any city or nation shouldn't be violated carelessly by locals or foreigners. Anything that doesn't align with the whole society creates disorder. But when God commands something that goes against human customs or agreements, even if it's never been done before, it must be done. If such practices have lapsed, they should be restored; if they never existed, they should be established. Consider this: If a king can legally command something unprecedented in his kingdom and expect obedience (which is essential for the common good, as obeying rulers is fundamental to human society), how much more readily should we obey God, the ruler of all creation? Just as in human society we prioritize higher authorities over lesser ones, we must put God's authority above all else.
So in acts of violence, where there is a wish to hurt, whether by reproach or injury; and these either for revenge, as one enemy against another; or for some profit belonging to another, as the robber to the traveller; or to avoid some evil, as towards one who is feared; or through envy, as one less fortunate to one more so, or one well thriven in any thing, to him whose being on a par with himself he fears, or grieves at, or for the mere pleasure at another's pain, as spectators of gladiators, or deriders and mockers of others. These be the heads of iniquity which spring from the lust of the flesh, of the eye, or of rule, either singly, or two combined, or all together; and so do men live ill against the three, and seven, that psaltery of ten strings, Thy Ten Commandments, O God, most high, and most sweet. But what foul offences can there be against Thee, who canst not be defiled? or what acts of violence against Thee, who canst not be harmed? But Thou avengest what men commit against themselves, seeing also when they sin against Thee, they do wickedly against their own souls, and iniquity gives itself the lie, by corrupting and perverting their nature, which Thou hast created and ordained, or by an immoderate use of things allowed, or in burning in things unallowed, to that use which is against nature; or are found guilty, raging with heart and tongue against Thee, kicking against the pricks; or when, bursting the pale of human society, they boldly joy in self-willed combinations or divisions, according as they have any object to gain or subject of offence. And these things are done when Thou art forsaken, O Fountain of Life, who art the only and true Creator and Governor of the Universe, and by a self-willed pride, any one false thing is selected therefrom and loved. So then by a humble devoutness we return to Thee; and Thou cleansest us from our evil habits, and art merciful to their sins who confess, and hearest the groaning of the prisoner, and loosest us from the chains which we made for ourselves, if we lift not up against Thee the horns of an unreal liberty, suffering the loss of all, through covetousness of more, by loving more our own private good than Thee, the Good of all.
Violence stems from various motives: the desire to harm through injury or insult, whether for revenge between enemies, profit like a robber targeting a traveler, self-protection against someone feared, or envy towards those more fortunate. Some even take pleasure in others' pain, like spectators of violence or those who mock others. These wrongdoings arise from desires of the flesh, eyes, or power—either individually or in combination—violating the three and seven principles within Your Ten Commandments, O highest and most gracious God. Yet how can anyone truly offend You, who cannot be defiled or harmed? Instead, You judge the harm people inflict upon themselves. When they sin against You, they damage their own souls. Their wickedness betrays itself by corrupting their God-given nature, either through excessive use of what's permitted or unnatural pursuit of what's forbidden. They stand guilty of raging against You in thought and word, fighting against truth itself. Breaking from human society, they proudly form their own alliances and divisions based on selfish gains or grievances. All this happens when people abandon You, the Source of Life, sole true Creator and Universal Governor. Through arrogant self-will, they choose and worship false ideals instead. Only through humble devotion can we return to You. You then cleanse us of our bad habits, forgive those who confess, hear prisoners' laments, and free us from self-made chains—if we don't raise false claims of independence against You. For in pursuing more through greed, loving our private interests above You, the Universal Good, we risk losing everything.
Amidst these offences of foulness and violence, and so many iniquities, are sins of men, who are on the whole making proficiency; which by those that judge rightly, are, after the rule of perfection, discommended, yet the persons commended, upon hope of future fruit, as in the green blade of growing corn. And there are some, resembling offences of foulness or violence, which yet are no sins; because they offend neither Thee, our Lord God, nor human society; when, namely, things fitting for a given period are obtained for the service of life, and we know not whether out of a lust of having; or when things are, for the sake of correction, by constituted authority punished, and we know not whether out of a lust of hurting. Many an action then which in men's sight is disapproved, is by Thy testimony approved; and many, by men praised, are (Thou being witness) condemned: because the show of the action, and the mind of the doer, and the unknown exigency of the period, severally vary. But when Thou on a sudden commandest an unwonted and unthought of thing, yea, although Thou hast sometime forbidden it, and still for the time hidest the reason of Thy command, and it be against the ordinance of some society of men, who doubts but it is to be done, seeing that society of men is just which serves Thee? But blessed are they who know Thy commands! For all things were done by Thy servants; either to show forth something needful for the present, or to foreshow things to come.
Among these sins of corruption and violence lie the lesser transgressions of those who are still growing spiritually. While these actions fall short of perfection, wise judges commend the individuals themselves, seeing promise in their future growth, like green shoots of corn. Some actions may appear sinful but aren't truly sins, as they neither offend God nor harm society. These include acquiring life's necessities (though we may question if greed motivates us), or when authorities impose punishment for correction (though we may wonder if the motivation is cruel). Many actions condemned by human judgment are approved by divine testimony, and many praised by humans are condemned by God. This variance stems from the difference between an action's appearance, the doer's intention, and the unknown demands of the time. When You suddenly command something unexpected or previously forbidden, even without explaining why, and even if it conflicts with human social rules, who can doubt it must be done? For any society truly serving You must be just. Blessed are those who know Your commands! For everything Your servants did either served an immediate purpose or foretold future events.
These things I being ignorant of, scoffed at those Thy holy servants and prophets. And what gained I by scoffing at them, but to be scoffed at by Thee, being insensibly and step by step drawn on to those follies, as to believe that a fig-tree wept when it was plucked, and the tree, its mother, shed milky tears? Which fig notwithstanding (plucked by some other's, not his own, guilt) had some Manichaean saint eaten, and mingled with his bowels, he should breathe out of it angels, yea, there shall burst forth particles of divinity, at every moan or groan in his prayer, which particles of the most high and true God had remained bound in that fig, unless they had been set at liberty by the teeth or belly of some "Elect" saint! And I, miserable, believed that more mercy was to be shown to the fruits of the earth than men, for whom they were created. For if any one an hungered, not a Manichaean, should ask for any, that morsel would seem as it were condemned to capital punishment, which should be given him.
Being ignorant of these things, I mocked Your holy servants and prophets. What did I gain from this mockery except to be mocked by You in return? I was gradually drawn into such foolishness that I came to believe a fig tree would weep when picked, and its mother tree would shed milky tears. According to this belief, if a Manichaean saint ate this fig (which had been picked through someone else's sin, not his own), he would breathe out angels from his bowels. Even his moans and groans during prayer would release particles of divinity—particles of the one true God that had been trapped in the fig until freed by an "Elect" saint's teeth or stomach! In my wretchedness, I believed that the fruits of the earth deserved more mercy than the humans for whom they were created. If a hungry person—not being Manichaean—asked for food, giving them even a morsel would be considered worthy of capital punishment.
And Thou sentest Thine hand from above, and drewest my soul out of that profound darkness, my mother, Thy faithful one, weeping to Thee for me, more than mothers weep the bodily deaths of their children. For she, by that faith and spirit which she had from Thee, discerned the death wherein I lay, and Thou heardest her, O Lord; Thou heardest her, and despisedst not her tears, when streaming down, they watered the ground under her eyes in every place where she prayed; yea Thou heardest her. For whence was that dream whereby Thou comfortedst her; so that she allowed me to live with her, and to eat at the same table in the house, which she had begun to shrink from, abhorring and detesting the blasphemies of my error? For she saw herself standing on a certain wooden rule, and a shining youth coming towards her, cheerful and smiling upon her, herself grieving, and overwhelmed with grief. But he having (in order to instruct, as is their wont not to be instructed) enquired of her the causes of her grief and daily tears, and she answering that she was bewailing my perdition, he bade her rest contented, and told her to look and observe, "That where she was, there was I also." And when she looked, she saw me standing by her in the same rule. Whence was this, but that Thine ears were towards her heart? O Thou Good omnipotent, who so carest for every one of us, as if Thou caredst for him only; and so for all, as if they were but one!
You reached down from above and pulled my soul from the depths of darkness, while my mother, your faithful servant, wept to you for me more intensely than mothers weep for their children's physical deaths. Through her faith and spirit, which came from you, she sensed the spiritual death that consumed me. You heard her, Lord, and didn't ignore her tears as they soaked the ground wherever she prayed. Yes, you truly heard her. You comforted her through a dream that convinced her to let me live and eat with her at home again, despite her previous disgust at my blasphemous beliefs. In her dream, she stood on a wooden ruler when a bright, cheerful youth approached her as she grieved. Following the custom of teaching rather than being taught, he asked why she cried daily. When she explained she was mourning my lost soul, he told her to be at peace and notice that wherever she stood, I stood there too. Looking down, she saw me standing beside her on the same ruler. How was this possible, if not because you were listening to her heart? O Good and all-powerful God, you care for each of us as if we were your only concern, yet somehow care for everyone as if we were one!
Whence was this also, that when she had told me this vision, and I would fain bend it to mean, "That she rather should not despair of being one day what I was"; she presently, without any hesitation, replies: "No; for it was not told me that, 'where he, there thou also'; but 'where thou, there he also'?" I confess to Thee, O Lord, that to the best of my remembrance (and I have oft spoken of this), that Thy answer, through my waking mother,—that she was not perplexed by the plausibility of my false interpretation, and so quickly saw what was to be seen, and which I certainly had not perceived before she spake,—even then moved me more than the dream itself, by which a joy to the holy woman, to be fulfilled so long after, was, for the consolation of her present anguish, so long before foresignified. For almost nine years passed, in which I wallowed in the mire of that deep pit, and the darkness of falsehood, often assaying to rise, but dashed down the more grievously. All which time that chaste, godly, and sober widow (such as Thou lovest), now more cheered with hope, yet no whit relaxing in her weeping and mourning, ceased not at all hours of her devotions to bewail my case unto Thee. And her prayers entered into Thy presence; and yet Thou sufferedst me to be yet involved and reinvolved in that darkness.
When she told me about this vision, I tried to interpret it to mean "she shouldn't lose hope of becoming like me someday." But she immediately corrected me, saying "No, because the vision didn't say 'where he is, you will be' but rather 'where you are, he will be.'" I confess, Lord, that as I've often mentioned, Your response through my alert mother struck me more than the dream itself. She wasn't fooled by my misinterpretation and instantly grasped its true meaning, which I hadn't seen until she pointed it out. This dream brought joy to this holy woman, foretelling a future comfort while she endured her present suffering. For nearly nine years afterward, I remained trapped in that deep pit, struggling in darkness and falsehood. Though I tried repeatedly to climb out, each attempt only left me falling harder. Throughout this time, that pure, devout, and modest widow (the kind You cherish), while more hopeful, never stopped her tears and grief. During her prayer times, she continuously pleaded my case to You. Her prayers reached You, yet You allowed me to remain entangled in that darkness.
Thou gavest her meantime another answer, which I call to mind; for much I pass by, hasting to those things which more press me to confess unto Thee, and much I do not remember. Thou gavest her then another answer, by a Priest of Thine, a certain Bishop brought up in Thy Church, and well studied in Thy books. Whom when this woman had entreated to vouchsafe to converse with me, refute my errors, unteach me ill things, and teach me good things (for this he was wont to do, when he found persons fitted to receive it), he refused, wisely, as I afterwards perceived. For he answered, that I was yet unteachable, being puffed up with the novelty of that heresy, and had already perplexed divers unskilful persons with captious questions, as she had told him: "but let him alone a while" (saith he), "only pray God for him, he will of himself by reading find what that error is, and how great its impiety." At the same time he told her, how himself, when a little one, had by his seduced mother been consigned over to the Manichees, and had not only read, but frequently copied out almost all, their books, and had (without any argument or proof from any one) seen how much that sect was to be avoided; and had avoided it. Which when he had said, and she would not be satisfied, but urged him more, with entreaties and many tears, that he would see me and discourse with me; he, a little displeased at her importunity, saith, "Go thy ways and God bless thee, for it is not possible that the son of these tears should perish." Which answer she took (as she often mentioned in her conversations with me) as if it had sounded from heaven.
You gave her another answer, which I remember, though I'm skipping over many details to focus on what I feel most compelled to confess to You. You spoke to her through one of Your priests, a Bishop who was well-educated in Your teachings and raised in Your Church. When she begged him to meet with me to correct my errors and teach me proper ways (as he often did for those ready to learn), he wisely declined, as I later realized. He explained that I wasn't ready to learn, being too proud of my newly adopted heresy. I had already confused several inexperienced people with tricky questions, as she had told him. "Leave him alone for now," he said, "just pray for him. Through his reading, he'll discover for himself what this error is and how deeply wrong it is." He then shared with her how his own mother, when he was young, had led him to join the Manicheans. He had not only read but had copied nearly all their texts. Yet without anyone's guidance, he had realized how dangerous this sect was and had left it. When she remained unsatisfied and pressed him further with tears and pleading to meet with me, he became slightly annoyed at her persistence and said, "Go now, and God bless you, for it's impossible that the son of these tears should be lost." She took these words (as she often told me later) as if they had come directly from heaven.