In Barlaam martyrem

Homily 17. On the Martyr Barlaam. Formerly, the deaths of the saints were accompanied by lamentations and tears; Joseph wept bitterly for the dead Jacob, and the Jews mourned the death of Moses not a little; they also honored Samuel with many tears. But now we exult at the deaths of the holy ones. For the nature of sorrowful things has changed after the Cross. No longer do we attend the deaths of the saints with dirges, but we dance with inspired choruses at their tombs. For death is sleep for the righteous; rather, it is a departure to a better life. Hence, martyrs leap for joy even as they are slaughtered. For the desire for a more blessed life renders the pain of slaughter lifeless. The martyr does not see the dangers, but the crowns; he does not shudder at the blows, but counts the prizes; he does not look at the torturers scourging him below, but imagines the angels praising him from above; he does not consider the temporariness of the dangers, but the eternity of the rewards. Already among us they enjoy a bright pledge, being applauded with inspired praises from all, and drawing countless multitudes from their tombs. This is precisely what the noble Barlaam has accomplished today. For the war trumpet of the martyr has sounded, and has gathered the soldiers of piety, as you see. The athlete of Christ, now laid low, has been proclaimed, and has lifted the theater of the Church on high. And as the Lord of the faithful said, "He who believes in me, even if he dies, shall live"; the noble Barlaam has died, and he assembles festivals; he has been consumed by the tomb, and he summons to a feast. Now it is time for us to cry out, "Where is the wise man?

Where is the scribe? Where is the disputant of this world? A rustic is for us today the invincible teacher of piety, whom the tyrant dragged as an easily taken prey, but after the trial he knew him as an unconquerable soldier; whom he laughed at speaking disjointedly, but shuddered at his angelic boldness. For his manner did not barbarize with the instrument of his tongue, nor was his reason seen limping along with his syllables; but he was a second Paul, speaking with Paul: "Even if I am a layman in speech, yet not in knowledge." The torturing executioners grew numb, but the martyr was found more vigorous; the hands of those scraping him grew weak, but the reason of the one being scraped was not bent. The scourges loosened the harmonies of the sinews, but the tone of faith was tightened more precisely. His pierced sides were consumed, but the philosophy of his spirit flourished. The greater part of his flesh was dead, but he flourished as if the contests had not yet begun. For when the love of piety first takes hold of the soul, every form of warfare is laughable to it, and all who scrape it for the sake of the beloved delight it more than they strike it. The desire of the apostles bears witness for me, once making the scourges from the Jews pleasant to them. For they went, it is said, rejoicing from the face of the Sanhedrin, because they were deemed worthy to be dishonored for his name. Such also is the soldier hymned by us today: considering the punishments as gladness, thinking himself pelted with roses by the scourges; fleeing the torments of impiety as arrows, deeming the judge's wrath a shadow of smoke.

the savage battalions of spearmen laughing; dancing as if at crowns in the midst of dangers; rejoicing at blows as if at honors; leaping at more severe punishments as if at more splendid prizes; spitting out drawn swords; receiving the hands of executioners as if softer than wax; embracing the instrument of torture as if it were a means of salvation; delighting in prison cells as if in meadows; taking pleasure in the inventions of tortures as if in the variety of flowers; possessing a right hand more powerful than fire; which indeed was the last device brought against him by his enemies. For having kindled an altar for the libation of demons, they bring the martyr before it, and ordering him to hold his right hand, palm upward, over the altar, they used his hand as a bronze sacrificial vessel, wickedly placing burning frankincense upon it. For they hoped that, with the hand overpowered by the force of the fire, he would quickly, under compulsion, apply the frankincense to the altar. Alas for the manifold cunning of the impious! Since, they say, we did not bend his resolve with countless wounds, let us at least bend the hand of the contentious wrestler in the flame. Since we did not shake his soul with various devices, let us at least shake his right hand by applying fire.

But not even this hope did the wretches enjoy. For the flame gnawed through the hand, yet the hand remained, bearing the flame as if it were ash. It did not turn its back to the warring fire like a fugitive, but stood unswerving, excelling against the flame, and giving the martyr the words of the Prophet to speak: "Blessed is the Lord, my God, who trains my hands for battle and my fingers for war." For fire was entwined with the hand, and the fire was found to be the loser. A wrestling match was joined between the flame and the martyr's right hand, but the victory of the hand's wrestling was something new: the fire fell out through the middle of the hand, while the hand still stretched forth for the contest. O hand more contentious than fire! O hand that never learned to bend to fire! O fire that was taught to be defeated by a hand! Iron yields to the tyranny of fire, becoming soft; bronze gives way to the power of fire; even the hardness of stones is known to be overcome by it. But the force of fire, which subdues all things, did not bend the martyr's outstretched right hand, even while burning it. Fittingly, the martyr might have cried out to the Lord at this: "You have taken hold of my right hand, and in your counsel you have guided me, and with glory you have received me." What shall I call you, O noble soldier of Christ? Shall I call you a statue? I would greatly diminish your endurance. For fire softens a statue that receives it, but it did not persuade your right hand even to be seen moving. If I name you iron, I find even that image falling short of your manliness. For you alone persuaded the flame not to force the hand; you alone acquired a right hand that is an altar.

You alone with your burning right hand struck the faces of the demons, and then with a hand reduced to ash you melted their heads together; now with this same hand turned to ash you blind their armies, trampling them underfoot. But why do I diminish the champion with childish lispings? Let us therefore yield the hymn to him to more magnificent tongues; let us summon the more loud-voiced trumpets of the teachers for him. Rise up for me now, O illustrious painters of athletic achievements; magnify with your arts the truncated image of the general. Illuminate with the colors of your wisdom the crown-bearer, whom I have painted too dimly. Let me depart, defeated by your depiction of the martyr's exploits; I rejoice today, being vanquished in such a victory of your power. Let me see the hand's struggle against the fire painted more accurately by you; let me see the wrestler depicted more radiantly in your image. Let demons weep, even now struck by the martyr's exploits among you. Let the hand be shown again burning and victorious. Let Christ, the umpire of the contests, be inscribed on the panel; to whom is the glory unto the ages of ages. Amen.