O Thou, my hope from my youth, where wert Thou to me, and whither wert Thou gone? Hadst not Thou created me, and separated me from the beasts of the field, and fowls of the air? Thou hadst made me wiser, yet did I walk in darkness, and in slippery places, and sought Thee abroad out of myself, and found not the God of my heart; and had come into the depths of the sea, and distrusted and despaired of ever finding truth. My mother had now come to me, resolute through piety, following me over sea and land, in all perils confiding in Thee. For in perils of the sea, she comforted the very mariners (by whom passengers unacquainted with the deep, use rather to be comforted when troubled), assuring them of a safe arrival, because Thou hadst by a vision assured her thereof. She found me in grievous peril, through despair of ever finding truth. But when I had discovered to her that I was now no longer a Manichee, though not yet a Catholic Christian, she was not overjoyed, as at something unexpected; although she was now assured concerning that part of my misery, for which she bewailed me as one dead, though to be reawakened by Thee, carrying me forth upon the bier of her thoughts, that Thou mightest say to the son of the widow, Young man, I say unto thee, Arise; and he should revive, and begin to speak, and Thou shouldest deliver him to his mother. Her heart then was shaken with no tumultuous exultation, when she heard that what she daily with tears desired of Thee was already in so great part realised; in that, though I had not yet attained the truth, I was rescued from falsehood; but, as being assured, that Thou, Who hadst promised the whole, wouldest one day give the rest, most calmly, and with a heart full of confidence, she replied to me, "She believed in Christ, that before she departed this life, she should see me a Catholic believer." Thus much to me. But to Thee, Fountain of mercies, poured she forth more copious prayers and tears, that Thou wouldest hasten Thy help, and enlighten my darkness; and she hastened the more eagerly to the Church, and hung upon the lips of Ambrose, praying for the fountain of that water, which springeth up unto life everlasting. But that man she loved as an angel of God, because she knew that by him I had been brought for the present to that doubtful state of faith I now was in, through which she anticipated most confidently that I should pass from sickness unto health, after the access, as it were, of a sharper fit, which physicians call "the crisis."
From my youth, where were You, my hope, and where had You gone? Though You created me and set me apart from the beasts and birds, making me wiser, I still walked in darkness. I searched for You outside myself, unable to find the God of my heart. I had ventured into life's depths, losing faith and despairing of ever finding truth. My mother came to me then, driven by her devotion, following me across sea and land, trusting in You through every danger. During sea voyages, she even comforted the sailors (who typically comfort nervous passengers), assuring them of safe passage because You had shown her this in a vision. She found me in deep despair about finding truth. When I told her I was no longer a Manichee, though not yet a Catholic Christian, she remained calm, as if expecting this news. While she was relieved about this part of my spiritual journey—for which she had mourned me as dead until You would revive me—her heart stayed steady. She was like the widow whose son You raised, saying, "Young man, arise," returning him to his mother alive and speaking. Her heart didn't burst with sudden joy upon hearing that her daily tearful prayers were partially answered—that though I hadn't found truth, I had escaped falsehood. Instead, confident that You would fulfill Your promise completely, she calmly replied, "I believe in Christ that before I die, I will see you become a Catholic believer." This she said to me. But to You, Fountain of mercy, she poured out even more prayers and tears, begging You to hasten Your help and illuminate my darkness. She went more frequently to church and hung on Ambrose's every word, praying for the water of eternal life. She loved him like an angel of God, knowing he had guided me to my current uncertain faith. She was confident I would move from spiritual sickness to health, after what doctors call "the crisis"—that critical moment before recovery.
When then my mother had once, as she was wont in Afric, brought to the Churches built in memory of the Saints, certain cakes, and bread and wine, and was forbidden by the door-keeper; so soon as she knew that the Bishop had forbidden this, she so piously and obediently embraced his wishes, that I myself wondered how readily she censured her own practice, rather than discuss his prohibition. For wine-bibbing did not lay siege to her spirit, nor did love of wine provoke her to hatred of the truth, as it doth too many (both men and women), who revolt at a lesson of sobriety, as men well-drunk at a draught mingled with water. But she, when she had brought her basket with the accustomed festival-food, to be but tasted by herself, and then given away, never joined therewith more than one small cup of wine, diluted according to her own abstemious habits, which for courtesy she would taste. And if there were many churches of the departed saints that were to be honoured in that manner, she still carried round that same one cup, to be used every where; and this, though not only made very watery, but unpleasantly heated with carrying about, she would distribute to those about her by small sips; for she sought there devotion, not pleasure. So soon, then, as she found this custom to be forbidden by that famous preacher and most pious prelate, even to those that would use it soberly, lest so an occasion of excess might be given to the drunken; and for these, as it were, anniversary funeral solemnities did much resemble the superstition of the Gentiles, she most willingly forbare it: and for a basket filled with fruits of the earth, she had learned to bring to the Churches of the martyrs a breast filled with more purified petitions, and to give what she could to the poor; that so the communication of the Lord's Body might be there rightly celebrated, where, after the example of His Passion, the martyrs had been sacrificed and crowned. But yet it seems to me, O Lord my God, and thus thinks my heart of it in Thy sight, that perhaps she would not so readily have yielded to the cutting off of this custom, had it been forbidden by another, whom she loved not as Ambrose, whom, for my salvation, she loved most entirely; and he her again, for her most religious conversation, whereby in good works, so fervent in spirit, she was constant at church; so that, when he saw me, he often burst forth into her praises; congratulating me that I had such a mother; not knowing what a son she had in me, who doubted of all these things, and imagined the way to life could not be found out.
My mother used to bring cakes, bread, and wine to the memorial churches of saints in Africa, as was common practice. When the door-keeper stopped her, explaining the Bishop had forbidden this, she accepted his ruling without argument. I was struck by how quickly she criticized her own habits rather than question the prohibition. She wasn't driven by a love of wine, unlike many others who reject temperance as drunkards reject watered-down wine. Her practice had been modest—she would bring one small cup of diluted wine, taking only a courtesy sip herself before sharing it. When visiting multiple saints' churches, she would carry this same cup, sharing the now-warm, watery wine in tiny portions. Her motivation was devotion, not enjoyment. When she learned that this custom was banned by the renowned preacher and Bishop Ambrose—even for moderate practitioners—she willingly gave it up. He feared it would encourage excess among drinkers and noted how these memorial ceremonies resembled pagan traditions. Instead of bringing earthly offerings, she learned to bring to the martyrs' churches her heartfelt prayers and charitable gifts to the poor. This allowed for proper celebration of the Lord's Supper in places where martyrs had sacrificed themselves following Christ's example. I believe she accepted this change so readily because it came from Ambrose, whom she deeply loved for his role in my salvation. He, in turn, admired her devoted religious practice and regular church attendance. Whenever he saw me, he would praise her, congratulating me on having such a mother. He didn't know that I was still doubtful about these matters, uncertain whether the path to salvation could be found.
Nor did I yet groan in my prayers, that Thou wouldest help me; but my spirit was wholly intent on learning, and restless to dispute. And Ambrose himself, as the world counts happy, I esteemed a happy man, whom personages so great held in such honour; only his celibacy seemed to me a painful course. But what hope he bore within him, what struggles he had against the temptations which beset his very excellencies, or what comfort in adversities, and what sweet joys Thy Bread had for the hidden mouth of his spirit, when chewing the cud thereof, I neither could conjecture, nor had experienced. Nor did he know the tides of my feelings, or the abyss of my danger. For I could not ask of him, what I would as I would, being shut out both from his ear and speech by multitudes of busy people, whose weaknesses he served. With whom when he was not taken up (which was but a little time), he was either refreshing his body with the sustenance absolutely necessary, or his mind with reading. But when he was reading, his eye glided over the pages, and his heart searched out the sense, but his voice and tongue were at rest. Ofttimes when we had come (for no man was forbidden to enter, nor was it his wont that any who came should be announced to him), we saw him thus reading to himself, and never otherwise; and having long sat silent (for who durst intrude on one so intent?) we were fain to depart, conjecturing that in the small interval which he obtained, free from the din of others' business, for the recruiting of his mind, he was loth to be taken off; and perchance he dreaded lest if the author he read should deliver any thing obscurely, some attentive or perplexed hearer should desire him to expound it, or to discuss some of the harder questions; so that his time being thus spent, he could not turn over so many volumes as he desired; although the preserving of his voice (which a very little speaking would weaken) might be the truer reason for his reading to himself. But with what intent soever he did it, certainly in such a man it was good.
I didn't yet pray for Your help—instead, my mind was consumed with learning and eager for debate. I considered Ambrose a fortunate man, as most would, given the high regard such important people held him in. Only his choice to remain unmarried seemed difficult to me. I couldn't guess, having never experienced it myself, what inner hope sustained him, how he fought against temptations that came with his virtues, or what comfort he found in hardship. I didn't know what private joy Your Word brought him in quiet moments of reflection. He knew nothing of my inner turmoil or the depths of my struggles. I couldn't speak with him as I wished, since crowds of people with their own needs constantly surrounded him. During his rare free moments, he either ate what he needed to sustain himself or read. When reading, his eyes moved across the pages while his mind absorbed the meaning, but he never read aloud. Often when we visited (for anyone could enter without being announced), we found him reading silently—always this way. After sitting quietly for a while (for who would dare interrupt someone so focused?), we would leave, assuming that in these brief moments of peace from others' demands, he preferred not to be disturbed. Perhaps he worried that if he encountered something unclear in his reading, listeners might ask him to explain or debate complex points, preventing him from covering as much material as he wanted. Though the real reason for his silent reading might have been to preserve his voice, which weakened easily. Whatever his reason, for someone of his character, it was surely the right choice.
I however certainly had no opportunity of enquiring what I wished of that so holy oracle of Thine, his breast, unless the thing might be answered briefly. But those tides in me, to be poured out to him, required his full leisure, and never found it. I heard him indeed every Lord's day, rightly expounding the Word of truth among the people; and I was more and more convinced that all the knots of those crafty calumnies, which those our deceivers had knit against the Divine Books, could be unravelled. But when I understood withal, that "man created by Thee, after Thine own image," was not so understood by Thy spiritual sons, whom of the Catholic Mother Thou hast born again through grace, as though they believed and conceived of Thee as bounded by human shape (although what a spiritual substance should be I had not even a faint or shadowy notion); yet, with joy I blushed at having so many years barked not against the Catholic faith, but against the fictions of carnal imaginations. For so rash and impious had I been, that what I ought by enquiring to have learned, I had pronounced on, condemning. For Thou, Most High, and most near; most secret, and most present; Who hast not limbs some larger, some smaller, but art wholly every where, and no where in space, art not of such corporeal shape, yet hast Thou made man after Thine own image; and behold, from head to foot is he contained in space.
I never had the chance to properly consult that holy oracle, his heart, since my questions required more than brief answers. Those thoughts I longed to pour out to him needed his undivided attention, which I never found. Still, every Sunday I heard him accurately interpret Scripture to his congregation, and I became increasingly convinced that all the twisted accusations our deceivers had made against the Holy Books could be proven false. I also came to understand that when your spiritual children, reborn through grace in the Catholic Church, spoke of "man being created in Your image," they didn't mean You had a human form. Though I still couldn't grasp what a spiritual substance truly was, I felt embarrassed but relieved to realize I had spent years attacking not the Catholic faith itself, but merely misconceptions based on physical imagery. I had been foolish and irreverent, condemning what I should have tried to understand. For You, Most High, are both closest to us and beyond reach, hidden yet ever-present. You aren't bound by physical dimensions or space—You exist everywhere and nowhere at once. Though You have no bodily form, You created humans in Your image, even though we are confined to physical space from head to toe.
Ignorant then how this Thy image should subsist, I should have knocked and proposed the doubt, how it was to be believed, not insultingly opposed it, as if believed. Doubt, then, what to hold for certain, the more sharply gnawed my heart, the more ashamed I was, that so long deluded and deceived by the promise of certainties, I had with childish error and vehemence, prated of so many uncertainties. For that they were falsehoods became clear to me later. However I was certain that they were uncertain, and that I had formerly accounted them certain, when with a blind contentiousness, I accused Thy Catholic Church, whom I now discovered, not indeed as yet to teach truly, but at least not to teach that for which I had grievously censured her. So I was confounded, and converted: and I joyed, O my God, that the One Only Church, the body of Thine Only Son (wherein the name of Christ had been put upon me as an infant), had no taste for infantine conceits; nor in her sound doctrine maintained any tenet which should confine Thee, the Creator of all, in space, however great and large, yet bounded every where by the limits of a human form.
Uncertain of how Your image could exist, I should have asked questions rather than mockingly opposing what I didn't understand. As doubt gnawed at my heart about what to believe, I felt increasingly ashamed of how long I'd been fooled by false certainties. Like a child, I had passionately argued about things I didn't truly understand. While I later recognized these ideas as false, I was at least certain of their uncertainty—unlike before, when I blindly attacked Your Catholic Church. Though I hadn't yet accepted the Church taught truth, I realized she didn't deserve my harsh criticism. This realization humbled and transformed me. I rejoiced, my God, that the One Church, the body of Your Only Son (which had claimed me through baptism as an infant), rejected childish ideas. Her sound doctrine never suggested You, the Creator of all, could be confined to any space, no matter how vast, or limited to human form.
I joyed also that the old Scriptures of the law and the Prophets were laid before me, not now to be perused with that eye to which before they seemed absurd, when I reviled Thy holy ones for so thinking, whereas indeed they thought not so: and with joy I heard Ambrose in his sermons to the people, oftentimes most diligently recommend this text for a rule, The letter killeth, but the Spirit giveth life; whilst he drew aside the mystic veil, laying open spiritually what, according to the letter, seemed to teach something unsound; teaching herein nothing that offended me, though he taught what I knew not as yet, whether it were true. For I kept my heart from assenting to any thing, fearing to fall headlong; but by hanging in suspense I was the worse killed. For I wished to be as assured of the things I saw not, as I was that seven and three are ten. For I was not so mad as to think that even this could not be comprehended; but I desired to have other things as clear as this, whether things corporeal, which were not present to my senses, or spiritual, whereof I knew not how to conceive, except corporeally. And by believing might I have been cured, that so the eyesight of my soul being cleared, might in some way be directed to Thy truth, which abideth always, and in no part faileth. But as it happens that one who has tried a bad physician, fears to trust himself with a good one, so was it with the health of my soul, which could not be healed but by believing, and lest it should believe falsehoods, refused to be cured; resisting Thy hands, Who hast prepared the medicines of faith, and hast applied them to the diseases of the whole world, and given unto them so great authority.
I was also grateful that the old Scriptures and Prophets were presented to me in a new light. Before, they had seemed absurd when I criticized your faithful followers for their interpretations, though I had misunderstood their views. I found joy in hearing Ambrose frequently cite in his public sermons the principle "The letter kills, but the Spirit gives life." He would unveil the spiritual meaning behind texts that, taken literally, seemed problematic. Though he taught things I didn't yet understand, nothing he said offended me. I remained cautious about accepting these ideas, fearing blind commitment, but this very hesitation was slowly destroying me. I wanted absolute certainty about invisible things, just as I was certain that seven plus three equals ten. I wasn't so foolish as to think math was incomprehensible, but I demanded the same clarity for both physical things beyond my senses and spiritual concepts that I could only imagine in material terms. Faith could have healed me, clearing my spiritual vision to see your eternal, unchanging truth. But like someone who avoids a good doctor after experiencing a bad one, my soul resisted healing through faith. Fearing falsehood, it refused treatment, fighting against your healing hands—the same hands that created faith's medicine and applied it to heal the world's ailments, giving it such profound authority.
Being led, however, from this to prefer the Catholic doctrine, I felt that her proceeding was more unassuming and honest, in that she required to be believed things not demonstrated (whether it was that they could in themselves be demonstrated but not to certain persons, or could not at all be), whereas among the Manichees our credulity was mocked by a promise of certain knowledge, and then so many most fabulous and absurd things were imposed to be believed, because they could not be demonstrated. Then Thou, O Lord, little by little with most tender and most merciful hand, touching and composing my heart, didst persuade me—considering what innumerable things I believed, which I saw not, nor was present while they were done, as so many things in secular history, so many reports of places and of cities, which I had not seen; so many of friends, so many of physicians, so many continually of other men, which unless we should believe, we should do nothing at all in this life; lastly, with how unshaken an assurance I believed of what parents I was born, which I could not know, had I not believed upon hearsay—considering all this, Thou didst persuade me, that not they who believed Thy Books (which Thou hast established in so great authority among almost all nations), but they who believed them not, were to be blamed; and that they were not to be heard, who should say to me, "How knowest thou those Scriptures to have been imparted unto mankind by the Spirit of the one true and most true God?" For this very thing was of all most to be believed, since no contentiousness of blasphemous questionings, of all that multitude which I had read in the self-contradicting philosophers, could wring this belief from me, "That Thou art" whatsoever Thou wert (what I knew not), and "That the government of human things belongs to Thee."
I was drawn to Catholic doctrine because of its honesty about faith. Unlike the Manicheans, who falsely promised certain knowledge while demanding belief in ridiculous myths, Catholicism openly acknowledged when things couldn't be proven, whether temporarily or permanently. Lord, you gradually opened my heart with gentle mercy. You helped me realize how many things I already accepted without direct evidence—historical events, descriptions of places I'd never visited, and countless claims from friends, doctors, and others. Without such trust, daily life would be impossible. Even my own parentage I knew only through others' testimony. Reflecting on this, I became convinced that it was skeptics of Your sacred texts who deserved criticism, not believers. These texts have earned widespread authority across cultures. When people asked, "How can you know these Scriptures truly come from the one true God?" I stood firm. After reading countless contradictory philosophers, one truth remained unshakeable: that You exist, however mysterious Your nature, and that You govern human affairs.
This I believed, sometimes more strongly, more weakly otherwhiles; yet I ever believed both that Thou wert, and hadst a care of us; though I was ignorant, both what was to be thought of Thy substance, and what way led or led back to Thee. Since then we were too weak by abstract reasonings to find out truth: and for this very cause needed the authority of Holy Writ; I had now begun to believe that Thou wouldest never have given such excellency of authority to that Writ in all lands, hadst Thou not willed thereby to be believed in, thereby sought. For now what things, sounding strangely in the Scripture, were wont to offend me, having heard divers of them expounded satisfactorily, I referred to the depth of the mysteries, and its authority appeared to me the more venerable, and more worthy of religious credence, in that, while it lay open to all to read, it reserved the majesty of its mysteries within its profounder meaning, stooping to all in the great plainness of its words and lowliness of its style, yet calling forth the intensest application of such as are not light of heart; that so it might receive all in its open bosom, and through narrow passages waft over towards Thee some few, yet many more than if it stood not aloft on such a height of authority, nor drew multitudes within its bosom by its holy lowliness. These things I thought on, and Thou wert with me; I sighed, and Thou heardest me; I wavered, and Thou didst guide me; I wandered through the broad way of the world, and Thou didst not forsake me.
I believed in You—sometimes strongly, sometimes less so—but I always believed both in Your existence and Your care for us, even though I didn't understand Your true nature or how to reach You. Since we were too limited to discover truth through pure reasoning, we needed the authority of Holy Scripture. I began to realize You wouldn't have given Scripture such widespread authority unless You wanted us to believe in and seek You through it. The parts of Scripture that once confused me became clear after hearing proper explanations. I came to respect its mysterious depths and found its authority more credible. While anyone could read it, Scripture held profound mysteries beneath its surface. It spoke simply enough for all to understand, yet demanded careful study from serious seekers. This way, it could welcome everyone while guiding the dedicated few through its narrow path toward You—far more than if it had been less authoritative or less humble in its approach. As I contemplated these things, You were with me. When I sighed, You heard me; when I hesitated, You guided me; when I strayed onto life's broad path, You never abandoned me.
I panted after honours, gains, marriage; and thou deridedst me. In these desires I underwent most bitter crosses, Thou being the more gracious, the less Thou sufferedst aught to grow sweet to me, which was not Thou. Behold my heart, O Lord, who wouldest I should remember all this, and confess to Thee. Let my soul cleave unto Thee, now that Thou hast freed it from that fast-holding birdlime of death. How wretched was it! and Thou didst irritate the feeling of its wound, that forsaking all else, it might be converted unto Thee, who art above all, and without whom all things would be nothing; be converted, and be healed. How miserable was I then, and how didst Thou deal with me, to make me feel my misery on that day, when I was preparing to recite a panegyric of the Emperor, wherein I was to utter many a lie, and lying, was to be applauded by those who knew I lied, and my heart was panting with these anxieties, and boiling with the feverishness of consuming thoughts. For, passing through one of the streets of Milan, I observed a poor beggar, then, I suppose, with a full belly, joking and joyous: and I sighed, and spoke to the friends around me, of the many sorrows of our frenzies; for that by all such efforts of ours, as those wherein I then toiled dragging along, under the goading of desire, the burthen of my own wretchedness, and, by dragging, augmenting it, we yet looked to arrive only at that very joyousness whither that beggar-man had arrived before us, who should never perchance attain it. For what he had obtained by means of a few begged pence, the same was I plotting for by many a toilsome turning and winding; the joy of a temporary felicity. For he verily had not the true joy; but yet I with those my ambitious designs was seeking one much less true. And certainly he was joyous, I anxious; he void of care, I full of fears. But should any ask me, had I rather be merry or fearful? I would answer merry. Again, if he asked had I rather be such as he was, or what I then was? I should choose to be myself, though worn with cares and fears; but out of wrong judgment; for, was it the truth? For I ought not to prefer myself to him, because more learned than he, seeing I had no joy therein, but sought to please men by it; and that not to instruct, but simply to please. Wherefore also Thou didst break my bones with the staff of Thy correction.
I pursued honors, wealth, and marriage, while you mocked my ambitions. These desires brought me bitter hardships, though you showed greater mercy by preventing anything but yourself from bringing me joy. Look into my heart, Lord, as you wish me to remember and confess all this. Let my soul cling to you, now that you've freed it from death's sticky trap. How miserable it was! You aggravated its wound so that, abandoning everything else, it might turn to you—who are above all, without whom nothing would exist—and be healed. How wretched I was then, and how you made me feel my misery that day when I prepared to deliver the Emperor's praise, planning to tell many lies and expecting applause from those who knew I was lying. My heart raced with anxiety and burned with feverish thoughts. Walking through Milan's streets, I saw a poor beggar, presumably well-fed, laughing and happy. I sighed and told my friends about the foolishness of our struggles. Despite all my efforts—dragging along my burdens of desire and misery, making them heavier as I went—I was only trying to reach the same happiness this beggar had already found, though I might never achieve it. What he gained through a few coins, I sought through exhausting schemes: the pleasure of temporary happiness. True, his joy wasn't genuine, but what I sought through my ambitious plans was even less so. He was happy while I was anxious, he was carefree while I was afraid. If asked whether I'd rather be cheerful or fearful, I'd choose cheerful. Yet if asked to choose between being him or myself, I'd have chosen to remain myself, despite my worries and fears. But this was poor judgment. How could I justify preferring myself just because I was more educated, when that knowledge brought me no joy and I only used it to please others—not to teach, but simply to impress? That's why you broke my bones with your corrective staff.
Away with those then from my soul who say to her, "It makes a difference whence a man's joy is. That beggar-man joyed in drunkenness; Thou desiredst to joy in glory." What glory, Lord? That which is not in Thee. For even as his was no true joy, so was that no true glory: and it overthrew my soul more. He that very night should digest his drunkenness; but I had slept and risen again with mine, and was to sleep again, and again to rise with it, how many days, Thou, God, knowest. But "it doth make a difference whence a man's joy is." I know it, and the joy of a faithful hope lieth incomparably beyond such vanity. Yea, and so was he then beyond me: for he verily was the happier; not only for that he was thoroughly drenched in mirth, I disembowelled with cares: but he, by fair wishes, had gotten wine; I, by lying, was seeking for empty, swelling praise. Much to this purpose said I then to my friends: and I often marked in them how it fared with me; and I found it went ill with me, and grieved, and doubled that very ill; and if any prosperity smiled on me, I was loth to catch at it, for almost before I could grasp it, it flew away.
Let my soul reject those who tell it, "The source of joy matters. That beggar found joy in drunkenness, while you seek joy in glory." But what glory, Lord? Only that which exists outside of You. Neither his joy nor that glory was real, and this realization troubled me even more. His drunkenness would fade by morning, but my desire for glory stayed with me night after night, waking and sleeping, for countless days that only You can number. Yes, the source of joy does matter. I understand this now, and the joy of faithful hope is infinitely more valuable than such emptiness. In that moment, though, the beggar was better off than I was. He was genuinely happy while I was consumed by worry. He had honestly earned his wine, while I chased hollow praise through lies. I often discussed this with my friends, watching how they responded to my situation. I saw how poorly I was doing and felt worse for recognizing it. My misery only deepened, and when good fortune did come my way, I hesitated to embrace it, knowing it would slip through my fingers before I could truly hold it.
These things we, who were living as friends together, bemoaned together, but chiefly and most familiarly did I speak thereof with Alypius and Nebridius, of whom Alypius was born in the same town with me, of persons of chief rank there, but younger than I. For he had studied under me, both when I first lectured in our town, and afterwards at Carthage, and he loved me much, because I seemed to him kind, and learned; and I him, for his great towardliness to virtue, which was eminent enough in one of no greater years. Yet the whirlpool of Carthaginian habits (amongst whom those idle spectacles are hotly followed) had drawn him into the madness of the Circus. But while he was miserably tossed therein, and I, professing rhetoric there, had a public school, as yet he used not my teaching, by reason of some unkindness risen betwixt his father and me. I had found then how deadly he doted upon the Circus, and was deeply grieved that he seemed likely, nay, or had thrown away so great promise: yet had I no means of advising or with a sort of constraint reclaiming him, either by the kindness of a friend, or the authority of a master. For I supposed that he thought of me as did his father; but he was not such; laying aside then his father's mind in that matter, he began to greet me, come sometimes into my lecture room, hear a little, and be gone.
I shared these troubles with my friends, but discussed them most deeply with Alypius and Nebridius. Alypius, who came from my hometown and was born into a prominent family, was younger than me. He had been my student when I taught both in our town and later in Carthage. We formed a strong bond—he appreciated my kindness and knowledge, while I admired his exceptional virtue, especially remarkable in someone so young. Unfortunately, the corrupting influence of Carthage, particularly its obsession with entertainment, had pulled him into an unhealthy obsession with the Circus races. During this troubled period, while I was teaching rhetoric at a public school, he wasn't attending my lectures due to a falling out between his father and me. I was deeply concerned about his Circus addiction and worried that he was wasting his potential. However, I had no way to help or guide him, either as a friend or as a teacher. I assumed he shared his father's negative opinion of me, but I was wrong. Eventually, setting aside his father's prejudices, he began reaching out—occasionally visiting my classroom, listening briefly, and leaving.
I however had forgotten to deal with him, that he should not, through a blind and headlong desire of vain pastimes, undo so good a wit. But Thou, O Lord, who guidest the course of all Thou hast created, hadst not forgotten him, who was one day to be among Thy children, Priest and Dispenser of Thy Sacrament; and that his amendment might plainly be attributed to Thyself, Thou effectedst it through me, unknowingly. For as one day I sat in my accustomed place, with my scholars before me, he entered, greeted me, sat down, and applied his mind to what I then handled. I had by chance a passage in hand, which while I was explaining, a likeness from the Circensian races occurred to me, as likely to make what I would convey pleasanter and plainer, seasoned with biting mockery of those whom that madness had enthralled; God, Thou knowest that I then thought not of curing Alypius of that infection. But he took it wholly to himself, and thought that I said it simply for his sake. And whence another would have taken occasion of offence with me, that right-minded youth took as a ground of being offended at himself, and loving me more fervently. For Thou hadst said it long ago, and put it into Thy book, Rebuke a wise man and he will love Thee. But I had not rebuked him, but Thou, who employest all, knowing or not knowing, in that order which Thyself knowest (and that order is just), didst of my heart and tongue make burning coals, by which to set on fire the hopeful mind, thus languishing, and so cure it. Let him be silent in Thy praises, who considers not Thy mercies, which confess unto Thee out of my inmost soul. For he upon that speech burst out of that pit so deep, wherein he was wilfully plunged, and was blinded with its wretched pastimes; and he shook his mind with a strong self-command; whereupon all the filths of the Circensian pastimes flew off from him, nor came he again thither. Upon this, he prevailed with his unwilling father that he might be my scholar. He gave way, and gave in. And Alypius beginning to be my hearer again, was involved in the same superstition with me, loving in the Manichees that show of continency which he supposed true and unfeigned. Whereas it was a senseless and seducing continency, ensnaring precious souls, unable as yet to reach the depth of virtue, yet readily beguiled with the surface of what was but a shadowy and counterfeit virtue.
I had forgotten to stop him from potentially ruining his brilliant mind through reckless pursuit of empty entertainment. But You, Lord, who guides all creation, hadn't forgotten him—this future priest and administrator of Your Sacrament. You worked through me unknowingly to reform him. One day, as I was teaching my students, he came in, greeted me, and sat down to listen. I happened to be explaining a passage and used an analogy from the Circensian races to make my point clearer, adding some sharp criticism of those obsessed with such events. God knows I wasn't trying to cure Alypius of his addiction. But he took my words personally, as if I'd spoken them just for him. Where others might have taken offense, this principled young man turned the criticism inward and grew to love me more deeply. As You had written long ago, "Rebuke a wise man and he will love you." Though I hadn't meant to rebuke him, You used my words—whether I knew it or not—as burning coals to ignite and heal his struggling spirit. Let anyone who overlooks Your mercies stay silent in Your praise, while my soul proclaims them. For after hearing those words, he pulled himself from that deep pit of willful obsession with worthless entertainments. With strong self-discipline, he broke free from the corruption of the Circensian games and never returned. He then convinced his reluctant father to let him become my student. His father eventually agreed. But when Alypius returned to my teachings, he fell into the same Manichean superstition as me, admiring what he thought was genuine self-restraint. In reality, it was meaningless and deceptive—a trap for precious souls who, not yet understanding true virtue, were easily fooled by its hollow imitation.
He, not forsaking that secular course which his parents had charmed him to pursue, had gone before me to Rome, to study law, and there he was carried away incredibly with an incredible eagerness after the shows of gladiators. For being utterly averse to and detesting spectacles, he was one day by chance met by divers of his acquaintance and fellow-students coming from dinner, and they with a familiar violence haled him, vehemently refusing and resisting, into the Amphitheatre, during these cruel and deadly shows, he thus protesting: "Though you hale my body to that place, and there set me, can you force me also to turn my mind or my eyes to those shows? I shall then be absent while present, and so shall overcome both you and them." They, hearing this, led him on nevertheless, desirous perchance to try that very thing, whether he could do as he said. When they were come thither, and had taken their places as they could, the whole place kindled with that savage pastime. But he, closing the passage of his eyes, forbade his mind to range abroad after such evil; and would he had stopped his ears also! For in the fight, when one fell, a mighty cry of the whole people striking him strongly, overcome by curiosity, and as if prepared to despise and be superior to it whatsoever it were, even when seen, he opened his eyes, and was stricken with a deeper wound in his soul than the other, whom he desired to behold, was in his body; and he fell more miserably than he upon whose fall that mighty noise was raised, which entered through his ears, and unlocked his eyes, to make way for the striking and beating down of a soul, bold rather than resolute, and the weaker, in that it had presumed on itself, which ought to have relied on Thee. For so soon as he saw that blood, he therewith drunk down savageness; nor turned away, but fixed his eye, drinking in frenzy, unawares, and was delighted with that guilty fight, and intoxicated with the bloody pastime. Nor was he now the man he came, but one of the throng he came unto, yea, a true associate of theirs that brought him thither. Why say more? He beheld, shouted, kindled, carried thence with him the madness which should goad him to return not only with them who first drew him thither, but also before them, yea and to draw in others. Yet thence didst Thou with a most strong and most merciful hand pluck him, and taughtest him to have confidence not in himself, but in Thee. But this was after.
He continued the career path his parents had chosen for him, going to Rome to study law before I did. There, he became incredibly drawn to gladiator shows, despite initially despising such spectacles. One day, some classmates encountered him after dinner and, despite his fierce resistance, dragged him to the Amphitheatre during one of these brutal events. He protested, "You may force my body there, but you can't make me watch. I'll be physically present but mentally absent, thus defeating both you and the spectacle." Intrigued by this challenge, they brought him anyway. Once seated, as the savage entertainment began, he shut his eyes, trying to prevent his mind from engaging with such brutality. If only he had blocked his ears too! When a gladiator fell, the crowd's massive roar triggered his curiosity. Believing he could watch while maintaining his superiority to it all, he opened his eyes. What he saw inflicted a deeper wound to his soul than the physical wound suffered by the fallen gladiator. He collapsed spiritually, the crowd's roar having unlocked his eyes and devastated his soul—a soul that had foolishly relied on its own strength rather than on God. The moment he saw blood, he became consumed by its savagery. He couldn't look away, unknowingly drinking in the madness, becoming intoxicated by the violent spectacle. He transformed from the person who arrived into just another face in the bloodthirsty crowd, fully joining those who had brought him. He watched, cheered, and became inflamed with excitement, leaving with an addiction that would bring him back—not just with his original companions, but ahead of them, even recruiting others to join. Yet eventually, You rescued him with Your powerful and merciful hand, teaching him to trust in You rather than himself. But that came later.
But this was already being laid up in his memory to be a medicine hereafter. So was that also, that when he was yet studying under me at Carthage, and was thinking over at mid-day in the market-place what he was to say by heart (as scholars use to practise), Thou sufferedst him to be apprehended by the officers of the market-place for a thief. For no other cause, I deem, didst Thou, our God, suffer it, but that he who was hereafter to prove so great a man, should already begin to learn that in judging of causes, man was not readily to be condemned by man out of a rash credulity. For as he was walking up and down by himself before the judgment-seat, with his note-book and pen, lo, a young man, a lawyer, the real thief, privily bringing a hatchet, got in, unperceived by Alypius, as far as the leaden gratings which fence in the silversmiths' shops, and began to cut away the lead. But the noise of the hatchet being heard, the silversmiths beneath began to make a stir, and sent to apprehend whomever they should find. But he, hearing their voices, ran away, leaving his hatchet, fearing to be taken with it. Alypius now, who had not seen him enter, was aware of his going, and saw with what speed he made away. And being desirous to know the matter, entered the place; where finding the hatchet, he was standing, wondering and considering it, when behold, those that had been sent, find him alone with the hatchet in his hand, the noise whereof had startled and brought them thither. They seize him, hale him away, and gathering the dwellers in the market-place together, boast of having taken a notorious thief, and so he was being led away to be taken before the judge.
This experience would later serve as a valuable lesson. Another such lesson occurred while he was studying under me in Carthage. One afternoon in the marketplace, while Alypius was practicing his speech recitation (as students commonly did), you, God, allowed him to be arrested as a thief. I believe you permitted this incident for no other reason than to teach this future great man an early lesson about not hastily condemning others based on circumstantial evidence. While he was pacing near the courthouse with his notebook and pen, a young lawyer—the actual thief—snuck in unnoticed by Alypius. The man brought a hatchet and approached the lead gratings that protected the silversmiths' shops, beginning to cut away the metal. When the silversmiths below heard the hatchet's noise, they raised an alarm and sent people to catch the culprit. The thief, hearing their shouts, fled, abandoning his hatchet to avoid being caught with it. Alypius, who hadn't seen the man enter, noticed him fleeing at high speed. Curious about what had happened, he entered the area and found the hatchet. As he stood there examining it in confusion, the search party arrived to find him alone, holding the tool that had drawn them there. They seized him, dragged him away, and paraded him before the marketplace crowd, proudly announcing they had caught a notorious thief. And so Alypius was led away to face the judge.
But thus far was Alypius to be instructed. For forthwith, O Lord, Thou succouredst his innocency, whereof Thou alone wert witness. For as he was being led either to prison or to punishment, a certain architect met them, who had the chief charge of the public buildings. Glad they were to meet him especially, by whom they were wont to be suspected of stealing the goods lost out of the market-place, as though to show him at last by whom these thefts were committed. He, however, had divers times seen Alypius at a certain senator's house, to whom he often went to pay his respects; and recognising him immediately, took him aside by the hand, and enquiring the occasion of so great a calamity, heard the whole matter, and bade all present, amid much uproar and threats, to go with him. So they came to the house of the young man who had done the deed. There, before the door, was a boy so young as to be likely, not apprehending any harm to his master, to disclose the whole. For he had attended his master to the market-place. Whom so soon as Alypius remembered, he told the architect: and he showing the hatchet to the boy, asked him "Whose that was?" "Ours," quoth he presently: and being further questioned, he discovered every thing. Thus the crime being transferred to that house, and the multitude ashamed, which had begun to insult over Alypius, he who was to be a dispenser of Thy Word, and an examiner of many causes in Thy Church, went away better experienced and instructed.
A defining moment came for Alypius when God stepped in to protect his innocence, known only to Him. While being led away for imprisonment or punishment, they encountered the chief architect responsible for public buildings. The guards were especially pleased to meet him, as he could finally see who had been stealing from the marketplace—a crime they had often suspected him of. The architect, having seen Alypius several times at a senator's house where he regularly paid visits, immediately recognized him. Taking him aside, he asked about the situation. After hearing the full story, he ordered everyone to follow him, despite their loud protests and threats. They arrived at the house of the actual thief. Outside stood a young servant boy who, not realizing the consequences for his master, would likely tell the truth. He had accompanied his master to the marketplace that day. When Alypius spotted him, he alerted the architect, who showed the boy a hatchet and asked, "Whose is this?" "Ours," the boy replied without hesitation, and under further questioning, revealed everything. With the crime now traced to the correct household, the shame-faced crowd that had mocked Alypius dispersed. And so Alypius, who would later become an administrator of God's Word and judge of many church matters, left this experience wiser and more enlightened.
Him then I had found at Rome, and he clave to me by a most strong tie, and went with me to Milan, both that he might not leave me, and might practise something of the law he had studied, more to please his parents than himself. There he had thrice sat as Assessor, with an uncorruptness much wondered at by others, he wondering at others rather who could prefer gold to honesty. His character was tried besides, not only with the bait of covetousness, but with the goad of fear. At Rome he was Assessor to the count of the Italian Treasury. There was at that time a very powerful senator, to whose favours many stood indebted, many much feared. He would needs, by his usual power, have a thing allowed him which by the laws was unallowed. Alypius resisted it: a bribe was promised; with all his heart he scorned it: threats were held out; he trampled upon them: all wondering at so unwonted a spirit, which neither desired the friendship, nor feared the enmity of one so great and so mightily renowned for innumerable means of doing good or evil. And the very judge, whose councillor Alypius was, although also unwilling it should be, yet did not openly refuse, but put the matter off upon Alypius, alleging that he would not allow him to do it: for in truth had the judge done it, Alypius would have decided otherwise. With this one thing in the way of learning was he well-nigh seduced, that he might have books copied for him at Praetorian prices, but consulting justice, he altered his deliberation for the better; esteeming equity whereby he was hindered more gainful than the power whereby he were allowed. These are slight things, but he that is faithful in little, is faithful also in much. Nor can that any how be void, which proceeded out of the mouth of Thy Truth: If ye have not been faithful in the unrighteous Mammon, who will commit to your trust true riches? And if ye have not been faithful in that which is another man's, who shall give you that which is your own? He being such, did at that time cleave to me, and with me wavered in purpose, what course of life was to be taken.
I found him in Rome, where he became deeply attached to me. He followed me to Milan, both to stay close and to practice law—a field he had studied more to satisfy his parents than himself. In Milan, he served three times as an Assessor, earning widespread admiration for his integrity while he himself was surprised that others would value money over honesty. His character faced tests beyond mere greed—he also confronted intimidation. While working as an Assessor to the Italian Treasury in Rome, he encountered a powerful senator whose influence earned him many favors and inspired widespread fear. This senator attempted to use his authority to bypass certain laws. Alypius stood firm against this: he rejected bribes and dismissed threats, amazing everyone with his unusual courage in neither seeking the friendship nor fearing the enmity of someone with such extensive power to help or harm. Even the judge, though reluctant to deny the senator's request, avoided direct refusal by deferring to Alypius, claiming he wouldn't force him to comply. In truth, had the judge approved it, Alypius would have dissented. His principles were tested in another way when he nearly gave in to having books copied at special Praetorian rates, but after considering the ethics, he chose the righteous path, valuing fairness above personal advantage. These may seem like small matters, but one who shows integrity in small things shows integrity in large ones. The words of Truth cannot be empty: "If you cannot be trusted with worldly wealth, who will trust you with true riches? And if you cannot be trusted with another's property, who will give you property of your own?" Such was the man who stood beside me then, as we both struggled to determine our life's direction.
Nebridius also, who having left his native country near Carthage, yea and Carthage itself, where he had much lived, leaving his excellent family-estate and house, and a mother behind, who was not to follow him, had come to Milan, for no other reason but that with me he might live in a most ardent search after truth and wisdom. Like me he sighed, like me he wavered, an ardent searcher after true life, and a most acute examiner of the most difficult questions. Thus were there the mouths of three indigent persons, sighing out their wants one to another, and waiting upon Thee that Thou mightest give them their meat in due season. And in all the bitterness which by Thy mercy followed our worldly affairs, as we looked towards the end, why we should suffer all this, darkness met us; and we turned away groaning, and saying, How long shall these things be? This too we often said; and so saying forsook them not, for as yet there dawned nothing certain, which these forsaken, we might embrace.
Nebridius had left his homeland near Carthage, and even Carthage itself where he'd spent many years. He abandoned his family estate, his house, and his mother, who couldn't join him, to come to Milan. His sole purpose was to join me in an intense pursuit of truth and wisdom. Like me, he struggled and doubted, passionately searching for authentic life while skillfully tackling the most complex questions. The three of us were like hungry souls, sharing our yearnings with each other and waiting for You to provide sustenance at the right time. In all the hardships that accompanied our worldly pursuits—hardships You mercifully allowed—we looked for meaning in our suffering but found only darkness. We turned away in despair, asking, "How long must this continue?" We repeated this often, yet we didn't abandon our path, because we hadn't yet found anything certain enough to embrace in place of what we would leave behind.
And I, viewing and reviewing things, most wondered at the length of time from that my nineteenth year, wherein I had begun to kindle with the desire of wisdom, settling when I had found her, to abandon all the empty hopes and lying frenzies of vain desires. And lo, I was now in my thirtieth year, sticking in the same mire, greedy of enjoying things present, which passed away and wasted my soul; while I said to myself, "Tomorrow I shall find it; it will appear manifestly and I shall grasp it; lo, Faustus the Manichee will come, and clear every thing! O you great men, ye Academicians, it is true then, that no certainty can be attained for the ordering of life! Nay, let us search the more diligently, and despair not. Lo, things in the ecclesiastical books are not absurd to us now, which sometimes seemed absurd, and may be otherwise taken, and in a good sense. I will take my stand, where, as a child, my parents placed me, until the clear truth be found out. But where shall it be sought or when? Ambrose has no leisure; we have no leisure to read; where shall we find even the books? Whence, or when procure them? from whom borrow them? Let set times be appointed, and certain hours be ordered for the health of our soul. Great hope has dawned; the Catholic Faith teaches not what we thought, and vainly accused it of; her instructed members hold it profane to believe God to be bounded by the figure of a human body: and do we doubt to 'knock,' that the rest 'may be opened'? The forenoons our scholars take up; what do we during the rest? Why not this? But when then pay we court to our great friends, whose favour we need? When compose what we may sell to scholars? When refresh ourselves, unbending our minds from this intenseness of care?
Looking back, I'm most amazed at how long it took from age nineteen, when I first yearned for wisdom, to realize I needed to abandon empty hopes and pointless desires. Here I am at thirty, still stuck in the same trap, desperately chasing fleeting pleasures that drain my soul. I keep telling myself, "Tomorrow I'll figure it out; everything will become clear when Faustus the Manichee explains it." Oh, you great Academics—is it really true that we can't find any certainty in life? No, we must search harder and not lose hope. Now the religious texts don't seem as nonsensical as they once did—maybe they can be interpreted differently, in a positive way. I should stay where my parents placed me as a child until I discover the clear truth. But where and when will I find it? Ambrose has no time; I have no time to read. Where will I even find the books? When can I get them? Who can lend them to me? I should schedule specific times for my spiritual growth. There's great hope now—the Catholic Faith isn't what we wrongly accused it of being. Its members consider it blasphemous to think of God as having a human form. So why hesitate to knock, so that other doors may open? Our mornings are taken up by students—what should we do with the remaining time? Why not pursue this? But when will we pay respects to our influential friends whose support we need? When will we write material to sell to students? When can we relax and give our minds a break from all this worry?
"Perish every thing, dismiss we these empty vanities, and betake ourselves to the one search for truth! Life is vain, death uncertain; if it steals upon us on a sudden, in what state shall we depart hence? and where shall we learn what here we have neglected? and shall we not rather suffer the punishment of this negligence? What, if death itself cut off and end all care and feeling? Then must this be ascertained. But God forbid this! It is no vain and empty thing, that the excellent dignity of the authority of the Christian Faith hath overspread the whole world. Never would such and so great things be by God wrought for us, if with the death of the body the life of the soul came to an end. Wherefore delay then to abandon worldly hopes, and give ourselves wholly to seek after God and the blessed life? But wait! Even those things are pleasant; they have some, and no small sweetness. We must not lightly abandon them, for it were a shame to return again to them. See, it is no great matter now to obtain some station, and then what should we more wish for? We have store of powerful friends; if nothing else offer, and we be in much haste, at least a presidentship may be given us: and a wife with some money, that she increase not our charges: and this shall be the bound of desire. Many great men, and most worthy of imitation, have given themselves to the study of wisdom in the state of marriage."
Life's empty pursuits must end—let's focus solely on finding truth! Life is fleeting and death unpredictable. If death comes suddenly, what state will we be in? When will we learn what we've ignored? Won't we face consequences for this negligence? What if death ends all consciousness? We must know for certain. But no—that cannot be! The widespread authority of Christian Faith across the world isn't meaningless. God wouldn't perform such great works for us if our souls died with our bodies. So why delay? Why not abandon worldly hopes and dedicate ourselves to seeking God and a blessed life? But wait—worldly things are pleasant and have their charm. We shouldn't hastily abandon them since returning to them would be shameful. Look, it's not hard to achieve some position now, so what more could we want? We have influential friends; if nothing else, we could quickly secure a leadership role. And we could marry someone with money to avoid increasing our expenses—this would satisfy our ambitions. Many great and admirable people have pursued wisdom while married.
While I went over these things, and these winds shifted and drove my heart this way and that, time passed on, but I delayed to turn to the Lord; and from day to day deferred to live in Thee, and deferred not daily to die in myself. Loving a happy life, I feared it in its own abode, and sought it, by fleeing from it. I thought I should be too miserable, unless folded in female arms; and of the medicine of Thy mercy to cure that infirmity I thought not, not having tried it. As for continency, I supposed it to be in our own power (though in myself I did not find that power), being so foolish as not to know what is written, None can be continent unless Thou give it; and that Thou wouldest give it, if with inward groanings I did knock at Thine ears, and with a settled faith did cast my care on Thee.
As I pondered these matters, my heart swayed back and forth like shifting winds. Time kept passing, yet I hesitated to turn to God, postponing daily my commitment to live in His way while continuing to die within myself. Though I craved happiness, I paradoxically feared it where it truly resided and chased it by running away. I believed I would be miserable without romantic love, and never considered that Your mercy might heal this weakness, having never tested it. I foolishly thought self-control was something I could achieve through willpower alone (despite having no evidence of such power within myself). I was ignorant of the scripture that teaches no one can be self-controlled unless You grant it—and that You would indeed grant it if I earnestly knocked at Your door with deep sighs and cast my burdens upon You with steady faith.
Alypius indeed kept me from marrying; alleging that so could we by no means with undistracted leisure live together in the love of wisdom, as we had long desired. For himself was even then most pure in this point, so that it was wonderful; and that the more, since in the outset of his youth he had entered into that course, but had not stuck fast therein; rather had he felt remorse and revolting at it, living thenceforth until now most continently. But I opposed him with the examples of those who as married men had cherished wisdom, and served God acceptably, and retained their friends, and loved them faithfully. Of whose greatness of spirit I was far short; and bound with the disease of the flesh, and its deadly sweetness, drew along my chain, dreading to be loosed, and as if my wound had been fretted, put back his good persuasions, as it were the hand of one that would unchain me. Moreover, by me did the serpent speak unto Alypius himself, by my tongue weaving and laying in his path pleasurable snares, wherein his virtuous and free feet might be entangled.
Alypius tried to discourage me from marriage, arguing that we couldn't pursue our shared love of philosophy with undivided attention if I were married. He himself was remarkably pure in this regard, especially considering his early youth when he had briefly strayed from this path, only to turn back with regret and live continently ever since. I countered his arguments by pointing to examples of married men who had successfully pursued wisdom, served God, and maintained faithful friendships. But I fell far short of their strength of character. Bound by physical desires and their dangerous allure, I clung to my chains, fearing freedom. When Alypius tried to help, I recoiled like someone protecting a wound. Worse still, I became like a serpent, using my words to tempt Alypius himself, laying verbal traps to ensnare his virtuous and free spirit.
For when he wondered that I, whom he esteemed not slightly, should stick so fast in the birdlime of that pleasure, as to protest (so oft as we discussed it) that I could never lead a single life; and urged in my defence when I saw him wonder, that there was great difference between his momentary and scarce-remembered knowledge of that life, which so he might easily despise, and my continued acquaintance whereto if the honourable name of marriage were added, he ought not to wonder why I could not contemn that course; he began also to desire to be married; not as overcome with desire of such pleasure, but out of curiosity. For he would fain know, he said, what that should be, without which my life, to him so pleasing, would to me seem not life but a punishment. For his mind, free from that chain, was amazed at my thraldom; and through that amazement was going on to a desire of trying it, thence to the trial itself, and thence perhaps to sink into that bondage whereat he wondered, seeing he was willing to make a covenant with death; and he that loves danger, shall fall into it. For whatever honour there be in the office of well-ordering a married life, and a family, moved us but slightly. But me for the most part the habit of satisfying an insatiable appetite tormented, while it held me captive; him, an admiring wonder was leading captive. So were we, until Thou, O Most High, not forsaking our dust, commiserating us miserable, didst come to our help, by wondrous and secret ways.
When he was surprised that I, whom he respected, could be so caught up in pleasure's trap that I insisted I could never live a single life, I defended myself. I explained that he couldn't fairly judge what he barely knew or remembered—it was completely different from my deep personal experience. Add to that the honorable institution of marriage, and he shouldn't be surprised I couldn't dismiss it. This made him curious about marriage too, not from desire but from genuine interest. He wanted to understand what made this thing so essential that without it, my otherwise appealing life would feel like punishment to me. His mind, unburdened by such attachment, was puzzled by my bondage. This puzzlement led to curiosity, then to wanting to try it himself, and might have led him to fall into the same captivity that surprised him—essentially making a pact with death. After all, those who court danger often find it. The respectability of managing a married life and household barely influenced us. I was mostly driven by the habit of satisfying an unquenchable desire that held me captive, while he was driven by fascinated curiosity. We remained this way until You, Most High, refused to abandon us in our earthly state, took pity on our miserable condition, and came to our rescue through mysterious and hidden means.
Continual effort was made to have me married. I wooed, I was promised, chiefly through my mother's pains, that so once married, the health-giving baptism might cleanse me, towards which she rejoiced that I was being daily fitted, and observed that her prayers, and Thy promises, were being fulfilled in my faith. At which time verily, both at my request and her own longing, with strong cries of heart she daily begged of Thee, that Thou wouldest by a vision discover unto her something concerning my future marriage; Thou never wouldest. She saw indeed certain vain and fantastic things, such as the energy of the human spirit, busied thereon, brought together; and these she told me of, not with that confidence she was wont, when Thou showedst her any thing, but slighting them. For she could, she said, through a certain feeling, which in words she could not express, discern betwixt Thy revelations, and the dreams of her own soul. Yet the matter was pressed on, and a maiden asked in marriage, two years under the fit age; and, as pleasing, was waited for.
There was constant pressure for me to get married. Through my mother's efforts primarily, I courted and became engaged. She hoped that once married, the holy baptism would cleanse me, and she was delighted to see me growing more suited to it daily. She felt her prayers and God's promises were being fulfilled through my faith. During this time, both at my request and from her own desire, she earnestly prayed daily that God would reveal something about my future marriage through a vision. He never did. She did experience some meaningless and fantastical thoughts, the kind that come from an active mind dwelling on something. When she told me about these, it wasn't with her usual confidence that she had when God truly revealed things to her. Instead, she dismissed them. She explained that she could sense, in a way she couldn't quite describe, the difference between divine revelations and her own thoughts. Nevertheless, marriage plans moved forward, and we waited for a girl who was two years shy of marriageable age, as she seemed suitable.
And many of us friends conferring about, and detesting the turbulent turmoils of human life, had debated and now almost resolved on living apart from business and the bustle of men; and this was to be thus obtained; we were to bring whatever we might severally procure, and make one household of all; so that through the truth of our friendship nothing should belong especially to any; but the whole thus derived from all, should as a whole belong to each, and all to all. We thought there might be some often persons in this society; some of whom were very rich, especially Romanianus our townsman, from childhood a very familiar friend of mine, whom the grievous perplexities of his affairs had brought up to court; who was the most earnest for this project; and therein was his voice of great weight, because his ample estate far exceeded any of the rest. We had settled also that two annual officers, as it were, should provide all things necessary, the rest being undisturbed. But when we began to consider whether the wives, which some of us already had, others hoped to have, would allow this, all that plan, which was being so well moulded, fell to pieces in our hands, was utterly dashed and cast aside. Thence we betook us to sighs, and groans, and our steps to follow the broad and beaten ways of the world; for many thoughts were in our heart, but Thy counsel standeth for ever. Out of which counsel Thou didst deride ours, and preparedst Thine own; purposing to give us meat in due season, and to fill our souls with blessing.
A group of us friends, disgusted by the chaos of everyday life, had been discussing and nearly decided to live apart from business and society. Our plan was this: we would pool our individual resources into one household, so that through our genuine friendship, nothing would belong to any single person. Instead, everything contributed would belong to everyone equally. We thought this community might include about ten people, some of whom were quite wealthy—especially our hometown friend Romanianus. He'd been driven to court by his complex business troubles, but was the most enthusiastic about our project. His opinion carried significant weight since his wealth far exceeded the rest of ours. We had planned to appoint two people annually to handle all necessities, leaving everyone else unburdened. But when we considered whether our wives—both current and future—would agree to this arrangement, the whole carefully constructed plan crumbled before us and had to be abandoned. We were left only with sighs and groans, forced back to following society's well-worn paths. Though our minds were full of schemes, Your plan stands eternal. From Your wisdom, You mocked our plans while preparing Your own, intending to provide for us at the right time and fill our souls with blessings.
Meanwhile my sins were being multiplied, and my concubine being torn from my side as a hindrance to my marriage, my heart which clave unto her was torn and wounded and bleeding. And she returned to Afric, vowing unto Thee never to know any other man, leaving with me my son by her. But unhappy I, who could not imitate a very woman, impatient of delay, inasmuch as not till after two years was I to obtain her I sought not being so much a lover of marriage as a slave to lust, procured another, though no wife, that so by the servitude of an enduring custom, the disease of my soul might be kept up and carried on in its vigour, or even augmented, into the dominion of marriage. Nor was that my wound cured, which had been made by the cutting away of the former, but after inflammation and most acute pain, it mortified, and my pains became less acute, but more desperate.
During this time, my sins kept growing. When my lover was taken from me because she stood in the way of my marriage, my heart was left torn and bleeding from her loss. She returned to Africa, swearing to God she would never be with another man, leaving behind our son. In my weakness, I couldn't match her noble example. Too impatient to wait the two years until my arranged marriage, and driven more by lust than a desire for matrimony, I found another mistress. Through this ongoing relationship, my soul's sickness was maintained and even strengthened as I approached marriage. The wound from losing my first love never truly healed. After the initial sharp pain and inflammation subsided, it festered—the agony dulled but grew more hopeless.
To Thee be praise, glory to Thee, Fountain of mercies. I was becoming more miserable, and Thou nearer. Thy right hand was continually ready to pluck me out of the mire, and to wash me thoroughly, and I knew it not; nor did anything call me back from a yet deeper gulf of carnal pleasures, but the fear of death, and of Thy judgment to come; which amid all my changes, never departed from my breast. And in my disputes with my friends Alypius and Nebridius of the nature of good and evil, I held that Epicurus had in my mind won the palm, had I not believed that after death there remained a life for the soul, and places of requital according to men's deserts, which Epicurus would not believe. And I asked, "were we immortal, and to live in perpetual bodily pleasure, without fear of losing it, why should we not be happy, or what else should we seek?" not knowing that great misery was involved in this very thing, that, being thus sunk and blinded, I could not discern that light of excellence and beauty, to be embraced for its own sake, which the eye of flesh cannot see, and is seen by the inner man. Nor did I, unhappy, consider from what source it sprung, that even on these things, foul as they were, I with pleasure discoursed with my friends, nor could I, even according to the notions I then had of happiness, be happy without friends, amid what abundance soever of carnal pleasures. And yet these friends I loved for themselves only, and I felt that I was beloved of them again for myself only.
I was growing more miserable even as You drew closer to me, Lord. You were ready to pull me from the depths and cleanse me completely, though I didn't realize it. Nothing could pull me back from my spiral into physical pleasures except my fear of death and Your final judgment—thoughts that never left me, despite all my life's changes. In my discussions with my friends Alypius and Nebridius about good and evil, I believed Epicurus had the right idea—except for one thing. I couldn't accept his rejection of the soul's afterlife and the justice that awaited us based on our actions. I wondered: if we could live forever in endless physical pleasure without fear of losing it, wouldn't that be perfect happiness? What more could we want? I didn't understand then that this mindset was itself a form of misery. In my blindness, I couldn't see the light of true excellence and beauty—things that should be cherished for their own sake, invisible to physical eyes but clear to the soul. In my unhappiness, I failed to recognize why I could find joy in discussing even crude matters with my friends, or why, despite all physical pleasures, I couldn't be truly happy without friendship. I loved these friends purely for who they were, and I felt they loved me the same way.
O crooked paths! Woe to the audacious soul, which hoped, by forsaking Thee, to gain some better thing! Turned it hath, and turned again, upon back, sides, and belly, yet all was painful; and Thou alone rest. And behold, Thou art at hand, and deliverest us from our wretched wanderings, and placest us in Thy way, and dost comfort us, and say, "Run; I will carry you; yea I will bring you through; there also will I carry you."
What twisted paths we take! How foolish is the soul that abandons You, hoping to find something better! It turns and twists, trying every direction, but finds only pain. You alone provide peace. Yet there You are, reaching out to save us from our aimless wandering. You set us on Your path and comfort us, saying "Run ahead—I'll carry you. Yes, I'll guide you through, and I'll carry you even then."