Accept the sacrifice of my confessions from the ministry of my tongue, which Thou hast formed and stirred up to confess unto Thy name. Heal Thou all my bones, and let them say, O Lord, who is like unto Thee? For he who confesses to Thee doth not teach Thee what takes place within him; seeing a closed heart closes not out Thy eye, nor can man's hard-heartedness thrust back Thy hand: for Thou dissolvest it at Thy will in pity or in vengeance, and nothing can hide itself from Thy heat. But let my soul praise Thee, that it may love Thee; and let it confess Thy own mercies to Thee, that it may praise Thee. Thy whole creation ceaseth not, nor is silent in Thy praises; neither the spirit of man with voice directed unto Thee, nor creation animate or inanimate, by the voice of those who meditate thereon: that so our souls may from their weariness arise towards Thee, leaning on those things which Thou hast created, and passing on to Thyself, who madest them wonderfully; and there is refreshment and true strength.
Accept these confessions spoken through my tongue, which you have given me to praise your name. Heal my entire being, and let every part of me declare "Lord, who compares to you?" When I confess to you, I'm not telling you anything you don't already know—no closed heart can hide from your sight, nor can human stubbornness resist your hand. You can soften any heart, either through mercy or judgment, and nothing can escape your presence. Let my soul praise you so it may love you more deeply. Let it acknowledge your mercies so it may honor you. All of creation continuously praises you—from human spirits directing their voices to you, to every living and nonliving thing, praised through those who contemplate them. Through this, our weary souls can rise toward you, supported by your creation, and finally reach you, their wonderful maker. There we find true rest and strength.
Let the restless, the godless, depart and flee from Thee; yet Thou seest them, and dividest the darkness. And behold, the universe with them is fair, though they are foul. And how have they injured Thee? or how have they disgraced Thy government, which, from the heaven to this lowest earth, is just and perfect? For whither fled they, when they fled from Thy presence? or where dost not Thou find them? But they fled, that they might not see Thee seeing them, and, blinded, might stumble against Thee (because Thou forsakest nothing Thou hast made); that the unjust, I say, might stumble upon Thee, and justly be hurt; withdrawing themselves from thy gentleness, and stumbling at Thy uprightness, and falling upon their own ruggedness. Ignorant, in truth, that Thou art every where, Whom no place encompasseth! and Thou alone art near, even to those that remove far from Thee. Let them then be turned, and seek Thee; because not as they have forsaken their Creator, hast Thou forsaken Thy creation. Let them be turned and seek Thee; and behold, Thou art there in their heart, in the heart of those that confess to Thee, and cast themselves upon Thee, and weep in Thy bosom, after all their rugged ways. Then dost Thou gently wipe away their tears, and they weep the more, and joy in weeping; even for that Thou, Lord,—not man of flesh and blood, but—Thou, Lord, who madest them, re-makest and comfortest them. But where was I, when I was seeking Thee? And Thou wert before me, but I had gone away from Thee; nor did I find myself, how much less Thee!
Let the restless and godless run from You—You still see them and part the darkness. The universe remains beautiful despite their ugliness. How have they harmed You? How have they diminished Your perfect rule that spans from heaven to earth? Where can they truly flee from Your presence? Where will they go where You cannot find them? They ran to avoid seeing You watching them. In their blindness, they stumble against You (for You abandon nothing You've created). The unjust hurt themselves by running from Your kindness, rejecting Your righteousness, and falling on their own rough path. They foolishly forget that You are everywhere, bounded by no place. You alone remain close, even to those who distance themselves from You. Let them turn back and seek You, for unlike how they abandoned their Creator, You have not abandoned Your creation. Let them return to You; You are already there in their hearts—in the hearts of those who confess to You, who surrender themselves, who weep in Your embrace after all their wayward wandering. You gently dry their tears, and they weep more, finding joy in their tears, because You, Lord—not a mortal being but You, their Creator—remake and comfort them. But where was I when searching for You? You were right before me, but I had strayed from You. I couldn't even find myself, much less You!
I would lay open before my God that nine-and-twentieth year of mine age. There had then come to Carthage a certain Bishop of the Manichees, Faustus by name, a great snare of the Devil, and many were entangled by him through that lure of his smooth language: which though I did commend, yet could I separate from the truth of the things which I was earnest to learn: nor did I so much regard the service of oratory as the science which this Faustus, so praised among them, set before me to feed upon. Fame had before bespoken him most knowing in all valuable learning, and exquisitely skilled in the liberal sciences. And since I had read and well remembered much of the philosophers, I compared some things of theirs with those long fables of the Manichees, and found the former the more probable; even although they could only prevail so far as to make judgment of this lower world, the Lord of it they could by no means find out. For Thou art great, O Lord, and hast respect unto the humble, but the proud Thou beholdest afar off. Nor dost Thou draw near, but to the contrite in heart, nor art found by the proud, no, not though by curious skill they could number the stars and the sand, and measure the starry heavens, and track the courses of the planets.
In my twenty-ninth year, Bishop Faustus of the Manichees arrived in Carthage. A skilled orator, he served as the Devil's perfect trap, ensnaring many with his eloquent speech. While I admired his delivery, I could distinguish it from the truth I sought. His rhetorical polish mattered less to me than the knowledge he supposedly offered. His reputation preceded him—he was celebrated as a master of valuable learning and liberal arts. Having studied much philosophy myself, I compared philosophical teachings with the elaborate myths of the Manichees. The philosophers' ideas seemed more credible, though they could only explain the physical world, never discovering its Creator. For You are mighty, Lord, attending to the humble while keeping the proud at a distance. You reveal Yourself only to those with contrite hearts, remaining hidden from the proud—even if they possess the scientific skill to count stars and grains of sand, measure the cosmos, and map planetary orbits.
For with their understanding and wit, which Thou bestowedst on them, they search out these things; and much have they found out; and foretold, many years before, eclipses of those luminaries, the sun and moon,—what day and hour, and how many digits,—nor did their calculation fail; and it came to pass as they foretold; and they wrote down the rules they had found out, and these are read at this day, and out of them do others foretell in what year and month of the year, and what day of the month, and what hour of the day, and what part of its light, moon or sun is to be eclipsed, and so it shall be, as it is foreshowed. At these things men, that know not this art, marvel and are astonished, and they that know it, exult, and are puffed up; and by an ungodly pride departing from Thee, and failing of Thy light, they foresee a failure of the sun's light, which shall be, so long before, but see not their own, which is. For they search not religiously whence they have the wit, wherewith they search out this. And finding that Thou madest them, they give not themselves up to Thee, to preserve what Thou madest, nor sacrifice to Thee what they have made themselves; nor slay their own soaring imaginations, as fowls of the air, nor their own diving curiosities (wherewith, like the fishes of the sea, they wander over the unknown paths of the abyss), nor their own luxuriousness, as beasts of the field, that Thou, Lord, a consuming fire, mayest burn up those dead cares of theirs, and re-create themselves immortally.
Through their God-given intelligence and wisdom, these scholars study the heavens and have discovered much. They can predict solar and lunar eclipses years in advance, specifying the exact day, hour, and extent. Their calculations prove accurate, and the rules they developed are still used today. Others now use these same principles to forecast when the sun or moon will be eclipsed, and in what measure—and their predictions hold true. Those unfamiliar with astronomy stand amazed at these abilities, while those who understand it become proud and boastful. In their arrogance, they distance themselves from God, losing His light even as they accurately predict the darkening of the sun. Yet they fail to see their own spiritual darkness. They don't consider the divine source of their intellectual gifts that enable such discoveries. Though they recognize God as their creator, they don't surrender themselves to His care. They refuse to sacrifice their achievements to Him or abandon their lofty theories that soar like birds, their endless speculations that swim like fish through unknown depths, or their excessive desires that graze like field animals. If only they would let God, like a purifying fire, burn away these worthless concerns and grant them true immortality.
But they knew not the way, Thy Word, by Whom Thou madest these things which they number, and themselves who number, and the sense whereby they perceive what they number, and the understanding, out of which they number; or that of Thy wisdom there is no number. But the Only Begotten is Himself made unto us wisdom, and righteousness, and sanctification, and was numbered among us, and paid tribute unto Caesar. They knew not this way whereby to descend to Him from themselves, and by Him ascend unto Him. They knew not this way, and deemed themselves exalted amongst the stars and shining; and behold, they fell upon the earth, and their foolish heart was darkened. They discourse many things truly concerning the creature; but Truth, Artificer of the creature, they seek not piously, and therefore find Him not; or if they find Him, knowing Him to be God, they glorify Him not as God, neither are thankful, but become vain in their imaginations, and profess themselves to be wise, attributing to themselves what is Thine; and thereby with most perverse blindness, study to impute to Thee what is their own, forging lies of Thee who art the Truth, and changing the glory of uncorruptible God into an image made like corruptible man, and to birds, and four-footed beasts, and creeping things, changing Thy truth into a lie, and worshipping and serving the creature more than the Creator.
But they did not know the way, your Word. By him you made the things they count, and the people who count, and the sense by which they perceive what they count, and the understanding with which they count. They did not know that your wisdom is beyond number. But the Only Begotten himself became wisdom for us, and righteousness, and sanctification. He was counted among us and paid tribute to Caesar. They did not know this way, by which they might come down from themselves to him, and through him rise up to him. They did not know this way. They thought themselves raised high and shining among the stars, and look, they fell to the earth, and their foolish heart was darkened. They say many true things about the created world. But they do not seek the Truth, the maker of creation, with reverence, and so they do not find him. Or if they find him, and know him to be God, they do not glorify him as God or give thanks. Instead they become vain in their thoughts and claim to be wise, taking credit for what is yours. And with the most perverse blindness they try to credit you with what is their own. They make up lies about you, who are the Truth. They change the glory of the incorruptible God into an image made like corruptible man, and birds, and four-footed beasts, and creeping things. They change your truth into a lie, and worship and serve the creature more than the Creator.
Yet many truths concerning the creature retained I from these men, and saw the reason thereof from calculations, the succession of times, and the visible testimonies of the stars; and compared them with the saying of Manichaeus, which in his frenzy he had written most largely on these subjects; but discovered not any account of the solstices, or equinoxes, or the eclipses of the greater lights, nor whatever of this sort I had learned in the books of secular philosophy. But I was commanded to believe; and yet it corresponded not with what had been established by calculations and my own sight, but was quite contrary.
I learned many facts about nature from these scholars and understood their reasoning through mathematical calculations, the patterns of time, and direct observations of the stars. When I compared this knowledge to Manichaeus's writings—which he had produced in great volume during his delusional state—I found his work lacked any accurate explanation of solstices, equinoxes, or eclipses of the sun and moon, contradicting everything I had learned from scientific texts. Though I was told to accept his teachings on faith, they completely contradicted both mathematical proof and my own observations.
Doth then, O Lord God of truth, whoso knoweth these things, therefore please Thee? Surely unhappy is he who knoweth all these, and knoweth not Thee: but happy whoso knoweth Thee, though he know not these. And whoso knoweth both Thee and them is not the happier for them, but for Thee only, if, knowing Thee, he glorifies Thee as God, and is thankful, and becomes not vain in his imaginations. For as he is better off who knows how to possess a tree, and return thanks to Thee for the use thereof, although he know not how many cubits high it is, or how wide it spreads, than he that can measure it, and count all its boughs, and neither owns it, nor knows or loves its Creator: so a believer, whose all this world of wealth is, and who having nothing, yet possesseth all things, by cleaving unto Thee, whom all things serve, though he know not even the circles of the Great Bear, yet is it folly to doubt but he is in a better state than one who can measure the heavens, and number the stars, and poise the elements, yet neglecteth Thee who hast made all things in number, weight, and measure.
Does knowing all these things please You, Lord God of truth? Surely one who knows all these things but does not know You is unhappy. Yet happy is the person who knows You, even if they know nothing else. And someone who knows both You and these things is not made happier by this knowledge, but by You alone—if, knowing You, they glorify You as God, give thanks, and remain humble. Consider someone who knows how to care for a tree and thanks You for its benefits, though they don't know its height or spread. They are better off than someone who can measure and count every branch but neither owns the tree nor knows and loves its Creator. Similarly, a believer who owns nothing yet possesses everything through their devotion to You—whom all things serve—may not know the constellations, but they are undoubtedly better off than someone who can measure the heavens, count stars, and understand the elements, yet ignores You, who created everything with precise measure and purpose.
But yet who bade that Manichaeus write on these things also, skill in which was no element of piety? For Thou hast said to man, Behold piety and wisdom; of which he might be ignorant, though he had perfect knowledge of these things; but these things, since, knowing not, he most impudently dared to teach, he plainly could have no knowledge of piety. For it is vanity to make profession of these worldly things even when known; but confession to Thee is piety. Wherefore this wanderer to this end spake much of these things, that convicted by those who had truly learned them, it might be manifest what understanding he had in the other abstruser things. For he would not have himself meanly thought of, but went about to persuade men, "That the Holy Ghost, the Comforter and Enricher of Thy faithful ones, was with plenary authority personally within him." When then he was found out to have taught falsely of the heaven and stars, and of the motions of the sun and moon (although these things pertain not to the doctrine of religion), yet his sacrilegious presumption would become evident enough, seeing he delivered things which not only he knew not, but which were falsified, with so mad a vanity of pride, that he sought to ascribe them to himself, as to a divine person.
Yet who asked Manichaeus to write about these matters, when expertise in them had nothing to do with devotion? For God has told humanity to focus on piety and wisdom—things one might lack even with perfect scientific knowledge. By teaching these subjects so brazenly while ignorant of them, Manichaeus clearly showed he knew nothing of true piety. It's pointless to boast about worldly knowledge even when you have it; true piety lies in honest confession to God. This wanderer spoke extensively about these topics so that, when challenged by genuine experts, his grasp of deeper matters would be exposed. He didn't want to appear ordinary but tried to convince others that "The Holy Spirit, who comforts and enriches God's faithful, dwelt within him with complete authority." When he was caught teaching falsehoods about the heavens, stars, and the movements of the sun and moon (though these aren't matters of religious doctrine), his blasphemous arrogance became clear. He not only taught what he didn't understand but promoted falsehoods with such delusional pride that he claimed divine authority for himself.
For when I hear any Christian brother ignorant of these things, and mistaken on them, I can patiently behold such a man holding his opinion; nor do I see that any ignorance as to the position or character of the corporeal creation can injure him, so long as he doth not believe any thing unworthy of Thee, O Lord, the Creator of all. But it doth injure him, if he imagine it to pertain to the form of the doctrine of piety, and will yet affirm that too stiffly whereof he is ignorant. And yet is even such an infirmity, in the infancy of faith, borne by our mother Charity, till the new-born may grow up unto a perfect man, so as not to be carried about with every wind of doctrine. But in him who in such wise presumed to be the teacher, source, guide, chief of all whom he could so persuade, that whoso followed him thought that he followed, not a mere man, but Thy Holy Spirit; who would not judge that so great madness, when once convicted of having taught any thing false, were to be detested and utterly rejected? But I had not as yet clearly ascertained whether the vicissitudes of longer and shorter days and nights, and of day and night itself, with the eclipses of the greater lights, and whatever else of the kind I had read of in other books, might be explained consistently with his sayings; so that, if they by any means might, it should still remain a question to me whether it were so or no; but I might, on account of his reputed sanctity, rest my credence upon his authority.
When I hear some Christian brother who does not know these things and is mistaken about them, I can patiently watch him hold his opinion. I do not see that any ignorance about the position or nature of the physical creation can harm him, as long as he does not believe anything unworthy of you, Lord, the Creator of all. But it does harm him if he imagines that it belongs to the form of religious doctrine, and still insists too stubbornly on something he does not know. And yet even such a weakness, in the infancy of faith, is borne by our mother Charity, until the newborn grows up into a perfect man and is not carried about by every wind of doctrine. But consider a man who presumed to be the teacher, source, guide, and leader of everyone he could persuade, so that his followers thought they were following not a mere man but your Holy Spirit. Once he was convicted of teaching anything false, who would not judge that such great madness should be detested and utterly rejected? But I had not yet clearly found out whether the changes of longer and shorter days and nights, and of day and night itself, the eclipses of the greater lights, and whatever else of the kind I had read about in other books, could be explained in agreement with his sayings. If somehow they could, it would still remain a question for me whether it was so or not. But I could still rest my belief on his authority, because of his reputed holiness.
And for almost all those nine years, wherein with unsettled mind I had been their disciple, I had longed but too intensely for the coming of this Faustus. For the rest of the sect, whom by chance I had lighted upon, when unable to solve my objections about these things, still held out to me the coming of this Faustus, by conference with whom these and greater difficulties, if I had them, were to be most readily and abundantly cleared. When then he came, I found him a man of pleasing discourse, and who could speak fluently and in better terms, yet still but the self-same things which they were wont to say. But what availed the utmost neatness of the cup-bearer to my thirst for a more precious draught? Mine ears were already cloyed with the like, nor did they seem to me therefore better, because better said; nor therefore true, because eloquent; nor the soul therefore wise, because the face was comely, and the language graceful. But they who held him out to me were no good judges of things; and therefore to them he appeared understanding and wise, because in words pleasing. I felt however that another sort of people were suspicious even of truth, and refused to assent to it, if delivered in a smooth and copious discourse. But Thou, O my God, hadst already taught me by wonderful and secret ways, and therefore I believe that Thou taughtest me, because it is truth, nor is there besides Thee any teacher of truth, where or whencesoever it may shine upon us. Of Thyself therefore had I now learned, that neither ought any thing to seem to be spoken truly, because eloquently; nor therefore falsely, because the utterance of the lips is inharmonious; nor, again, therefore true, because rudely delivered; nor therefore false, because the language is rich; but that wisdom and folly are as wholesome and unwholesome food; and adorned or unadorned phrases as courtly or country vessels; either kind of meats may be served up in either kind of dishes.
For almost all those nine years in which I had been their follower with an unsettled mind, I had waited far too eagerly for this Faustus to come. The rest of the sect, whom I happened to meet, could not answer my objections about these things. So they kept holding out to me the coming of this Faustus. By talking with him, they said, these difficulties and greater ones, if I had them, would be cleared up most easily and fully. When he came, I found him a man of pleasing speech. He spoke fluently and in better words, but still said the very same things they used to say. But what use to my thirst for a more precious drink was the finest elegance in the cup-bearer? My ears were already sick of such things. They did not seem better to me because they were better said, nor true because eloquent. Nor did the soul seem wise because the face was handsome and the language graceful. But those who held him out to me were not good judges of things. So he seemed intelligent and wise to them, because his words pleased them. I was aware, however, of another sort of people who were suspicious even of truth, and refused to accept it if it came in smooth and abundant speech. But you, my God, had already taught me in wonderful and secret ways. I believe that it was you who taught me, because it is the truth, and there is no other teacher of truth besides you, wherever and from whatever source it may shine on us. So I had now learned from you that nothing should seem true because it is said eloquently, nor false because the words come out awkwardly. Again, nothing is true because it is said roughly, nor false because the language is rich. Wisdom and folly are like wholesome and unwholesome food. Ornate and plain words are like fine and rustic dishes. Either kind of food may be served in either kind of dish.
That greediness then, wherewith I had of so long time expected that man, was delighted verily with his action and feeling when disputing, and his choice and readiness of words to clothe his ideas. I was then delighted, and, with many others and more than they, did I praise and extol him. It troubled me, however, that in the assembly of his auditors, I was not allowed to put in and communicate those questions that troubled me, in familiar converse with him. Which when I might, and with my friends began to engage his ears at such times as it was not unbecoming for him to discuss with me, and had brought forward such things as moved me; I found him first utterly ignorant of liberal sciences, save grammar, and that but in an ordinary way. But because he had read some of Tully's Orations, a very few books of Seneca, some things of the poets, and such few volumes of his own sect as were written in Latin and neatly, and was daily practised in speaking, he acquired a certain eloquence, which proved the more pleasing and seductive because under the guidance of a good wit, and with a kind of natural gracefulness. Is it not thus, as I recall it, O Lord my God, Thou judge of my conscience? before Thee is my heart, and my remembrance, Who didst at that time direct me by the hidden mystery of Thy providence, and didst set those shameful errors of mine before my face, that I might see and hate them.
So that eagerness with which I had waited so long for this man was truly delighted by his energy and feeling in debate, and by his apt and ready words to clothe his ideas. I was delighted then, and along with many others, and more than they, I praised and extolled him. It bothered me, though, that in the crowd of his listeners I was not allowed to put forward the questions that troubled me and share them with him in friendly conversation. When I did get the chance, my friends and I began to claim his attention at times when it was not unfitting for him to discuss things with me. I raised the points that moved me. And I found him, first of all, utterly ignorant of the liberal sciences except grammar, and that only in an ordinary way. But he had read some of Tully's orations, a very few books of Seneca, some things of the poets, and the few volumes of his own sect that were written in Latin and written well. He also practiced speaking every day. So he had gained a certain eloquence, which was all the more pleasing and seductive because a good wit guided it and it had a kind of natural grace. Is this not how it was, as I remember it, Lord my God, judge of my conscience? My heart and my memory are before you. At that time you were guiding me by the hidden mystery of your providence. You were setting those shameful errors of mine before my face, so that I might see them and hate them.
For after it was clear that he was ignorant of those arts in which I thought he excelled, I began to despair of his opening and solving the difficulties which perplexed me (of which indeed however ignorant, he might have held the truths of piety, had he not been a Manichee). For their books are fraught with prolix fables, of the heaven, and stars, sun, and moon, and I now no longer thought him able satisfactorily to decide what I much desired, whether, on comparison of these things with the calculations I had elsewhere read, the account given in the books of Manichaeus were preferable, or at least as good. Which when I proposed to be considered and discussed, he, so far modestly, shrunk from the burthen. For he knew that he knew not these things, and was not ashamed to confess it. For he was not one of those talking persons, many of whom I had endured, who undertook to teach me these things, and said nothing. But this man had a heart, though not right towards Thee, yet neither altogether treacherous to himself. For he was not altogether ignorant of his own ignorance, nor would he rashly be entangled in a dispute, whence he could neither retreat nor extricate himself fairly. Even for this I liked him the better. For fairer is the modesty of a candid mind, than the knowledge of those things which I desired; and such I found him, in all the more difficult and subtile questions.
Once it was clear that he did not know the arts in which I had thought he excelled, I began to lose hope that he could open up and solve the difficulties that puzzled me. (Of course, however ignorant of these things he was, he might still have held the truths of religion, if he had not been a Manichee.) For their books are full of long-winded fables about the heaven and stars, the sun and moon. I no longer thought he could settle well what I very much wanted to know. I wanted to know whether, comparing these things with the calculations I had read elsewhere, the account in the books of Manichaeus was better, or at least as good. When I proposed that we consider and discuss this, he modestly declined the burden, to that extent at least. For he knew that he did not know these things, and he was not ashamed to admit it. He was not one of those talkers, many of whom I had put up with, who tried to teach me these things and said nothing. This man had a heart that, though not right toward you, was not altogether false to itself either. For he was not altogether ignorant of his own ignorance. And he would not rashly get tangled in a dispute from which he could neither retreat nor fairly get free. I liked him all the better even for this. For the modesty of an honest mind is more beautiful than the knowledge of the things I wanted to learn. And that is how I found him in all the harder and more subtle questions.
My zeal for the writings of Manichaeus being thus blunted, and despairing yet more of their other teachers, seeing that in divers things which perplexed me, he, so renowned among them, had so turned out; I began to engage with him in the study of that literature, on which he also was much set (and which as rhetoric-reader I was at that time teaching young students at Carthage), and to read with him, either what himself desired to hear, or such as I judged fit for his genius. But all my efforts whereby I had purposed to advance in that sect, upon knowledge of that man, came utterly to an end; not that I detached myself from them altogether, but as one finding nothing better, I had settled to be content meanwhile with what I had in whatever way fallen upon, unless by chance something more eligible should dawn upon me. Thus, that Faustus, to so many a snare of death, had now neither willing nor witting it, begun to loosen that wherein I was taken. For Thy hands, O my God, in the secret purpose of Thy providence, did not forsake my soul; and out of my mother's heart's blood, through her tears night and day poured out, was a sacrifice offered for me unto Thee; and Thou didst deal with me by wondrous ways. Thou didst it, O my God: for the steps of a man are ordered by the Lord, and He shall dispose his way. Or how shall we obtain salvation, but from Thy hand, re-making what it made?
My enthusiasm for Manichaeus's writings diminished, and I grew even more skeptical of their other teachers. Since Faustus, their most celebrated figure, had disappointed me on various issues that troubled me, I began studying literature with him instead—the same material I was teaching to my rhetoric students in Carthage. We read texts that either he wanted to hear or ones I thought suited his intellect. My earlier commitment to advance in that sect ended completely after getting to know him. Though I didn't completely break away, I settled for what I had found, lacking better alternatives, unless something more compelling emerged. So Faustus, who had led many to their spiritual death, unknowingly began loosening the very trap that held me. Your hands, my God, through Your mysterious providence, never abandoned my soul. Through my mother's heartfelt prayers and tears, day and night, a sacrifice was offered to You on my behalf. You guided me in remarkable ways. You did this, my God, for a man's steps are directed by the Lord, who shapes his path. How else can we find salvation except through Your hand, which remakes what it once made?
Thou didst deal with me, that I should be persuaded to go to Rome, and to teach there rather, what I was teaching at Carthage. And how I was persuaded to this, I will not neglect to confess to Thee; because herein also the deepest recesses of Thy wisdom, and Thy most present mercy to us, must be considered and confessed. I did not wish therefore to go to Rome, because higher gains and higher dignities were warranted me by my friends who persuaded me to this (though even these things had at that time an influence over my mind), but my chief and almost only reason was, that I heard that young men studied there more peacefully, and were kept quiet under a restraint of more regular discipline; so that they did not, at their pleasures, petulantly rush into the school of one whose pupils they were not, nor were even admitted without his permission. Whereas at Carthage there reigns among the scholars a most disgraceful and unruly licence. They burst in audaciously, and with gestures almost frantic, disturb all order which any one hath established for the good of his scholars. Divers outrages they commit, with a wonderful stolidity, punishable by law, did not custom uphold them; that custom evincing them to be the more miserable, in that they now do as lawful what by Thy eternal law shall never be lawful; and they think they do it unpunished, whereas they are punished with the very blindness whereby they do it, and suffer incomparably worse than what they do. The manners then which, when a student, I would not make my own, I was fain as a teacher to endure in others: and so I was well pleased to go where, all that knew it, assured me that the like was not done. But Thou, my refuge and my portion in the land of the living; that I might change my earthly dwelling for the salvation of my soul, at Carthage didst goad me, that I might thereby be torn from it; and at Rome didst proffer me allurements, whereby I might be drawn thither, by men in love with a dying life, the one doing frantic, the other promising vain, things; and, to correct my steps, didst secretly use their and my own perverseness. For both they who disturbed my quiet were blinded with a disgraceful frenzy, and they who invited me elsewhere savoured of earth. And I, who here detested real misery, was there seeking unreal happiness.
You worked on me so that I would be persuaded to go to Rome and teach there what I was teaching at Carthage. I will not fail to confess to you how I was persuaded. For here too the deepest depths of your wisdom, and your mercy ever present to us, must be considered and confessed. I did not want to go to Rome because the friends who urged me promised higher earnings and higher rank, though even these things had some hold on my mind at that time. My chief and almost only reason was that I heard young men studied there more quietly. They were kept in order by a stricter, more regular discipline. They did not rush insolently, whenever they pleased, into the school of a teacher whose pupils they were not. They were not even admitted without his permission. At Carthage, by contrast, a most shameful and unruly license reigns among the students. They burst in boldly and, with almost frenzied gestures, wreck any order a teacher has set up for the good of his pupils. They commit all kinds of outrages with astonishing senselessness. These would be punished by law if custom did not protect them. That custom shows them to be all the more wretched, because they now do as lawful what by your eternal law will never be lawful. They think they do it unpunished. Yet they are punished by the very blindness with which they do it, and they suffer incomparably worse than what they do. So as a teacher I was forced to put up with in others the behavior I would not adopt as a student. And so I was glad to go where everyone who knew the place assured me that such things were not done. But you, my refuge and my portion in the land of the living, wanted me to change my earthly home for the salvation of my soul. At Carthage you goaded me, so that I would be torn away from it. At Rome you offered me attractions to draw me there. You did this through men in love with a dying life, the one group doing frantic things, the other promising empty ones. To set my steps right, you secretly used their perversity and my own. For those who disturbed my peace were blinded by a shameful frenzy, and those who invited me elsewhere had the taste of earth. And I, who hated a real misery here, was seeking a false happiness there.
But why I went hence, and went thither, Thou knewest, O God, yet showedst it neither to me, nor to my mother, who grievously bewailed my journey, and followed me as far as the sea. But I deceived her, holding me by force, that either she might keep me back or go with me, and I feigned that I had a friend whom I could not leave, till he had a fair wind to sail. And I lied to my mother, and such a mother, and escaped: for this also hast Thou mercifully forgiven me, preserving me, thus full of execrable defilements, from the waters of the sea, for the water of Thy Grace; whereby when I was cleansed, the streams of my mother's eyes should be dried, with which for me she daily watered the ground under her face. And yet refusing to return without me, I scarcely persuaded her to stay that night in a place hard by our ship, where was an Oratory in memory of the blessed Cyprian. That night I privily departed, but she was not behind in weeping and prayer. And what, O Lord, was she with so many tears asking of Thee, but that Thou wouldest not suffer me to sail? But Thou, in the depth of Thy counsels and hearing the main point of her desire, regardest not what she then asked, that Thou mightest make me what she ever asked. The wind blew and swelled our sails, and withdrew the shore from our sight; and she on the morrow was there, frantic with sorrow, and with complaints and groans filled Thine ears, Who didst then disregard them; whilst through my desires, Thou wert hurrying me to end all desire, and the earthly part of her affection to me was chastened by the allotted scourge of sorrows. For she loved my being with her, as mothers do, but much more than many; and she knew not how great joy Thou wert about to work for her out of my absence. She knew not; therefore did she weep and wail, and by this agony there appeared in her the inheritance of Eve, with sorrow seeking what in sorrow she had brought forth. And yet, after accusing my treachery and hardheartedness, she betook herself again to intercede to Thee for me, went to her wonted place, and I to Rome.
But why I left here and went there, you knew, O God. Yet you showed it neither to me nor to my mother. She grieved bitterly over my journey and followed me as far as the sea. She held on to me by force, so that she might either keep me back or go with me. But I deceived her. I pretended I had a friend I could not leave until he had a fair wind to sail. So I lied to my mother, and such a mother, and got away. This too you have mercifully forgiven me. You saved me, so full of hateful filth, from the waters of the sea, to keep me for the water of your grace. Once I was washed in it, the streams from my mother's eyes would be dried. With those tears, for my sake, she watered the ground under her face every day. Still, she refused to go back without me. I barely persuaded her to spend that night in a place near our ship, where there was a chapel in memory of the blessed Cyprian. That night I slipped away in secret, but she did not hold back from weeping and prayer. And what, O Lord, was she asking of you with so many tears, except that you would not let me sail? But you, in the depth of your counsels, heard the heart of her desire. You did not grant what she asked then, so that you might make me what she always asked. The wind blew and filled our sails, and the shore was taken from our sight. The next morning she was there, wild with grief. She filled your ears with complaints and groans, and you paid them no attention then. Through my own desires you were hurrying me on to put an end to all desire. And the earthly part of her love for me was disciplined by the scourge of sorrow allotted to her. She loved to have me with her, as mothers do, but much more than many. She did not know how great a joy you were about to make for her out of my absence. She did not know, so she wept and wailed. In this agony the inheritance of Eve appeared in her, seeking in sorrow what she had brought forth in sorrow. Yet after accusing me of treachery and hard-heartedness, she turned again to pray to you for me. She went back to her usual place, and I went on to Rome.
And lo, there was I received by the scourge of bodily sickness, and I was going down to hell, carrying all the sins which I had committed, both against Thee, and myself, and others, many and grievous, over and above that bond of original sin, whereby we all die in Adam. For Thou hadst not forgiven me any of these things in Christ, nor had He abolished by His Cross the enmity which by my sins I had incurred with Thee. For how should He, by the crucifixion of a phantasm, which I believed Him to be? So true, then, was the death of my soul, as that of His flesh seemed to me false; and how true the death of His body, so false was the life of my soul, which did not believe it. And now the fever heightening, I was parting and departing for ever. For had I then parted hence, whither had I departed, but into fire and torments, such as my misdeeds deserved in the truth of Thy appointment? And this she knew not, yet in absence prayed for me. But Thou, everywhere present, heardest her where she was, and, where I was, hadst compassion upon me; that I should recover the health of my body, though frenzied as yet in my sacrilegious heart. For I did not in all that danger desire Thy baptism; and I was better as a boy, when I begged it of my mother's piety, as I have before recited and confessed. But I had grown up to my own shame, and I madly scoffed at the prescripts of Thy medicine, who wouldest not suffer me, being such, to die a double death. With which wound had my mother's heart been pierced, it could never be healed. For I cannot express the affection she bore to me, and with how much more vehement anguish she was now in labour of me in the spirit, than at her childbearing in the flesh.
I was struck down by severe illness and faced death, carrying the weight of all my sins—those against You, myself, and others. These many serious transgressions went beyond original sin, through which we all share Adam's fate. None of these sins had been forgiven through Christ, nor had His Cross removed the conflict I had created with You. How could it, when I wrongly believed Christ to be merely an illusion? The death of my soul was as real as I falsely believed His physical death to be untrue. Just as His body's death was real, my soul's life was false in its disbelief. As my fever worsened, I was close to departing forever. Had I died then, I would have gone to the fire and torments that my misdeeds truly deserved according to Your judgment. My mother didn't know this, yet she prayed for me in her absence. You, being present everywhere, heard her prayers and showed me mercy where I was, allowing my body to heal even while my heart remained blasphemous. Throughout this danger, I didn't seek Your baptism, though I had been better as a child when I had begged my mother for it, as I've previously mentioned. Instead, I had grown into my shame, foolishly mocking Your healing guidance—though You wouldn't let someone like me die both physically and spiritually. Had my mother's heart been pierced by such a wound, it would have been beyond healing. I cannot fully express her love for me, or how much more intensely she labored for my spiritual birth than she had during my physical one.
I see not then how she should have been healed, had such a death of mine stricken through the bowels of her love. And where would have been those her so strong and unceasing prayers, unintermitting to Thee alone? But wouldest Thou, God of mercies, despise the contrite and humbled heart of that chaste and sober widow, so frequent in almsdeeds, so full of duty and service to Thy saints, no day intermitting the oblation at Thine altar, twice a day, morning and evening, without any intermission, coming to Thy church, not for idle tattlings and old wives' fables; but that she might hear Thee in Thy discourses, and Thou her in her prayers. Couldest Thou despise and reject from Thy aid the tears of such an one, wherewith she begged of Thee not gold or silver, nor any mutable or passing good, but the salvation of her son's soul? Thou, by whose gift she was such? Never, Lord. Yea, Thou wert at hand, and wert hearing and doing, in that order wherein Thou hadst determined before that it should be done. Far be it that Thou shouldest deceive her in Thy visions and answers, some whereof I have, some I have not mentioned, which she laid up in her faithful heart, and ever praying, urged upon Thee, as Thine own handwriting. For Thou, because Thy mercy endureth for ever, vouchsafest to those to whom Thou forgivest all of their debts, to become also a debtor by Thy promises.
I do not see, then, how she could have been healed if such a death of mine had pierced the very heart of her love. And what would have become of her prayers, so strong and so constant, offered without pause to you alone? But would you, God of mercies, despise the contrite and humbled heart of that chaste and sober widow? She gave alms often. She was full of duty and service to your saints. She let no day pass without the offering at your altar. Twice a day, morning and evening, without fail, she came to your church. She came not for idle gossip and old wives' tales, but to hear you in your sermons, and so that you would hear her in her prayers. Could you despise the tears of such a woman and refuse her your help? With them she begged you not for gold or silver, nor for any changeable or passing good, but for the salvation of her son's soul. Could you, by whose gift she was what she was? Never, Lord. No, you were at hand. You were hearing and acting, in the order you had determined beforehand. Far be it from you to deceive her in your visions and answers. I have mentioned some of these and not others. She stored them up in her faithful heart, and in her constant prayers she pressed them on you as your own handwritten pledge. For because your mercy endures forever, you grant to those whose debts you forgive entirely that you also become their debtor by your promises.
Thou recoveredst me then of that sickness, and healedst the son of Thy handmaid, for the time in body, that he might live, for Thee to bestow upon him a better and more abiding health. And even then, at Rome, I joined myself to those deceiving and deceived "holy ones"; not with their disciples only (of which number was he, in whose house I had fallen sick and recovered); but also with those whom they call "The Elect." For I still thought "that it was not we that sin, but that I know not what other nature sinned in us"; and it delighted my pride, to be free from blame; and when I had done any evil, not to confess I had done any, that Thou mightest heal my soul because it had sinned against Thee: but I loved to excuse it, and to accuse I know not what other thing, which was with me, but which I was not. But in truth it was wholly I, and mine impiety had divided me against myself: and that sin was the more incurable, whereby I did not judge myself a sinner; and execrable iniquity it was, that I had rather have Thee, Thee, O God Almighty, to be overcome in me to my destruction, than myself of Thee to salvation. Not as yet then hadst Thou set a watch before my mouth, and a door of safe keeping around my lips, that my heart might not turn aside to wicked speeches, to make excuses of sins, with men that work iniquity; and, therefore, was I still united with their Elect.
So you healed me of that sickness. You restored the son of your handmaid, for the time being in body, so that he might live for you to give him a better and more lasting health. Even then, at Rome, I joined those deceiving and deceived "holy ones." I joined not only their disciples (among them the man in whose house I had fallen sick and recovered), but also those they call "The Elect." For I still thought "that it was not we who sin, but some other nature, I know not what, that sinned in us." It delighted my pride to be free from blame. When I had done something evil, I did not confess that I had done it, so that you might heal my soul, since it had sinned against you. Instead I loved to excuse it and to accuse some other thing, I know not what, which was with me but which was not me. But in truth it was wholly I, and my impiety had divided me against myself. And that sin was all the more incurable because I did not judge myself a sinner. It was a hateful wickedness that I would rather have you, you, O God Almighty, be overcome in me to my destruction, than have myself overcome by you to my salvation. You had not yet set a watch before my mouth and a door of safekeeping around my lips, so that my heart would not turn aside to wicked words, to make excuses for sins with men who work iniquity. And so I was still united with their Elect.
But now despairing to make proficiency in that false doctrine, even those things (with which if I should find no better, I had resolved to rest contented) I now held more laxly and carelessly. For there half arose a thought in me that those philosophers, whom they call Academics, were wiser than the rest, for that they held men ought to doubt everything, and laid down that no truth can be comprehended by man: for so, not then understanding even their meaning, I also was clearly convinced that they thought, as they are commonly reported. Yet did I freely and openly discourage that host of mine from that over-confidence which I perceived him to have in those fables, which the books of Manichaeus are full of. Yet I lived in more familiar friendship with them, than with others who were not of this heresy. Nor did I maintain it with my ancient eagerness; still my intimacy with that sect (Rome secretly harbouring many of them) made me slower to seek any other way: especially since I despaired of finding the truth, from which they had turned me aside, in Thy Church, O Lord of heaven and earth, Creator of all things visible and invisible: and it seemed to me very unseemly to believe Thee to have the shape of human flesh, and to be bounded by the bodily lineaments of our members. And because, when I wished to think on my God, I knew not what to think of, but a mass of bodies (for what was not such did not seem to me to be anything), this was the greatest, and almost only cause of my inevitable error.
But now I despaired of making progress in that false doctrine. I had resolved to rest content with its teachings if I found nothing better, but even these I now held more loosely and carelessly. For a thought half arose in me that the philosophers called Academics were wiser than the rest. They held that people ought to doubt everything, and they laid down that no truth can be grasped by man. Not yet understanding even what they meant, I was plainly convinced that they thought what they are commonly reported to think. Yet I freely and openly discouraged my host from the overconfidence I saw he had in the fables that fill the books of Manichaeus. Still, I lived on closer terms of friendship with the Manichees than with others who did not belong to this heresy. I no longer defended it with my old eagerness. Still, my close ties with that sect (Rome secretly sheltered many of them) made me slower to look for any other way. This was especially so because I despaired of finding the truth in your Church, O Lord of heaven and earth, Creator of all things visible and invisible. It was the Manichees who had turned me away from that truth. And it seemed to me most unfitting to believe that you had the shape of human flesh, and were bounded by the bodily outlines of our limbs. When I wanted to think of my God, I did not know what to think of except a mass of bodies. For whatever was not a body did not seem to me to be anything at all. This was the greatest, and almost the only, cause of my unavoidable error.
For hence I believed Evil also to be some such kind of substance, and to have its own foul and hideous bulk; whether gross, which they called earth, or thin and subtile (like the body of the air), which they imagine to be some malignant mind, creeping through that earth. And because a piety, such as it was, constrained me to believe that the good God never created any evil nature, I conceived two masses, contrary to one another, both unbounded, but the evil narrower, the good more expansive. And from this pestilent beginning, the other sacrilegious conceits followed on me. For when my mind endeavoured to recur to the Catholic faith, I was driven back, since that was not the Catholic faith which I thought to be so. And I seemed to myself more reverential, if I believed of Thee, my God (to whom Thy mercies confess out of my mouth), as unbounded, at least on other sides, although on that one where the mass of evil was opposed to Thee, I was constrained to confess Thee bounded; than if on all sides I should imagine Thee to be bounded by the form of a human body. And it seemed to me better to believe Thee to have created no evil (which to me ignorant seemed not some only, but a bodily substance, because I could not conceive of mind unless as a subtile body, and that diffused in definite spaces), than to believe the nature of evil, such as I conceived it, could come from Thee. Yea, and our Saviour Himself, Thy Only Begotten, I believed to have been reached forth (as it were) for our salvation, out of the mass of Thy most lucid substance, so as to believe nothing of Him, but what I could imagine in my vanity. His Nature then, being such, I thought could not be born of the Virgin Mary, without being mingled with the flesh: and how that which I had so figured to myself could be mingled, and not defiled, I saw not. I feared therefore to believe Him born in the flesh, lest I should be forced to believe Him defiled by the flesh. Now will Thy spiritual ones mildly and lovingly smile upon me, if they shall read these my confessions. Yet such was I.
For this reason I also believed that Evil was some such kind of substance. I thought it had its own foul and hideous bulk. It was either dense, which they called earth, or thin and fine (like the body of the air), which they imagine to be a malignant mind creeping through that earth. A piety of sorts, such as it was, compelled me to believe that the good God never created any evil nature. So I pictured two masses opposed to each other, both unbounded, but the evil one narrower and the good one wider. From this poisonous beginning the other sacrilegious notions followed. When my mind tried to return to the Catholic faith, I was driven back, because what I took to be the Catholic faith was not the Catholic faith. I seemed to myself more reverent if I believed you, my God (to whom your mercies confess out of my mouth), to be unbounded at least on the other sides. On the one side where the mass of evil stood against you, I was forced to admit you were bounded. Even so, this seemed more reverent than to imagine you bounded on all sides by the form of a human body. And it seemed better to me to believe that you had created no evil than to believe that the nature of evil, as I pictured it, could come from you. In my ignorance I took evil to be not just some kind of substance but a bodily one. For I could not conceive of mind except as a fine body, spread out through definite spaces. Indeed, I believed that our Savior himself, your Only Begotten, had been reached out (so to speak) for our salvation from the mass of your most shining substance. So I believed nothing of him except what I could imagine in my vanity. Since his nature was such, I thought he could not be born of the Virgin Mary without being mixed with the flesh. And I could not see how what I had pictured to myself could be mixed with flesh and not be defiled. So I was afraid to believe him born in the flesh, in case I would be forced to believe him defiled by the flesh. Now your spiritual ones will smile at me gently and lovingly, if they read these confessions of mine. Yet that is what I was.
Furthermore, what the Manichees had criticised in Thy Scriptures, I thought could not be defended; yet at times verily I had a wish to confer upon these several points with some one very well skilled in those books, and to make trial what he thought thereon; for the words of one Helpidius, as he spoke and disputed face to face against the said Manichees, had begun to stir me even at Carthage: in that he had produced things out of the Scriptures, not easily withstood, the Manichees' answer whereto seemed to me weak. And this answer they liked not to give publicly, but only to us in private. It was, that the Scriptures of the New Testament had been corrupted by I know not whom, who wished to engraff the law of the Jews upon the Christian faith: yet themselves produced not any uncorrupted copies. But I, conceiving of things corporeal only, was mainly held down, vehemently oppressed and in a manner suffocated by those "masses"; panting under which after the breath of Thy truth, I could not breathe it pure and untainted.
Besides, I thought that what the Manichees had criticized in your Scriptures could not be defended. Yet at times I truly wished to discuss these points one by one with someone very well versed in those books, and to test what he thought of them. For the words of a man named Helpidius had already begun to stir me at Carthage, as he spoke and argued face to face against these Manichees. He had brought forward things from the Scriptures that were not easily resisted, and the Manichees' answer to them seemed weak to me. They did not like to give this answer in public, but only to us in private. It was that the Scriptures of the New Testament had been corrupted by someone or other who wanted to graft the law of the Jews onto the Christian faith. Yet they themselves produced no uncorrupted copies. But I could conceive of nothing but bodily things. So I was held down above all, heavily weighed down and almost smothered, by those "masses." Panting under them for the breath of your truth, I could not breathe it pure and untainted.
I began then diligently to practise that for which I came to Rome, to teach rhetoric; and first, to gather some to my house, to whom, and through whom, I had begun to be known; when lo, I found other offences committed in Rome, to which I was not exposed in Africa. True, those "subvertings" by profligate young men were not here practised, as was told me: but on a sudden, said they, to avoid paying their master's stipend, a number of youths plot together, and remove to another;—breakers of faith, who for love of money hold justice cheap. These also my heart hated, though not with a perfect hatred: for perchance I hated them more because I was to suffer by them, than because they did things utterly unlawful. Of a truth such are base persons, and they go a whoring from Thee, loving these fleeting mockeries of things temporal, and filthy lucre, which fouls the hand that grasps it; hugging the fleeting world, and despising Thee, Who abidest, and recallest, and forgivest the adulteress soul of man, when she returns to Thee. And now I hate such depraved and crooked persons, though I love them if corrigible, so as to prefer to money the learning which they acquire, and to learning, Thee, O God, the truth and fulness of assured good, and most pure peace. But then I rather for my own sake misliked them evil, than liked and wished them good for Thine.
So I began to work hard at what I had come to Rome to do, teaching rhetoric. First I gathered some students at my house, and through them I began to be known. And then I found that other offenses were committed in Rome, which I had not faced in Africa. It was true, as I had been told, that the "subvertings" by reckless young men were not practiced here. But suddenly, people told me, a number of young men plot together to avoid paying their teacher's fee, and move to another teacher. They break their word, and for love of money they think little of justice. My heart hated these too, though not with a perfect hatred. For perhaps I hated them more because I was going to suffer from them than because what they did was utterly unlawful. Truly, such people are base. They go whoring away from you, loving these fleeting mockeries of temporal things and the filthy money that dirties the hand that grasps it. They cling to the passing world and despise you, who remain, and who call back and forgive the adulterous soul of man when she returns to you. Now I hate such depraved and crooked people, though I love them if they can be corrected. I love them so that they may come to prefer to money the learning they acquire, and to prefer to learning you, O God, the truth and fullness of sure good, and most pure peace. But back then, for my own sake, I disliked them for being evil more than I liked them and wished them good for yours.
When therefore they of Milan had sent to Rome to the prefect of the city, to furnish them with a rhetoric reader for their city, and sent him at the public expense, I made application (through those very persons, intoxicated with Manichaean vanities, to be freed wherefrom I was to go, neither of us however knowing it) that Symmachus, then prefect of the city, would try me by setting me some subject, and so send me. To Milan I came, to Ambrose the Bishop, known to the whole world as among the best of men, Thy devout servant; whose eloquent discourse did then plentifully dispense unto Thy people the flour of Thy wheat, the gladness of Thy oil, and the sober inebriation of Thy wine. To him was I unknowing led by Thee, that by him I might knowingly be led to Thee. That man of God received me as a father, and showed me an Episcopal kindness on my coming. Thenceforth I began to love him, at first indeed not as a teacher of the truth (which I utterly despaired of in Thy Church), but as a person kind towards myself. And I listened diligently to him preaching to the people, not with that intent I ought, but, as it were, trying his eloquence, whether it answered the fame thereof, or flowed fuller or lower than was reported; and I hung on his words attentively; but of the matter I was as a careless and scornful looker-on; and I was delighted with the sweetness of his discourse, more recondite, yet in manner less winning and harmonious, than that of Faustus. Of the matter, however, there was no comparison; for the one was wandering amid Manichaean delusions, the other teaching salvation most soundly. But salvation is far from sinners, such as I then stood before him; and yet was I drawing nearer by little and little, and unconsciously.
So the people of Milan sent to the prefect of the city of Rome, asking him to provide a teacher of rhetoric for their city and to send him at public expense. I applied for the post through those very men who were drunk with Manichaean vanities. I was going there to be freed from those vanities, though neither they nor I knew it. I asked that Symmachus, then prefect of the city, would test me by setting me a subject and then send me. So I came to Milan, to Ambrose the bishop. He was known to the whole world as among the best of men, your devout servant. His eloquent preaching was then generously giving your people the flour of your wheat, the gladness of your oil, and the sober intoxication of your wine. You led me to him without my knowing it, so that through him I might be led to you knowing it. That man of God received me like a father and welcomed my coming with a bishop's kindness. From then on I began to love him. At first, it is true, I did not love him as a teacher of the truth, for I had utterly despaired of finding that in your Church. I loved him as a man who was kind to me. I listened carefully to him preaching to the people, but not with the intent I should have had. I was testing his eloquence, as it were, to see whether it lived up to its fame, or flowed more fully or less fully than reported. I hung attentively on his words, but toward their substance I was a careless and scornful onlooker. I was delighted by the charm of his speaking. It was more learned than that of Faustus, but less winning and smooth in manner. In substance, however, there was no comparison. Faustus was wandering among Manichaean delusions, while Ambrose was teaching salvation most soundly. But salvation is far from sinners, such as I was then as I stood before him. And yet I was drawing nearer, little by little, without knowing it.
For though I took no pains to learn what he spake, but only to hear how he spake (for that empty care alone was left me, despairing of a way, open for man, to Thee), yet together with the words which I would choose, came also into my mind the things which I would refuse; for I could not separate them. And while I opened my heart to admit "how eloquently he spake," there also entered "how truly he spake"; but this by degrees. For first, these things also had now begun to appear to me capable of defence; and the Catholic faith, for which I had thought nothing could be said against the Manichees' objections, I now thought might be maintained without shamelessness; especially after I had heard one or two places of the Old Testament resolved, and ofttimes "in a figure," which when I understood literally, I was slain spiritually. Very many places then of those books having been explained, I now blamed my despair, in believing that no answer could be given to such as hated and scoffed at the Law and the Prophets. Yet did I not therefore then see that the Catholic way was to be held, because it also could find learned maintainers, who could at large and with some show of reason answer objections; nor that what I held was therefore to be condemned, because both sides could be maintained. For the Catholic cause seemed to me in such sort not vanquished, as still not as yet to be victorious.
For I took no trouble to learn what he said, but only to hear how he said it. That empty concern was all I had left, since I despaired of any way open for man to reach you. Yet along with the words I enjoyed, the matter I rejected also came into my mind, for I could not separate them. And while I opened my heart to take in "how eloquently he spoke," there also came in "how truly he spoke." But this happened by degrees. First, these teachings too began to seem to me capable of defense. I had thought nothing could be said for the Catholic faith against the Manichees' objections. Now I thought it could be maintained without shame. This was especially so after I had heard one or two passages of the Old Testament explained, and often "in a figure." When I took these passages literally, I was killed spiritually. Then, once very many passages of those books had been explained, I blamed my despair for believing that no answer could be given to those who hated and mocked the Law and the Prophets. Yet I did not therefore see that the Catholic way must be held, just because it too could find learned defenders. They could answer objections at length and with some show of reason. Nor did I see that what I held must be condemned just because both sides could be defended. For the Catholic cause seemed to me not defeated, yet not yet victorious either.
Hereupon I earnestly bent my mind, to see if in any way I could by any certain proof convict the Manichees of falsehood. Could I once have conceived a spiritual substance, all their strongholds had been beaten down, and cast utterly out of my mind; but I could not. Notwithstanding, concerning the frame of this world, and the whole of nature, which the senses of the flesh can reach to, as I more and more considered and compared things, I judged the tenets of most of the philosophers to have been much more probable. So then after the manner of the Academics (as they are supposed) doubting of every thing, and wavering between all, I settled so far, that the Manichees were to be abandoned; judging that, even while doubting, I might not continue in that sect, to which I already preferred some of the philosophers; to which philosophers notwithstanding, for that they were without the saving Name of Christ, I utterly refused to commit the cure of my sick soul. I determined therefore so long to be a Catechumen in the Catholic Church, to which I had been commended by my parents, till something certain should dawn upon me, whither I might steer my course.
Then I earnestly set my mind to see whether I could somehow convict the Manichees of falsehood by some certain proof. If I could once have conceived of a spiritual substance, all their strongholds would have been torn down and thrown completely out of my mind. But I could not. Still, I considered and compared more and more the structure of this world and the whole of nature that the bodily senses can reach. And I judged that most of the philosophers held views that were much more probable. So, in the manner of the Academics (as they are supposed to be), I doubted everything and wavered between all views. But I settled this much: the Manichees must be abandoned. I judged that even while doubting, I should not stay in a sect to which I already preferred some of the philosophers. Yet I utterly refused to entrust the cure of my sick soul to these philosophers, because they were without the saving name of Christ. So I decided to remain a Catechumen in the Catholic Church, which my parents had commended to me, until something certain should dawn on me by which I might steer my course.