Book 8

O my God, let me, with thanksgiving, remember, and confess unto Thee Thy mercies on me. Let my bones be bedewed with Thy love, and let them say unto Thee, Who is like unto Thee, O Lord? Thou hast broken my bonds in sunder, I will offer unto Thee the sacrifice of thanksgiving. And how Thou hast broken them, I will declare; and all who worship Thee, when they hear this, shall say, "Blessed be the Lord, in heaven and in earth, great and wonderful is his name." Thy words had stuck fast in my heart, and I was hedged round about on all sides by Thee. Of Thy eternal life I was now certain, though I saw it in a figure and as through a glass. Yet I had ceased to doubt that there was an incorruptible substance, whence was all other substance; nor did I now desire to be more certain of Thee, but more steadfast in Thee. But for my temporal life, all was wavering, and my heart had to be purged from the old leaven. The Way, the Saviour Himself, well pleased me, but as yet I shrunk from going through its straitness. And Thou didst put into my mind, and it seemed good in my eyes, to go to Simplicianus, who seemed to me a good servant of Thine; and Thy grace shone in him. I had heard also that from his very youth he had lived most devoted unto Thee. Now he was grown into years; and by reason of so great age spent in such zealous following of Thy ways, he seemed to me likely to have learned much experience; and so he had. Out of which store I wished that he would tell me (setting before him my anxieties) which were the fittest way for one in my case to walk in Thy paths.

My God, let me gratefully remember and acknowledge Your mercies upon me. Let my very being overflow with Your love, crying out "Who is like You, Lord?" You have freed me from my chains, and I will offer You my thanks. I will tell others how You broke these chains, and all who worship You, hearing this, will say "Blessed be the Lord, in heaven and on earth, great and wonderful is His name." Your words were firmly planted in my heart, and I felt Your presence surrounding me completely. I was now certain of Your eternal life, though I saw it only dimly, as if through clouded glass. I no longer doubted that there was an unchanging foundation from which all else came. I didn't need more proof of Your existence, but rather sought to be more firmly rooted in You. Yet my earthly life remained uncertain, and my heart still needed cleansing from old habits. The Way and the Savior deeply appealed to me, but I hesitated to walk its narrow path. You then inspired me to seek out Simplicianus, who seemed to me Your faithful servant, clearly blessed by Your grace. I had heard that he had devoted himself to You since his youth. Now elderly, his many years of zealously following Your ways suggested he had gained much wisdom. I wanted him to hear my concerns and advise me on the best path to follow You.

For, I saw the church full; and one went this way, and another that way. But I was displeased that I led a secular life; yea now that my desires no longer inflamed me, as of old, with hopes of honour and profit, a very grievous burden it was to undergo so heavy a bondage. For, in comparison of Thy sweetness, and the beauty of Thy house which I loved, those things delighted me no longer. But still I was enthralled with the love of woman; nor did the Apostle forbid me to marry, although he advised me to something better, chiefly wishing that all men were as himself was. But I being weak, chose the more indulgent place; and because of this alone, was tossed up and down in all beside, faint and wasted with withering cares, because in other matters I was constrained against my will to conform myself to a married life, to which I was given up and enthralled. I had heard from the mouth of the Truth, that there were some eunuchs which had made themselves eunuchs for the kingdom of heaven's sake: but, saith He, let him who can receive it, receive it. Surely vain are all men who are ignorant of God, and could not out of the good things which are seen, find out Him who is good. But I was no longer in that vanity; I had surmounted it; and by the common witness of all Thy creatures had found Thee our Creator, and Thy Word, God with Thee, and together with Thee one God, by whom Thou createdst all things. There is yet another kind of ungodly, who knowing God, glorified Him not as God, neither were thankful. Into this also had I fallen, but Thy right hand upheld me, and took me thence, and Thou placedst me where I might recover. For Thou hast said unto man, Behold, the fear of the Lord is wisdom, and, Desire not to seem wise; because they who affirmed themselves to be wise, became fools. But I had now found the goodly pearl, which, selling all that I had, I ought to have bought, and I hesitated.

I saw the church was full, with people going in every direction. I felt troubled by my worldly lifestyle; even though I no longer burned with ambition for honor and profit, the weight of my obligations felt unbearable. Compared to Your sweetness and the beauty of Your house which I loved, those worldly things no longer pleased me. Yet I remained captivated by romantic love. The Apostle didn't forbid marriage, though he recommended a better path, mainly wishing everyone could be like himself. Being weak, I chose the easier route. Because of this choice alone, I was turbulent in everything else, exhausted and worn down with worry, forced to adapt to married life, to which I felt bound and trapped. I had heard Truth itself say that some had made themselves eunuchs for heaven's sake, but He said, "let those who can accept this, accept it." Indeed, those who don't know God are lost, unable to find the Creator in the goodness of His creation. But I had moved beyond that ignorance. Through the testament of all Your creation, I had found You, our Creator, and Your Word, God with You, together one God, through whom You created everything. There are also those who know God but don't honor or thank Him as God. I had fallen into this trap too, but Your right hand supported me and lifted me out, placing me where I could heal. For You told humanity, "Fear of the Lord is wisdom," and "Don't seek to appear wise," because those who claimed to be wise became fools. I had finally found the precious pearl which I should have bought by selling everything I owned, yet I hesitated.

To Simplicianus then I went, the father of Ambrose (a Bishop now) in receiving Thy grace, and whom Ambrose truly loved as a father. To him I related the mazes of my wanderings. But when I mentioned that I had read certain books of the Platonists, which Victorinus, sometime Rhetoric Professor of Rome (who had died a Christian, as I had heard), had translated into Latin, he testified his joy that I had not fallen upon the writings of other philosophers, full of fallacies and deceits, after the rudiments of this world, whereas the Platonists many ways led to the belief in God and His Word. Then to exhort me to the humility of Christ, hidden from the wise, and revealed to little ones, he spoke of Victorinus himself, whom while at Rome he had most intimately known: and of him he related what I will not conceal. For it contains great praise of Thy grace, to be confessed unto Thee, how that aged man, most learned and skilled in the liberal sciences, and who had read, and weighed so many works of the philosophers; the instructor of so many noble Senators, who also, as a monument of his excellent discharge of his office, had (which men of this world esteem a high honour) both deserved and obtained a statue in the Roman Forum; he, to that age a worshipper of idols, and a partaker of the sacrilegious rites, to which almost all the nobility of Rome were given up, and had inspired the people with the love of

I went to see Simplicianus, who was like a father to Bishop Ambrose and whom Ambrose genuinely loved as such. I told him about my confusing spiritual journey. When I mentioned reading Latin translations of Platonic texts by Victorinus (a former rhetoric professor in Rome who had died a Christian), Simplicianus was pleased. He was glad I hadn't gotten caught up in other philosophical writings, which he saw as full of worldly deceptions. The Platonists, he felt, often pointed toward belief in God and His Word. To teach me about Christian humility—a truth hidden from the supposedly wise but revealed to the humble—he told me about Victorinus, whom he had known well in Rome. His story, which I'll share, powerfully demonstrates God's grace. Victorinus was a highly educated elderly man, expert in liberal arts, who had studied countless philosophical works. He had taught many prominent senators and even earned a statue in the Roman Forum for his outstanding service—considered a great honor in those days. Until his later years, he had worshipped idols and participated in the sacred pagan rituals that most of Rome's nobility practiced and had encouraged others to embrace.

Anubis, barking Deity, and all The monster Gods of every kind, who fought 'Gainst Neptune, Venus, and Minerva:

Anubis, the barking god, and all The monstrous deities who went to war Against Neptune, Venus, and Minerva

whom Rome once conquered, now adored, all which the aged Victorinus had with thundering eloquence so many years defended;—he now blushed not to be the child of Thy Christ, and the new-born babe of Thy fountain; submitting his neck to the yoke of humility, and subduing his forehead to the reproach of the Cross.

Those who Rome had once defeated now worshipped. All that the elderly Victorinus had passionately defended for so many years—he was no longer ashamed to become a child of Your Christ, reborn through Your baptism. He willingly bent his neck to accept humility's burden and faced the mockery that came with embracing the Cross.

O Lord, Lord, Which hast bowed the heavens and come down, touched the mountains and they did smoke, by what means didst Thou convey Thyself into that breast? He used to read (as Simplicianus said) the holy Scripture, most studiously sought and searched into all the Christian writings, and said to Simplicianus (not openly, but privately and as a friend), "Understand that I am already a Christian." Whereto he answered, "I will not believe it, nor will I rank you among Christians, unless I see you in the Church of Christ." The other, in banter, replied, "Do walls then make Christians?" And this he often said, that he was already a Christian; and Simplicianus as often made the same answer, and the conceit of the "walls" was by the other as often renewed. For he feared to offend his friends, proud daemon-worshippers, from the height of whose Babylonian dignity, as from cedars of Libanus, which the Lord had not yet broken down, he supposed the weight of enmity would fall upon him. But after that by reading and earnest thought he had gathered firmness, and feared to be denied by Christ before the holy angels, should he now be afraid to confess Him before men, and appeared to himself guilty of a heavy offence, in being ashamed of the Sacraments of the humility of Thy Word, and not being ashamed of the sacrilegious rites of those proud daemons, whose pride he had imitated and their rites adopted, he became bold-faced against vanity, and shame-faced towards the truth, and suddenly and unexpectedly said to Simplicianus (as himself told me), "Go we to the Church; I wish to be made a Christian." But he, not containing himself for joy, went with him. And having been admitted to the first Sacrament and become a Catechumen, not long after he further gave in his name, that he might be regenerated by baptism, Rome wondering, the Church rejoicing. The proud saw, and were wroth; they gnashed with their teeth, and melted away. But the Lord God was the hope of Thy servant, and he regarded not vanities and lying madness.

O Lord, how did you enter that heart? You who bent the heavens to come down, who made mountains smoke at your touch. According to Simplicianus, he diligently read the Bible and extensively studied Christian writings. He confided privately to Simplicianus, "Know that I am now a Christian." Simplicianus responded, "I won't believe it or count you among Christians until I see you in Christ's Church." Jokingly, he replied, "Do walls make Christians then?" This exchange repeated often—his claim of Christianity, Simplicianus's consistent response, and his quip about walls. He hesitated because he feared offending his friends—proud demon-worshippers whose opposition he dreaded, like the weight of mighty cedar trees the Lord had yet to fell. But through reading and deep reflection, he gained courage. He realized he should fear being denied by Christ before the angels more than failing to confess Him before men. He felt deeply guilty for being ashamed of the humble sacraments of God's Word while openly participating in the sacrilegious rites of proud demons, whose pride and practices he had embraced. Finally, he grew bold against vanity and humble before truth. Unexpectedly, he told Simplicianus, "Let's go to the Church; I want to become Christian." Simplicianus, overwhelmed with joy, accompanied him. After receiving the first Sacrament and becoming a Catechumen, he soon registered for baptism. Rome watched in amazement while the Church celebrated. The proud were furious, grinding their teeth in rage before fading away. But the Lord God remained his servant's hope, and he ignored their empty, mad ravings.

To conclude, when the hour was come for making profession of his faith (which at Rome they, who are about to approach to Thy grace, deliver, from an elevated place, in the sight of all the faithful, in a set form of words committed to memory), the presbyters, he said, offered Victorinus (as was done to such as seemed likely through bashfulness to be alarmed) to make his profession more privately: but he chose rather to profess his salvation in the presence of the holy multitude. "For it was not salvation that he taught in rhetoric, and yet that he had publicly professed: how much less then ought he, when pronouncing Thy word, to dread Thy meek flock, who, when delivering his own words, had not feared a mad multitude!" When, then, he went up to make his profession, all, as they knew him, whispered his name one to another with the voice of congratulation. And who there knew him not? and there ran a low murmur through all the mouths of the rejoicing multitude, Victorinus! Victorinus! Sudden was the burst of rapture, that they saw him; suddenly were they hushed that they might hear him. He pronounced the true faith with an excellent boldness, and all wished to draw him into their very heart; yea by their love and joy they drew him thither, such were the hands wherewith they drew him.

Finally, when it came time for his profession of faith (which in Rome required those seeking grace to recite memorized words from an elevated platform before all the faithful), the priests offered Victorinus the option to make his profession privately, as they often did for those who might be shy. However, he chose to declare his faith before the entire congregation. "I didn't hide when teaching rhetoric, which merely brought worldly success," he reasoned. "Why should I fear declaring God's word before His gentle flock, when I never feared speaking before hostile crowds?" When he stepped up to make his profession, people whispered his name in excitement—everyone knew who he was. A murmur of joy spread through the crowd: "Victorinus! Victorinus!" The crowd burst into celebration at seeing him, then quickly fell silent to hear his words. He declared the true faith with remarkable confidence, and everyone wanted to embrace him. Their love and joy drew him into their hearts, embracing him with open arms.

Good God! what takes place in man, that he should more rejoice at the salvation of a soul despaired of, and freed from greater peril, than if there had always been hope of him, or the danger had been less? For so Thou also, merciful Father, dost more rejoice over one penitent than over ninety-nine just persons that need no repentance. And with much joyfulness do we hear, so often as we hear with what joy the sheep which had strayed is brought back upon the shepherd's shoulder, and the groat is restored to Thy treasury, the neighbours rejoicing with the woman who found it; and the joy of the solemn service of Thy house forceth to tears, when in Thy house it is read of Thy younger son, that he was dead, and liveth again; had been lost, and is found. For Thou rejoicest in us, and in Thy holy angels, holy through holy charity. For Thou art ever the same; for all things which abide not the same nor for ever, Thou for ever knowest in the same way.

Good Lord! Why do we feel greater joy when a soul is saved from the depths of despair than if they had never been in danger, or if the danger had been minor? Just as You, merciful Father, find more joy in one repentant sinner than in ninety-nine righteous people who need no repentance. We are filled with happiness whenever we hear the story of the lost sheep carried home on the shepherd's shoulders, or of the lost coin returned to Your treasury while neighbors celebrate with the woman who found it. And in Your house, when we read of Your younger son—who was dead but lives again, was lost but is found—the joy of Your sacred service moves us to tears. You rejoice in us and in Your holy angels, who are made holy through sacred love. For You remain unchanged; while all things shift and change through time, You know them all, eternally, in the same way.

What then takes place in the soul, when it is more delighted at finding or recovering the things it loves, than if it had ever had them? yea, and other things witness hereunto; and all things are full of witnesses, crying out, "So is it." The conquering commander triumpheth; yet had he not conquered unless he had fought; and the more peril there was in the battle, so much the more joy is there in the triumph. The storm tosses the sailors, threatens shipwreck; all wax pale at approaching death; sky and sea are calmed, and they are exceeding joyed, as having been exceeding afraid. A friend is sick, and his pulse threatens danger; all who long for his recovery are sick in mind with him. He is restored, though as yet he walks not with his former strength; yet there is such joy, as was not, when before he walked sound and strong. Yea, the very pleasures of human life men acquire by difficulties, not those only which fall upon us unlooked for, and against our wills, but even by self-chosen, and pleasure-seeking trouble. Eating and drinking have no pleasure, unless there precede the pinching of hunger and thirst. Men, given to drink, eat certain salt meats, to procure a troublesome heat, which the drink allaying, causes pleasure. It is also ordered that the affianced bride should not at once be given, lest as a husband he should hold cheap whom, as betrothed, he sighed not after.

What happens in the soul when it feels greater joy in finding or recovering things it loves than it did in first having them? Examples of this are everywhere, all proclaiming "This is how it is." A victorious general celebrates triumph, but victory requires battle—the greater the danger faced, the sweeter the victory celebration. Sailors face a terrifying storm and possible shipwreck, all turning pale at the thought of death. When sky and sea finally calm, their joy is proportional to their previous fear. When a friend falls ill with a dangerous pulse, all who care for them suffer in sympathy. Upon recovery, even before returning to full strength, there is more joy than when they were perfectly healthy. Indeed, people find life's pleasures through difficulties—not just through unexpected challenges thrust upon them, but even through self-imposed struggles. Food and drink bring no satisfaction without first experiencing hunger and thirst. Drinkers deliberately eat salty foods to create an uncomfortable thirst, finding pleasure when drinks finally quench it. Similarly, tradition dictates that a bride not be given immediately to her betrothed, lest a husband take for granted what he once yearned for during engagement.

This law holds in foul and accursed joy; this in permitted and lawful joy; this in the very purest perfection of friendship; this, in him who was dead, and lived again; had been lost and was found. Every where the greater joy is ushered in by the greater pain. What means this, O Lord my God, whereas Thou art everlastingly joy to Thyself, and some things around Thee evermore rejoice in Thee? What means this, that this portion of things thus ebbs and flows alternately displeased and reconciled? Is this their allotted measure? Is this all Thou hast assigned to them, whereas from the highest heavens to the lowest earth, from the beginning of the world to the end of ages, from the angel to the worm, from the first motion to the last, Thou settest each in its place, and realisest each in their season, every thing good after its kind? Woe is me! how high art Thou in the highest, and how deep in the deepest! and Thou never departest, and we scarcely return to Thee.

This principle applies to both forbidden pleasures and legitimate joys; to the purest forms of friendship and to the redemption of the lost. The greatest happiness always follows the deepest pain. But Lord, why is this so when You exist in constant joy, and some beings around You forever celebrate Your presence? Why does this part of creation swing between displeasure and reconciliation? Is this their destined pattern? Is this the limit You've set, from highest heaven to deepest earth, from time's beginning to its end, from angels to insects, from first movement to last—placing each thing in its proper place and time, each good in its own way? How vast You are, reaching to the highest heights and lowest depths! Yet You remain constant, while we struggle to find our way back to You.

Up, Lord, and do; stir us up, and recall us; kindle and draw us; inflame, grow sweet unto us, let us now love, let us run. Do not many, out of a deeper hell of blindness than Victorinus, return to Thee, approach, and are enlightened, receiving that Light, which they who receive, receive power from Thee to become Thy sons? But if they be less known to the nations, even they that know them, joy less for them. For when many joy together, each also has more exuberant joy for that they are kindled and inflamed one by the other. Again, because those known to many, influence the more towards salvation, and lead the way with many to follow. And therefore do they also who preceded them much rejoice in them, because they rejoice not in them alone. For far be it, that in Thy tabernacle the persons of the rich should be accepted before the poor, or the noble before the ignoble; seeing rather Thou hast chosen the weak things of the world to confound the strong; and the base things of this world, and the things despised hast Thou chosen, and those things which are not, that Thou mightest bring to nought things that are. And yet even that least of Thy apostles, by whose tongue Thou soundedst forth these words, when through his warfare, Paulus the Proconsul, his pride conquered, was made to pass under the easy yoke of Thy Christ, and became a provincial of the great King; he also for his former name Saul, was pleased to be called Paul, in testimony of so great a victory. For the enemy is more overcome in one, of whom he hath more hold; by whom he hath hold of more. But the proud he hath more hold of, through their nobility; and by them, of more through their authority. By how much the more welcome then the heart of Victorinus was esteemed, which the devil had held as an impregnable possession, the tongue of Victorinus, with which mighty and keen weapon he had slain many; so much the more abundantly ought Thy sons to rejoice, for that our King hath bound the strong man, and they saw his vessels taken from him and cleansed, and made meet for Thy honour; and become serviceable for the Lord, unto every good work.

Rise up, Lord, and act! Awaken and call us back. Light our fire and draw us near. Fill us with passion and sweetness; let us love and move forward now. Many people, even those more deeply lost in darkness than Victorinus, return to You. They approach and are illuminated, receiving Your Light. Through this Light, You give them the power to become Your children. Though some may be less famous, those who know them still celebrate their transformation, albeit with less fanfare. When many celebrate together, their joy multiplies as they inspire and energize each other. Those well-known to many have greater influence in leading others to salvation, guiding many followers. That's why those who came before them greatly rejoice—not just for the individual, but for all who follow. In Your house, the wealthy should never be favored over the poor, nor the noble over the common. You chose the world's weak to humble the strong, selecting the lowly and despised things—even things that seem worthless—to nullify what seems important. Even Your least prominent apostle, who spoke these words, celebrated when his spiritual warfare helped convert Paulus the Proconsul. When Paulus's pride was overcome, he submitted to Christ's gentle guidance and became a servant of the great King. He chose to be called Paul instead of Saul, marking this great victory. The enemy suffers a greater defeat when losing someone in their tight grip, someone they use to control others. They especially control the proud through their status, and through them, influence many through their authority. This is why Victorinus's transformation was so celebrated—his heart had been the devil's fortress, and his tongue a deadly weapon that had destroyed many. Your children should rejoice abundantly because our King has bound this strong man. They witnessed his possessions being taken, cleansed, and made worthy of Your honor, now serving the Lord in every good work.

But when that man of Thine, Simplicianus, related to me this of Victorinus, I was on fire to imitate him; for for this very end had he related it. But when he had subjoined also, how in the days of the Emperor Julian a law was made, whereby Christians were forbidden to teach the liberal sciences or oratory; and how he, obeying this law, chose rather to give over the wordy school than Thy Word, by which Thou makest eloquent the tongues of the dumb; he seemed to me not more resolute than blessed, in having thus found opportunity to wait on Thee only. Which thing I was sighing for, bound as I was, not with another's irons, but by my own iron will. My will the enemy held, and thence had made a chain for me, and bound me. For of a forward will, was a lust made; and a lust served, became custom; and custom not resisted, became necessity. By which links, as it were, joined together (whence I called it a chain) a hard bondage held me enthralled. But that new will which had begun to be in me, freely to serve Thee, and to wish to enjoy Thee, O God, the only assured pleasantness, was not yet able to overcome my former wilfulness, strengthened by age. Thus did my two wills, one new, and the other old, one carnal, the other spiritual, struggle within me; and by their discord, undid my soul.

When Simplicianus told me about Victorinus, I was inspired to follow his example—that was exactly why he had shared the story. He went on to tell me how Emperor Julian had passed a law banning Christians from teaching liberal arts and rhetoric. Victorinus chose to abandon his career teaching rhetoric rather than abandon Your Word, which gives speech to the voiceless. His choice seemed not just brave, but blessed—he had found a way to devote himself entirely to You. I longed for such freedom, though I was trapped not by external forces, but by my own stubborn will. My enemy had seized my will and forged it into chains that bound me. A willful desire became a craving; that craving, indulged, became a habit; and that habit, unchallenged, became a necessity. These links formed a chain that kept me in harsh bondage. My new desire to serve You freely and find joy in You, God, the only true source of pleasure, wasn't yet strong enough to overcome my old willfulness, which had grown powerful over time. So my two wills—one new and one old, one spiritual and one earthly—battled within me, tearing my soul apart with their conflict.

Thus, I understood, by my own experience, what I had read, how the flesh lusteth against the spirit and the spirit against the flesh. Myself verily either way; yet more myself, in that which I approved in myself, than in that which in myself I disapproved. For in this last, it was now for the more part not myself, because in much I rather endured against my will, than acted willingly. And yet it was through me that custom had obtained this power of warring against me, because I had come willingly, whither I willed not. And who has any right to speak against it, if just punishment follow the sinner? Nor had I now any longer my former plea, that I therefore as yet hesitated to be above the world and serve Thee, for that the truth was not altogether ascertained to me; for now it too was. But I still under service to the earth, refused to fight under Thy banner, and feared as much to be freed of all incumbrances, as we should fear to be encumbered with it. Thus with the baggage of this present world was I held down pleasantly, as in sleep: and the thoughts wherein I meditated on Thee were like the efforts of such as would awake, who yet overcome with a heavy drowsiness, are again drenched therein. And as no one would sleep for ever, and in all men's sober judgment waking is better, yet a man for the most part, feeling a heavy lethargy in all his limbs, defers to shake off sleep, and though half displeased, yet, even after it is time to rise, with pleasure yields to it, so was I assured that much better were it for me to give myself up to Thy charity, than to give myself over to mine own cupidity; but though the former course satisfied me and gained the mastery, the latter pleased me and held me mastered. Nor had I any thing to answer Thee calling to me, Awake, thou that sleepest, and arise from the dead, and Christ shall give thee light. And when Thou didst on all sides show me that what Thou saidst was true, I, convicted by the truth, had nothing at all to answer, but only those dull and drowsy words, "Anon, anon," "presently," "leave me but a little." But "presently, presently," had no present, and my "little while" went on for a long while; in vain I delighted in Thy law according to the inner man, when another law in my members rebelled against the law of my mind, and led me captive under the law of sin which was in my members. For the law of sin is the violence of custom, whereby the mind is drawn and holden, even against its will; but deservedly, for that it willingly fell into it. Who then should deliver me thus wretched from the body of this death, but Thy grace only, through Jesus Christ our Lord?

Through personal experience, I came to understand what I had read about the battle between flesh and spirit. I was divided within myself, identifying more with my nobler intentions than my baser actions. In those lesser moments, I wasn't truly myself—I acted against my own will rather than by choice. Yet it was through my own choices that habit had gained such power over me, having willingly walked a path I now wished to leave. Who can complain when sin brings its natural consequences? I could no longer claim uncertainty about truth as an excuse for hesitating to rise above worldly concerns and serve You. The truth was clear now. But I remained earthbound, refusing to fight under Your banner, as afraid of freedom from life's burdens as others might fear those burdens themselves. The comforts of this world held me down like a pleasant sleep, and my thoughts of You were like the feeble efforts of someone trying to wake but sinking back into drowsiness. No one wants to sleep forever—everyone agrees being awake is better. Yet when lethargy weighs heavy in your limbs, you postpone waking up. Even after it's time to rise, you reluctantly give in to sleep's pleasure. Similarly, I knew surrendering to Your love was far better than giving in to my desires, but while the former convinced my mind, the latter still controlled my actions. I had no response when You called: "Awake, sleeper, rise from the dead, and Christ will give you light." When You showed me Your truth from every angle, I could only reply with drowsy excuses: "Soon," "in a minute," "just a little longer." But "soon" never came, and "a little longer" stretched endlessly. Though my inner self delighted in Your law, my body followed a different law, making me a prisoner to sin. This is how habit works—it holds the mind captive against its will, though deservedly so, since we first choose our habits freely. Who could rescue me from this miserable state of death, except Your grace through Jesus Christ our Lord?

And how Thou didst deliver me out of the bonds of desire, wherewith I was bound most straitly to carnal concupiscence, and out of the drudgery of worldly things, I will now declare, and confess unto Thy name, O Lord, my helper and my redeemer. Amid increasing anxiety, I was doing my wonted business, and daily sighing unto Thee. I attended Thy Church, whenever free from the business under the burden of which I groaned. Alypius was with me, now after the third sitting released from his law business, and awaiting to whom to sell his counsel, as I sold the skill of speaking, if indeed teaching can impart it. Nebridius had now, in consideration of our friendship, consented to teach under Verecundus, a citizen and a grammarian of Milan, and a very intimate friend of us all; who urgently desired, and by the right of friendship challenged from our company, such faithful aid as he greatly needed. Nebridius then was not drawn to this by any desire of advantage (for he might have made much more of his learning had he so willed), but as a most kind and gentle friend, he would not be wanting to a good office, and slight our request. But he acted herein very discreetly, shunning to become known to personages great according to this world, avoiding the distraction of mind thence ensuing, and desiring to have it free and at leisure, as many hours as might be, to seek, or read, or hear something concerning wisdom.

I will now describe how You freed me from the chains of desire—chains that had bound me tightly to physical pleasures and worldly duties. You were my helper and redeemer, Lord. As my anxiety grew, I continued my regular work while sighing daily prayers to You. Whenever I could break free from my burdensome duties, I attended Your Church. Alypius stayed with me, having finished his third term in law and now waiting to sell his legal counsel, just as I sold my speaking skills through teaching. Nebridius had agreed, out of friendship, to teach under Verecundus—a citizen and grammarian of Milan who was a close friend to us all. Verecundus desperately needed our help and claimed it through the rights of friendship. Nebridius didn't take this position for money (he could have earned much more elsewhere with his knowledge). Rather, as a kind and gentle friend, he didn't want to refuse a good deed or ignore our request. He handled the situation wisely by avoiding attention from influential people and the distractions that would bring. He wanted to keep his mind free to spend as much time as possible seeking, reading, and learning about wisdom.

Upon a day then, Nebridius being absent (I recollect not why), lo, there came to see me and Alypius, one Pontitianus, our countryman so far as being an African, in high office in the Emperor's court. What he would with us, I know not, but we sat down to converse, and it happened that upon a table for some game, before us, he observed a book, took, opened it, and contrary to his expectation, found it the Apostle Paul; for he thought it some of those books which I was wearing myself in teaching. Whereat smiling, and looking at me, he expressed his joy and wonder that he had on a sudden found this book, and this only before my eyes. For he was a Christian, and baptised, and often bowed himself before Thee our God in the Church, in frequent and continued prayers. When then I had told him that I bestowed very great pains upon those Scriptures, a conversation arose (suggested by his account) on Antony the Egyptian monk: whose name was in high reputation among Thy servants, though to that hour unknown to us. Which when he discovered, he dwelt the more upon that subject, informing and wondering at our ignorance of one so eminent. But we stood amazed, hearing Thy wonderful works most fully attested, in times so recent, and almost in our own, wrought in the true Faith and Church Catholic. We all wondered; we, that they were so great, and he, that they had not reached us.

One day, while Nebridius was away for reasons I can't recall, a man named Pontitianus came to visit Alypius and me. Like us, he was African, and he held a high position in the Emperor's court. I'm not sure why he came, but we sat down to talk. He noticed a book on a gaming table nearby, picked it up, and opened it. To his surprise, it was the writings of the Apostle Paul—he had assumed it was one of the textbooks I used for teaching. Smiling at me, he expressed delight and amazement at finding this particular book in front of me. He was a devoted Christian who had been baptized and regularly prayed to God in church. When I told him I spent considerable time studying these Scriptures, our conversation turned to the Egyptian monk Antony, whom he had mentioned. Although Antony was highly regarded among Christians, we had never heard of him. Upon realizing this, Pontitianus spoke at length about Antony, astonished at our ignorance of such a prominent figure. We were stunned to hear such well-documented accounts of God's miraculous works, performed so recently—practically in our own time—within the true Faith and Catholic Church. We were all amazed: we at the magnitude of these works, and he at our complete unawareness of them.

Thence his discourse turned to the flocks in the monasteries, and their holy ways, a sweet-smelling savour unto Thee, and the fruitful deserts of the wilderness, whereof we knew nothing. And there was a monastery at Milan, full of good brethren, without the city walls, under the fostering care of Ambrose, and we knew it not. He went on with his discourse, and we listened in intent silence. He told us then how one afternoon at Triers, when the Emperor was taken up with the Circensian games, he and three others, his companions, went out to walk in gardens near the city walls, and there as they happened to walk in pairs, one went apart with him, and the other two wandered by themselves; and these, in their wanderings, lighted upon a certain cottage, inhabited by certain of Thy servants, poor in spirit, of whom is the kingdom of heaven, and there they found a little book containing the life of Antony. This one of them began to read, admire, and kindle at it; and as he read, to meditate on taking up such a life, and giving over his secular service to serve Thee. And these two were of those whom they style agents for the public affairs. Then suddenly, filled with a holy love, and a sober shame, in anger with himself cast his eyes upon his friend, saying, "Tell me, I pray thee, what would we attain by all these labours of ours? what aim we at? what serve we for? Can our hopes in court rise higher than to be the Emperor's favourites? and in this, what is there not brittle, and full of perils? and by how many perils arrive we at a greater peril? and when arrive we thither? But a friend of God, if I wish it, I become now at once." So spake he. And in pain with the travail of a new life, he turned his eyes again upon the book, and read on, and was changed inwardly, where Thou sawest, and his mind was stripped of the world, as soon appeared. For as he read, and rolled up and down the waves of his heart, he stormed at himself a while, then discerned, and determined on a better course; and now being Thine, said to his friend, "Now have I broken loose from those our hopes, and am resolved to serve God; and this, from this hour, in this place, I begin upon. If thou likest not to imitate me, oppose not." The other answered, he would cleave to him, to partake so glorious a reward, so glorious a service. Thus both being now Thine, were building the tower at the necessary cost, the forsaking all that they had, and following Thee. Then Pontitianus and the other with him, that had walked in other parts of the garden, came in search of them to the same place; and finding them, reminded them to return, for the day was now far spent. But they relating their resolution and purpose, and how that will was begun and settled in them, begged them, if they would not join, not to molest them. But the others, though nothing altered from their former selves, did yet bewail themselves (as he affirmed), and piously congratulated them, recommending themselves to their prayers; and so, with hearts lingering on the earth, went away to the palace. But the other two, fixing their heart on heaven, remained in the cottage. And both had affianced brides, who when they heard hereof, also dedicated their virginity unto God.

During their talk, he spoke about monastery flocks and their sacred practices that pleased God, and the fruitful desert solitudes we knew nothing about. There was a monastery in Milan, filled with devoted brothers outside the city walls under Ambrose's guidance, though we were unaware of it. As he continued speaking, we listened intently. He then told us about an afternoon in Triers, when the Emperor was occupied with the circus games. He and three companions went walking in gardens near the city walls. As they walked in pairs, he went with one while the other two walked separately. These two came upon a cottage housing some of God's servants—humble people who were blessed with the kingdom of heaven. There they found a book about Antony's life. One began reading it and was filled with admiration and inspiration. As he read, he considered adopting such a life, leaving his government service to serve God instead. Both men were civil servants. Suddenly, filled with holy love and honest shame, he turned angrily to his friend and said, "What are we trying to achieve with all our work? What's our goal? What's the point? Can we hope for anything better than becoming the Emperor's favorites? Even then, isn't everything fragile and dangerous? We face many dangers just to reach an even greater danger—and when do we even get there? But I can become God's friend right now if I choose." Speaking thus, struggling with the prospect of a new life, he returned to the book. As he read, he was transformed internally—God saw this change as his mind freed itself from worldly concerns. While reading, his emotions churned until he finally calmed and chose a better path. Now committed to God, he told his friend, "I've abandoned our old ambitions and will serve God starting right now, right here. Don't oppose me if you won't join me." His friend replied he would join him to share in such a glorious reward and service. Now both devoted to God, they were building their foundation by giving up everything to follow Him. When Pontitianus and his companion, who had been walking elsewhere in the garden, came looking for them, they found them and suggested returning as it was getting late. The two explained their decision and asked not to be disturbed if the others wouldn't join them. Though unchanged themselves, the others expressed regret and congratulated them respectfully, asking for their prayers. They then returned to the palace, their hearts still tied to earthly matters. The converted pair, their hearts set on heaven, stayed in the cottage. Both had fiancées who, upon hearing of this, also dedicated their virginity to God.

Such was the story of Pontitianus; but Thou, O Lord, while he was speaking, didst turn me round towards myself, taking me from behind my back where I had placed me, unwilling to observe myself; and setting me before my face, that I might see how foul I was, how crooked and defiled, bespotted and ulcerous. And I beheld and stood aghast; and whither to flee from myself I found not. And if I sought to turn mine eye from off myself, he went on with his relation, and Thou again didst set me over against myself, and thrustedst me before my eyes, that I might find out mine iniquity, and hate it. I had known it, but made as though I saw it not, winked at it, and forgot it.

This was Pontitianus's story. But Lord, as he spoke, you forced me to face myself—something I had been avoiding, preferring to turn my back on self-reflection. You made me confront my true nature, allowing me to see how corrupt, twisted, and diseased I had become. I was horrified by what I saw, yet found nowhere to hide from myself. When I tried to look away, Pontitianus continued his story, and again you made me face my reflection, forcing me to recognize and despise my sins. I had always known about them, but I had pretended not to see them, deliberately ignored them, and tried to forget they existed.

But now, the more ardently I loved those whose healthful affections I heard of, that they had resigned themselves wholly to Thee to be cured, the more did I abhor myself, when compared with them. For many of my years (some twelve) had now run out with me since my nineteenth, when, upon the reading of Cicero's Hortensius, I was stirred to an earnest love of wisdom; and still I was deferring to reject mere earthly felicity, and give myself to search out that, whereof not the finding only, but the very search, was to be preferred to the treasures and kingdoms of the world, though already found, and to the pleasures of the body, though spread around me at my will. But I wretched, most wretched, in the very commencement of my early youth, had begged chastity of Thee, and said, "Give me chastity and continency, only not yet." For I feared lest Thou shouldest hear me soon, and soon cure me of the disease of concupiscence, which I wished to have satisfied, rather than extinguished. And I had wandered through crooked ways in a sacrilegious superstition, not indeed assured thereof, but as preferring it to the others which I did not seek religiously, but opposed maliciously.

The more I admired those who had completely devoted themselves to You for healing, the more I despised myself in comparison. Twelve years had passed since I was nineteen when reading Cicero's Hortensius first sparked my passionate pursuit of wisdom. Yet I kept postponing the rejection of worldly pleasures to seek something greater—a pursuit that, even in the searching alone, was worth more than all the world's riches and kingdoms, even if already possessed, and more than all physical pleasures freely available to me. In my miserable youth, I had begged You for chastity, saying "Grant me chastity and self-control—but not yet." I feared You would answer too quickly, curing me of my lustful desires which I wanted to satisfy rather than eliminate. I had wandered down twisted paths in false beliefs, not because I was convinced of them, but because I preferred them to the truth which I didn't seek faithfully, but rather opposed spitefully.

And I had thought that I therefore deferred from day to day to reject the hopes of this world, and follow Thee only, because there did not appear aught certain, whither to direct my course. And now was the day come wherein I was to be laid bare to myself, and my conscience was to upbraid me. "Where art thou now, my tongue? Thou saidst that for an uncertain truth thou likedst not to cast off the baggage of vanity; now, it is certain, and yet that burden still oppresseth thee, while they who neither have so worn themselves out with seeking it, nor for often years and more have been thinking thereon, have had their shoulders lightened, and received wings to fly away." Thus was I gnawed within, and exceedingly confounded with a horrible shame, while Pontitianus was so speaking. And he having brought to a close his tale and the business he came for, went his way; and I into myself. What said I not against myself? with what scourges of condemnation lashed I not my soul, that it might follow me, striving to go after Thee! Yet it drew back; refused, but excused not itself. All arguments were spent and confuted; there remained a mute shrinking; and she feared, as she would death, to be restrained from the flux of that custom, whereby she was wasting to death.

I kept putting off rejecting worldly hopes to follow You alone, claiming I couldn't see a clear path forward. But today was the day I had to face myself, my conscience confronting me: "What's your excuse now? You claimed you wouldn't give up your meaningless pursuits because the truth wasn't certain. Now it is certain, yet you still cling to these burdens. Meanwhile, others who haven't exhausted themselves searching, who haven't spent years contemplating these matters, have freed themselves and taken flight." These thoughts gnawed at me, and I felt deeply ashamed as Pontitianus spoke. After he finished his story and completed his business, he left, and I turned inward. How I berated myself! How I lashed my soul with self-condemnation, trying to force it to follow You! Yet it resisted. It made no excuses, but still refused. Every argument had been made and defeated. All that remained was a silent reluctance—my soul feared breaking free from its destructive habits as if that freedom meant death itself.

Then in this great contention of my inward dwelling, which I had strongly raised against my soul, in the chamber of my heart, troubled in mind and countenance, I turned upon Alypius. "What ails us?" I exclaim: "what is it? what heardest thou? The unlearned start up and take heaven by force, and we with our learning, and without heart, lo, where we wallow in flesh and blood! Are we ashamed to follow, because others are gone before, and not ashamed not even to follow?" Some such words I uttered, and my fever of mind tore me away from him, while he, gazing on me in astonishment, kept silence. For it was not my wonted tone; and my forehead, cheeks, eyes, colour, tone of voice, spake my mind more than the words I uttered. A little garden there was to our lodging, which we had the use of, as of the whole house; for the master of the house, our host, was not living there. Thither had the tumult of my breast hurried me, where no man might hinder the hot contention wherein I had engaged with myself, until it should end as Thou knewest, I knew not. Only I was healthfully distracted and dying, to live; knowing what evil thing I was, and not knowing what good thing I was shortly to become. I retired then into the garden, and Alypius, on my steps. For his presence did not lessen my privacy; or how could he forsake me so disturbed? We sate down as far removed as might be from the house. I was troubled in spirit, most vehemently indignant that I entered not into Thy will and covenant, O my God, which all my bones cried out unto me to enter, and praised it to the skies. And therein we enter not by ships, or chariots, or feet, no, move not so far as I had come from the house to that place where we were sitting. For, not to go only, but to go in thither was nothing else but to will to go, but to will resolutely and thoroughly; not to turn and toss, this way and that, a maimed and half-divided will, struggling, with one part sinking as another rose.

In the midst of this intense inner conflict that I had stirred up against myself in my heart, troubled in both mind and face, I turned to Alypius. "What's wrong with us?" I burst out. "What's happening? Did you hear what I heard? Uneducated people leap up and seize heaven, while we, with all our learning but no courage, just wallow here in our physical desires! Are we ashamed to follow because others went first? Shouldn't we be more ashamed of not following at all?" I spat out these words, and in my mental fever, I pulled away from him. He just stared at me in shock, silent. My tone was unusual, and my entire demeanor—my forehead, cheeks, eyes, complexion, and voice—revealed my state of mind more than my words. There was a small garden attached to our lodging, which we could use along with the rest of the house, since our host wasn't living there. The turmoil in my heart drove me there, where no one could interrupt the fierce argument I was having with myself—an argument that would end as You knew how, though I didn't. I was dying to my old self and being reborn, aware of the evil I was but blind to the good I would soon become. I retreated to the garden, and Alypius followed. His presence didn't intrude on my solitude—how could he abandon me in such distress? We sat as far from the house as possible. I was spiritually tormented, furiously angry at myself for not submitting to Your will and covenant, my God, which every fiber of my being urged me to accept and praised to the heavens. You don't enter it by ship, chariot, or foot—the distance was even shorter than what I'd walked from the house to where we sat. For this journey wasn't about physical movement but about complete and resolute willingness—not this half-hearted wavering, this crippled, divided will, where one part rises as another falls.

Lastly, in the very fever of my irresoluteness, I made with my body many such motions as men sometimes would, but cannot, if either they have not the limbs, or these be bound with bands, weakened with infirmity, or any other way hindered. Thus, if I tore my hair, beat my forehead, if locking my fingers I clasped my knee; I willed, I did it. But I might have willed, and not done it; if the power of motion in my limbs had not obeyed. So many things then I did, when "to will" was not in itself "to be able"; and I did not what both I longed incomparably more to do, and which soon after, when I should will, I should be able to do; because soon after, when I should will, I should will thoroughly. For in these things the ability was one with the will, and to will was to do; and yet was it not done: and more easily did my body obey the weakest willing of my soul, in moving its limbs at its nod, than the soul obeyed itself to accomplish in the will alone this its momentous will.

Finally, in my most uncertain moments, my body made movements that people attempt but cannot complete when their limbs are bound, weak from illness, or otherwise restricted. When I pulled my hair, hit my forehead, or clasped my knee with interlocked fingers—I did these things because I chose to. I could have chosen not to, had my limbs not responded to my commands. I performed many such actions when "wanting to" was not the same as "being able to." Yet I couldn't do what I desperately wanted to do most—something that soon after, when I truly willed it, I would be able to accomplish. In these cases, ability and willpower were one and the same—to want was to do—but still I failed. My body more readily obeyed even the slightest command to move my limbs than my soul obeyed itself to fulfill this crucial desire through willpower alone.

Whence is this monstrousness? and to what end? Let Thy mercy gleam that I may ask, if so be the secret penalties of men, and those darkest pangs of the sons of Adam, may perhaps answer me. Whence is this monstrousness? and to what end? The mind commands the body, and it obeys instantly; the mind commands itself, and is resisted. The mind commands the hand to be moved; and such readiness is there, that command is scarce distinct from obedience. Yet the mind is mind, the hand is body. The mind commands the mind, its own self, to will, and yet it doth not. Whence this monstrousness? and to what end? It commands itself, I say, to will, and would not command, unless it willed, and what it commands is not done. But it willeth not entirely: therefore doth it not command entirely. For so far forth it commandeth, as it willeth: and, so far forth is the thing commanded, not done, as it willeth not. For the will commandeth that there be a will; not another, but itself. But it doth not command entirely, therefore what it commandeth, is not. For were the will entire, it would not even command it to be, because it would already be. It is therefore no monstrousness partly to will, partly to nill, but a disease of the mind, that it doth not wholly rise, by truth upborne, borne down by custom. And therefore are there two wills, for that one of them is not entire: and what the one lacketh, the other hath.

Where does this inner conflict come from, and what purpose does it serve? Let Your mercy shine light on this question, so I might understand the hidden struggles of humanity and the deepest pains that plague us as children of Adam. Why this contradiction? What is its purpose? The mind commands the body, which obeys immediately. Yet when the mind commands itself, it meets resistance. When the mind tells the hand to move, it happens so quickly that the command and action seem one and the same. But remember—the mind is mind, while the hand is body. When the mind commands itself to make a choice, it fails. Why this paradox? The mind orders itself to make a choice, and wouldn't give this order unless it wanted to, yet the command goes unfulfilled. It doesn't fully commit to its choice—that's why the command fails. It only commands as far as it's willing, and the action remains incomplete to the extent the will is lacking. The will commands that there be a will—not a different one, but itself. Yet because it doesn't command with full conviction, nothing happens. If the will were complete, it wouldn't need to command itself to exist—it would already exist. So this isn't really a paradox of partly wanting and partly refusing—it's a sickness of the mind, unable to fully rise to truth because it's weighed down by habit. This is why we seem to have two wills—because neither is complete, and what one lacks, the other possesses.

Let them perish from Thy presence, O God, as perish vain talkers and seducers of the soul: who observing that in deliberating there were two wills, affirm that there are two minds in us of two kinds, one good, the other evil. Themselves are truly evil, when they hold these evil things; and themselves shall become good when they hold the truth and assent unto the truth, that Thy Apostle may say to them, Ye were sometimes darkness, but now light in the Lord. But they, wishing to be light, not in the Lord, but in themselves, imagining the nature of the soul to be that which God is, are made more gross darkness through a dreadful arrogancy; for that they went back farther from Thee, the true Light that enlightened every man that cometh into the world. Take heed what you say, and blush for shame: draw near unto Him and be enlightened, and your faces shall not be ashamed. Myself when I was deliberating upon serving the Lord my God now, as I had long purposed, it was I who willed, I who nilled, I, I myself. I neither willed entirely, nor nilled entirely. Therefore was I at strife with myself, and rent asunder by myself. And this rent befell me against my will, and yet indicated, not the presence of another mind, but the punishment of my own. Therefore it was no more I that wrought it, but sin that dwelt in me; the punishment of a sin more freely committed, in that I was a son of Adam.

Let them vanish from Your presence, God, like those who spread empty talk and corrupt souls. These people see that we have two competing wills when making decisions and claim we have two different minds—one good, one evil. They themselves are the evil ones for believing such things. They will only become good when they accept and embrace the truth, allowing Your Apostle to tell them, "You were once darkness, but now you are light in the Lord." But they wish to be light not through the Lord but through themselves, imagining their souls to be equal to God. Through their terrible arrogance, they become even darker, moving further from You, the true Light that illuminates everyone who enters this world. Watch what you say and feel shame: come closer to Him to be enlightened, and your faces will not be ashamed. When I was considering serving the Lord my God, as I had long planned, it was I alone who both wanted and didn't want to—completely me. I neither fully wanted nor fully rejected it. This internal conflict tore me apart, but this divide happened against my will. It didn't show the presence of another mind, but rather the consequence of my own actions. Therefore, it wasn't really me doing it, but the sin living within me—the punishment for a sin committed more freely because I am Adam's son.

For if there be so many contrary natures as there be conflicting wills, there shall now be not two only, but many. If a man deliberate whether he should go to their conventicle or to the theatre, these Manichees cry out, Behold, here are two natures: one good, draws this way; another bad, draws back that way. For whence else is this hesitation between conflicting wills? But I say that both be bad: that which draws to them, as that which draws back to the theatre. But they believe not that will to be other than good, which draws to them. What then if one of us should deliberate, and amid the strife of his two wills be in a strait, whether he should go to the theatre or to our church? would not these Manichees also be in a strait what to answer? For either they must confess (which they fain would not) that the will which leads to our church is good, as well as theirs, who have received and are held by the mysteries of theirs: or they must suppose two evil natures, and two evil souls conflicting in one man, and it will not be true, which they say, that there is one good and another bad; or they must be converted to the truth, and no more deny that where one deliberates, one soul fluctuates between contrary wills.

When someone struggles between two choices—like whether to attend their meeting or go to the theater—these Manicheans declare, "See! This proves the existence of two natures: one good, pulling toward us, and one bad, pulling toward the theater." They claim this internal conflict proves their theory. But I argue both choices can be bad: both attending their gathering and going to the theater. Yet they refuse to believe that any desire drawing people to their group could be anything but good. Consider this scenario: what if someone was torn between going to the theater or to our church? The Manicheans would be stuck. They'd have to either admit (which they'd hate to do) that the desire to attend our church is just as good as the desire to attend theirs, or they'd have to claim there are two evil natures and two evil souls fighting within one person—contradicting their own good-versus-bad doctrine. The only other option is for them to accept the truth: that when someone is undecided, it's simply one soul wavering between competing desires.

Let them no more say then, when they perceive two conflicting wills in one man, that the conflict is between two contrary souls, of two contrary substances, from two contrary principles, one good, and the other bad. For Thou, O true God, dost disprove, check, and convict them; as when, both wills being bad, one deliberates whether he should kill a man by poison or by the sword; whether he should seize this or that estate of another's, when he cannot both; whether he should purchase pleasure by luxury, or keep his money by covetousness; whether he go to the circus or the theatre, if both be open on one day; or thirdly, to rob another's house, if he have the opportunity; or, fourthly, to commit adultery, if at the same time he have the means thereof also; all these meeting together in the same juncture of time, and all being equally desired, which cannot at one time be acted: for they rend the mind amid four, or even (amid the vast variety of things desired) more, conflicting wills, nor do they yet allege that there are so many divers substances. So also in wills which are good. For I ask them, is it good to take pleasure in reading the Apostle? or good to take pleasure in a sober Psalm? or good to discourse on the Gospel? They will answer to each, "it is good." What then if all give equal pleasure, and all at once? Do not divers wills distract the mind, while he deliberates which he should rather choose? yet are they all good, and are at variance till one be chosen, whither the one entire will may be borne, which before was divided into many. Thus also, when, above, eternity delights us, and the pleasure of temporal good holds us down below, it is the same soul which willeth not this or that with an entire will; and therefore is rent asunder with grievous perplexities, while out of truth it sets this first, but out of habit sets not that aside.

They should not claim that when they see two conflicting desires in a person, it's a battle between two opposing souls, made of different substances, one good and one evil. God himself proves this wrong. Consider when someone with two harmful intentions debates whether to poison someone or stab them, or whether to steal one property or another when they can't take both. They might wrestle with spending money on pleasure or hoarding it, or choosing between going to a circus or theater showing on the same day. Perhaps they consider robbing a house if given the chance, or committing adultery if the opportunity arises. When all these options present themselves simultaneously and are equally tempting, they can't all be acted upon at once. These choices tear the mind in four directions or more, yet no one suggests these different desires come from different substances within us. The same applies to good intentions. Consider: Is it good to enjoy reading the Apostle? Or to take pleasure in a reverent Psalm? Or to discuss the Gospel? People would say yes to each. But what if all bring equal joy and are available at once? Don't these different desires pull at the mind while one decides what to choose? They're all good options, but conflict remains until one is chosen and the divided will becomes whole again. Similarly, when eternal matters attract us upward while earthly pleasures pull us down, it's one soul that can't fully commit to either path. This creates painful inner turmoil, as truth points one way while habit refuses to let go of the other.

Thus soul-sick was I, and tormented, accusing myself much more severely than my wont, rolling and turning me in my chain, till that were wholly broken, whereby I now was but just, but still was, held. And Thou, O Lord, pressedst upon me in my inward parts by a severe mercy, redoubling the lashes of fear and shame, lest I should again give way, and not bursting that same slight remaining tie, it should recover strength, and bind me the faster. For I said with myself, "Be it done now, be it done now." And as I spake, I all but enacted it: I all but did it, and did it not: yet sunk not back to my former state, but kept my stand hard by, and took breath. And I essayed again, and wanted somewhat less of it, and somewhat less, and all but touched, and laid hold of it; and yet came not at it, nor touched nor laid hold of it; hesitating to die to death and to live to life: and the worse whereto I was inured, prevailed more with me than the better whereto I was unused: and the very moment wherein I was to become other than I was, the nearer it approached me, the greater horror did it strike into me; yet did it not strike me back, nor turned me away, but held me in suspense.

I was sick at heart and tormented, criticizing myself more harshly than usual, twisting and turning in my chains until they would finally break—chains that barely held me now, but held me still. And You, Lord, pressed upon my inner being with stern mercy, intensifying my fear and shame to prevent me from falling back, ensuring that this last fragile bond wouldn't strengthen and trap me even tighter. I kept telling myself, "Do it now, do it now." And as I spoke, I nearly did it—I came so close but stopped short. Yet I didn't retreat to where I started; I held my ground and caught my breath. I tried again, getting closer each time, almost touching it, almost grasping it. But I couldn't quite reach it, couldn't quite take hold—hesitating between dying to death and living to life. The familiar worse path had more power over me than the unfamiliar better one. The closer I came to transformation, the more it terrified me. Yet this terror didn't drive me back or turn me away—it just left me suspended between two worlds.

The very toys of toys, and vanities of vanities, my ancient mistresses, still held me; they plucked my fleshy garment, and whispered softly, "Dost thou cast us off? and from that moment shall we no more be with thee for ever? and from that moment shall not this or that be lawful for thee for ever?" And what was it which they suggested in that I said, "this or that," what did they suggest, O my God? Let Thy mercy turn it away from the soul of Thy servant. What defilements did they suggest! what shame! And now I much less than half heard them, and not openly showing themselves and contradicting me, but muttering as it were behind my back, and privily plucking me, as I was departing, but to look back on them. Yet they did retard me, so that I hesitated to burst and shake myself free from them, and to spring over whither I was called; a violent habit saying to me, "Thinkest thou, thou canst live without them?"

My old vices and temptations still clung to me, tugging at my earthly desires and whispering: "Will you really abandon us? Will we truly never be together again? Will you forever deny yourself these pleasures?" And what exactly were these pleasures they spoke of? God, let your mercy shield your servant from them. Such shameful and defiling things they suggested! Now I barely heard them—they no longer confronted me openly, but rather murmured behind my back, secretly pulling at me as I tried to leave, urging me to look back. They held me back enough that I wavered in breaking free from them and leaping toward my calling. My deeply ingrained habits taunted me: "Do you really think you can live without us?"

But now it spake very faintly. For on that side whither I had set my face, and whither I trembled to go, there appeared unto me the chaste dignity of Continency, serene, yet not relaxedly, gay, honestly alluring me to come and doubt not; and stretching forth to receive and embrace me, her holy hands full of multitudes of good examples: there were so many young men and maidens here, a multitude of youth and every age, grave widows and aged virgins; and Continence herself in all, not barren, but a fruitful mother of children of joys, by Thee her Husband, O Lord. And she smiled on me with a persuasive mockery, as would she say, "Canst not thou what these youths, what these maidens can? or can they either in themselves, and not rather in the Lord their God? The Lord their God gave me unto them. Why standest thou in thyself, and so standest not? cast thyself upon Him, fear not He will not withdraw Himself that thou shouldest fall; cast thyself fearlessly upon Him, He will receive, and will heal thee." And I blushed exceedingly, for that I yet heard the muttering of those toys, and hung in suspense. And she again seemed to say, "Stop thine ears against those thy unclean members on the earth, that they may be mortified. They tell thee of delights, but not as doth the law of the Lord thy God." This controversy in my heart was self against self only. But Alypius sitting close by my side, in silence waited the issue of my unwonted emotion.

The voice grew faint now. In the direction I faced, trembling to proceed, I saw the pure dignity of Continence appear. She was peaceful but alert, cheerful, beckoning me forward reassuringly. She extended her holy hands, which were filled with countless good examples—young men and women, people of every age, dignified widows and elderly virgins. Continence herself stood among them, not sterile but a fertile mother of joyful children, with You, Lord, as her Husband. She smiled at me with gentle mockery, as if to say, "Can't you do what these young people can? Do they have this strength in themselves, or rather through the Lord their God? God gave me to them. Why do you stand alone, unable to stand at all? Throw yourself upon Him. Don't fear—He won't step aside and let you fall. Trust in Him completely; He will catch you and heal you." I blushed deeply, still hearing the whispers of my old temptations, hanging in uncertainty. She seemed to speak again: "Close your ears to those earthly desires that need to die. They speak of pleasures, but not like the pleasure found in God's law." This inner struggle was mine alone. Meanwhile, Alypius sat quietly beside me, waiting to see the outcome of my unusual turmoil.

But when a deep consideration had from the secret bottom of my soul drawn together and heaped up all my misery in the sight of my heart; there arose a mighty storm, bringing a mighty shower of tears. Which that I might pour forth wholly, in its natural expressions, I rose from Alypius: solitude was suggested to me as fitter for the business of weeping; so I retired so far that even his presence could not be a burden to me. Thus was it then with me, and he perceived something of it; for something I suppose I had spoken, wherein the tones of my voice appeared choked with weeping, and so had risen up. He then remained where we were sitting, most extremely astonished. I cast myself down I know not how, under a certain fig-tree, giving full vent to my tears; and the floods of mine eyes gushed out an acceptable sacrifice to Thee. And, not indeed in these words, yet to this purpose, spake I much unto Thee: and Thou, O Lord, how long? how long, Lord, wilt Thou be angry for ever? Remember not our former iniquities, for I felt that I was held by them. I sent up these sorrowful words: How long, how long, "tomorrow, and tomorrow?" Why not now? why not is there this hour an end to my uncleanness?

A deep examination had gathered all my sorrows from my soul's depths and laid them bare before my heart. This unleashed a powerful storm of tears. Needing to fully express this emotion, I left Alypius behind—solitude seemed better suited for weeping. I moved far enough away that even his presence wouldn't intrude on my grief. This was my state then, and he sensed it. I must have said something, my voice thick with tears, before rising to leave. He remained seated, utterly stunned. I threw myself down beneath a fig tree, letting my tears flow freely. My weeping became an offering acceptable to You. Though not in these exact words, I poured out my heart: "Lord, how long? Will Your anger last forever? Please forget our past sins, for I feel chained by them." I cried out in anguish: "How long must I wait? Why always 'tomorrow and tomorrow'? Why not now? Why can't my corruption end this very hour?"

So was I speaking and weeping in the most bitter contrition of my heart, when, lo! I heard from a neighbouring house a voice, as of boy or girl, I know not, chanting, and oft repeating, "Take up and read; Take up and read." Instantly, my countenance altered, I began to think most intently whether children were wont in any kind of play to sing such words: nor could I remember ever to have heard the like. So checking the torrent of my tears, I arose; interpreting it to be no other than a command from God to open the book, and read the first chapter I should find. For I had heard of Antony, that coming in during the reading of the Gospel, he received the admonition, as if what was being read was spoken to him: Go, sell all that thou hast, and give to the poor, and thou shalt have treasure in heaven, and come and follow me: and by such oracle he was forthwith converted unto Thee. Eagerly then I returned to the place where Alypius was sitting; for there had I laid the volume of the Apostle when I arose thence. I seized, opened, and in silence read that section on which my eyes first fell: Not in rioting and drunkenness, not in chambering and wantonness, not in strife and envying; but put ye on the Lord Jesus Christ, and make not provision for the flesh, in concupiscence. No further would I read; nor needed I: for instantly at the end of this sentence, by a light as it were of serenity infused into my heart, all the darkness of doubt vanished away.

I was speaking and weeping with bitter remorse in my heart when I heard a voice from a nearby house. Whether it was a boy or girl, I couldn't tell, but they were chanting over and over, "Pick it up and read it! Pick it up and read it!" My expression changed instantly. I wondered if children typically sang such words in their games, but I couldn't recall ever hearing anything like it. Wiping away my tears, I stood up, taking this as a divine command to open the book and read whatever chapter I found first. I remembered the story of Antony, who had walked in during a Gospel reading and took the words as a personal message: "Go, sell everything you own, give it to the poor, and you'll have treasure in heaven. Then come, follow me." Through this sign, he had immediately converted to Christianity. I rushed back to where Alypius was sitting, where I had left the Apostle's book before getting up. I grabbed it, opened it, and silently read the first passage my eyes landed on: "Not in wild parties and drunkenness, not in sexual immorality and debauchery, not in conflict and jealousy; but clothe yourselves with the Lord Jesus Christ, and do not think about how to gratify your sinful desires." I didn't need to read any further. As soon as I finished that sentence, it was as if a peaceful light flooded my heart, and all my doubts simply melted away.

Then putting my finger between, or some other mark, I shut the volume, and with a calmed countenance made it known to Alypius. And what was wrought in him, which I knew not, he thus showed me. He asked to see what I had read: I showed him; and he looked even further than I had read, and I knew not what followed. This followed, him that is weak in the faith, receive; which he applied to himself, and disclosed to me. And by this admonition was he strengthened; and by a good resolution and purpose, and most corresponding to his character, wherein he did always very far differ from me, for the better, without any turbulent delay he joined me. Thence we go in to my mother; we tell her; she rejoiceth: we relate in order how it took place; she leaps for joy, and triumpheth, and blesseth Thee, Who are able to do above that which we ask or think; for she perceived that Thou hadst given her more for me, than she was wont to beg by her pitiful and most sorrowful groanings. For thou convertedst me unto Thyself, so that I sought neither wife, nor any hope of this world, standing in that rule of faith, where Thou hadst showed me unto her in a vision, so many years before. And Thou didst convert her mourning into joy, much more plentiful than she had desired, and in a much more precious and purer way than she erst required, by having grandchildren of my body.

I placed my finger in the book to mark my place, closed it, and calmly told Alypius what had happened. He asked to see what I had read, so I showed him. He read further than where I had stopped, though I didn't know what came next. The passage read "receive him whose faith is weak," which he took to heart and shared with me. This strengthened his resolve, and true to his superior character, he immediately joined me in my conviction without hesitation. We went to tell my mother, who rejoiced at the news. We explained everything in detail, and she leaped with joy, praising God who can do more than we dare ask or imagine. She realized that God had given her more than she had hoped for in all her sorrowful prayers. For God had turned me toward Him so completely that I no longer sought a wife or worldly success, standing firm in the faith just as He had shown her in a vision years before. God transformed her grief into joy far greater than she had wished for, and in a purer way than she had originally sought when she had prayed for grandchildren.