Oratio consolatoria in Pulcheriam

Gregory, Bishop of Nyssa, Consolatory Oration to Pulcheria. I do not know how I shall use my speech; for I see the subject is twofold and grievous in each respect, so that it is not easy for the speech to proceed without tears, whatever I choose from both. The present cycle of the year, as was announced to us yesterday by the shepherd, contains the memory of the gloomy events that once befell the neighboring city through the earthquake. Who could recount these without tears? But this great and renowned city, set before all under the sun, has undergone another earthquake and has been robbed of no small ornament, having been suddenly bereft of the luminary that shone in it, added to the imperial good fortune, and for this reason it shares in the dejection of the emperors, grieving with them. What is said you who fill the assembly surely do not ignore, seeing both this very place in which we are gathered and the dejection in the place. I do not know, therefore, toward which earthquake I should turn my speech, toward the present or the one that happened long ago. Or is it well to stand against the excess of the affliction and to soothe the city's own pain, drugging it with some reasonings? For even if not all who share in the evil are present in the assembly, yet through those present the speech will perhaps be spread also to those not present. For even among physicians, those are wise who, by their art, stand against the excess of pains, while deferring the treatment of the less painful ones.

stumbling. As those skilled in such matters say, if two pains were to coincide in the same body at the same time, only the more intense one is perceived, the lesser being eclipsed by the predominance of the prevailing distress. And so I see it in the present case: for our fresh and personal grief is more powerful than those pains that afflict us through memory. For how could one not suffer at what has happened? Who is so impassive in soul? Who is so iron-hearted in character as to receive this event without pain? You surely know this young dove, nurtured in the royal nest, just now feathered in bright plumage, surpassing her age in graces—how she left the nest and is gone, how she flew away from our eyes, how envy suddenly snatched her from our hands. Whether one should call her a dove, or a newly-bloomed flower, which had not yet fully shone forth from its calyx, but part already gleamed and part was hoped to gleam, and yet in its smallness and imperfection it outshone; how it was suddenly extinguished in the calyx, and before coming to full bloom and spreading the whole flower open, it collapsed upon itself and became dust, which no one plucked or crowned, but nature labored in vain; whose good was in hopes, but envy, like a sword, struck sideways and cut off the hope. It was an outright earthquake, brothers, what happened, an earthquake no more gentle than any grievous catastrophe.

For it was not the beauty of soulless buildings that was destroyed, nor were blooming paintings or splendid spectacles of stones cast down to the earth, but the very edifice of nature, brilliant in beauty, outshining in graces, this earthquake suddenly fell upon and dissolved. I saw also the lofty shoot, the high-topped palm (I mean the royal power), which by royal virtues, as by some branches, stood above the whole inhabited world and encompassed everything; I saw it ruling over others, but bent by nature and leaning toward the loss of its flower. I saw also the noble vine branch that was entwined with the palm, which had brought forth this flower for us, and what pangs she underwent a second time in soul, not in body, when this shoot of hers was plucked away. Who passed by the suffering without groaning? Who did not lament the loss to life? Who did not shed tears over the affliction? Who did not mingle their own voices with the common chorus of lamentation? I saw an incredible sight, which would not be believed by those who receive wonders by hearing: I saw a sea of people, by the density of those gathered, like some water appearing to the eyes in every part. The church was full, the forecourt of the church was full, the receiving square, the narrow streets, the alleys, the middle, the sides, the open space on the rooftops; everything visible was a multitude of people, as if the whole inhabited world had run together to the same place for the suffering. And a spectacle lay before all: that sacred flower being carried on a golden bier. How downcast were the faces of all who looked upon it. How tearful were the eyes.

hands clapping against each other. Groans, in addition to these, revealing the heartfelt pain. It seemed to me at that hour (and perhaps to no one else present then either) that gold did not gleam with its natural grace. But even the radiance of the stones, the gold-woven fabrics, the shimmering of silver, and the light from the fire, abundant and profuse, extending along the sides on both sides through the continuity of the wax torches—all were darkened by the mourning, and all shared in the common dejection. Then the great David lent his own hymns to the dirges, and instead of the bright choral assembly, taking up the mournful and sorrowful, he summoned the laments with the songs, and with every pleasure of the soul banished at that time, the only pleasure for people was the tear. Since, then, reason was so overcome by passion, it would be timely to revive the weary mind through the counsel of reasonings, as far as possible. For there is no small danger in disregarding the Apostle’s voice in this matter and being condemned along with the hopeless. For he says, as we have just heard from the reader, that one must not grieve over the departed; for this passion belongs only to those who have no hope. But someone, I think, among the more faint-hearted might say that the divine Apostle commands impossible things and oversteps nature with his injunctions.

How is it possible for one who lives in nature to rise above passion and not be overcome by grief at such a sight, when death does not befall in old age at the proper time, but in the first age the bloom is extinguished by death, the radiance of the eyes is covered by the eyelids, the blush of the cheek turns to pallor, the mouth is silenced, the flower on the lip grows dark, and this seems grievous not only to those who gave birth but to everyone who beholds the suffering? What then do we say to this? We will not speak our own word, brothers, but will set forth the saying read to us from the Gospel. For you heard the Lord saying: Let the children come and do not hinder them from coming to me; for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these. Therefore, even if your child has departed from you, yet she has run away to the master. She closed her eye to you, but opened it to the eternal light. She left your table, but was added to the angelic one. The plant was uprooted from here, but was planted in paradise. She passed from one kingdom to another. She put off the flower of purple, but put on the garment of the kingdom above. Shall I tell you the material of the divine garment? It is not linen, nor wool, nor threads from silkworms. Listen to David, from where he says the garments are woven for God: You have put on confession and magnificence, wrapping yourself in light as a garment. Do you see what she exchanged for what? Does the beauty of the body, no longer visible, grieve you? For you do not see the true beauty of her soul.

beauty, with which she now rejoices in the assembly of the heavens. How beautiful is that eye which sees God. How sweet is the mouth which is adorned with divine hymns. For from the mouth of infants and sucklings, it is said, you fashioned praise. How beautiful are the hands which have never done evil. How lovely are the feet which have not trodden in vice, nor set their own footprint on the path of sinners. How beautiful is the whole countenance of that soul, not adorned with the gleam of jewels, but shining with simplicity and innocence. But perhaps it grieves you that she did not reach old age. Tell me, what good do you see in old age? Is it good for the eyes to be bleary, the cheek to be wrinkled, the teeth to fall from the mouth and cause a lisp in the tongue, the hand to tremble and stoop to the ground, the foot to limp and lean on guides, the heart to be confused and the voice to falter—such afflictions as necessarily accompany this age? And do we complain because she did not come to experience such things? Indeed, we ought to rejoice for those whose life has not admitted the experience of sorrowful things, and who have neither perceived anything grievous here nor will come to know anything gloomy there. For such a soul, having nothing for which to come to judgment, does not fear Gehenna, does not dread judgment, but remains fearless and undaunted, since no evil conscience brings the fear of judgment. But, it is said, she should have reached the measure of maturity and been adorned in the bridal chamber.

But the true bridegroom will say to you in reply that the heavenly bridal chamber is better, that chamber is more honorable, in which there is no fear of widowhood. Tell me, then, of what good things has she been deprived, having put off this fleshly life? Shall I recount for you the good things of life? Griefs and pleasures, passions and fears, hopes and desires. These and such things are what we are entangled with in the present life. What evil, then, has she suffered who has been freed from so many tyrants? For each passion, when it dominates the soul, becomes a tyrant over us, enslaving our reason. Or are we grieved that she was not worn down by labor pains, that she was not crushed by the cares of child-rearing, that she did not endure the same sufferings which her parents underwent for her? But such things are worthy of blessings, not lamentations. For to have come to no evil is better than is human nature. Thus also the wise Solomon in his own writing blesses the departed before the living, and the great David says that life in the flesh is worthy of lament and wailing. And yet both, being illustrious in their kingship, partaking of all the pleasures of life according to their authority, were not inclined toward present enjoyment, but having a desire for the unspeakable goods that lie before us in the incorporeal life, they considered life in the flesh a misfortune. I have often heard David in the sacred psalmody desiring to be outside such necessity, when he says at one time, "My soul longs and yearns for the courts of the Lord," and at another, "Bring my soul out of prison.

Likewise, Jeremiah judges that day which began such a life for him to be worthy of a curse. And many such voices of the ancient saints can be found in the divine scripture, who, through desire for the true life, were burdened by the sojourn in the flesh. Thus also the great Abraham once eagerly brought his beloved son as a sacrifice to God, knowing that the transition would be for the better and more divine for the child. And those of you who are experienced in the history surely are not ignorant of the narratives concerning him. For what does the scripture say? That when Abraham was young, a promise concerning the child came from God, but when he had passed his prime and was already withered by time, when nature ceases to increase itself and no longer yields to the impulses of old age, then, contrary to human hopes, the promise is brought to fulfillment, and the child Isaac is born. And after a proportionate time had elapsed, like a shoot that had grown into beauty and stature, he was sweet to his parents' eyes, shining with the beauty of youth. Then the trial and test of the soul is brought to Abraham, to see if he accurately discerns the better in the nature of things, if he does not look to the present life, and God says to him: Offer your son as a sacrifice for a whole burnt offering. You who are fathers and have children and have been taught by nature the affection for your children surely know how Abraham would likely have been disposed if he looked only to the present life, if he were a slave of nature, if the sweetness of life were reckoned in the present life.

What shall I say about her, leaving aside the woman, the weaker part of human nature? If she had not been instructed by her husband in the more divine matters, if she had not known that the hidden life is better than the visible one, she would not have permitted her husband to do such things against the child; for surely, stirred by her maternal bowels, she would have embraced the child and, entwining him in her arms, would have received the fatal blow before him. Would she not have spoken these words to Abraham? Spare the child, husband; let not an evil story of life arise; let us not become a myth for later time; do not begrudge your son his life; do not deprive him of the sweet ray of light. A bridal chamber for children is not a tomb prepared by fathers; a wedding crown is not a murderous sword; a marriage torch is not a funeral pyre. These things robbers and enemies do, not the hands of fathers upon their children. But if the evil must happen at all, let Sarah's eye not see Isaac dead. Behold, thrust the sword through both of us; begin with me, the wretched one. One blow will suffice for the two; let the mound be common for both; let one pillar lament the common calamity. Sarah would certainly have uttered these and similar things, if she had not seen with her eyes what is invisible to us. For she knew that the end of life in the flesh becomes the beginning of the more divine life for those who have departed. They leave behind shadows, they grasp truth; they abandon deceptions, errors, and tumults, and they find those goods which are beyond eye, ear, and heart.

neither will love distress him, nor foul desire pervert him, nor pride puff him up, nor any other passion that troubles the soul disturb him, but God becomes everything to him. Therefore he readily gives his child to God. And what of the great Job? When he was stripped of all his possessions at once, and before his soul could recover from the preceding blows, the final blow was announced to him—how did he receive the calamity concerning his children? He had three daughters and seven sons. He was blessed in his fine offspring; for though they were so many, they were all as one in their mutual affection, not each living separately for himself, but all visiting one another and passing their time in a circle of goodwill, delighting one another in turn and being delighted. And indeed at that time, as was customary, the banquet was at the eldest brother's house. The mixing bowls were full, the table was laden with food, cups were in hand, and there were, as one might expect, spectacles and entertainments and every kind of festive amusement: toasts, courtesies, games, smiles—everything that is fitting for a gathering of young people to enjoy at a hearth. What then happened in the midst of all this? At the height of their enjoyment of these most pleasant things, the roof collapsed upon them, and the banquet became the tomb of the ten children; the mixing bowl was mingled with the blood of the young men, and the food was befouled with the gore from their bodies.

When such a calamity was announced to Job (behold in my account the athlete, not that you may admire the victor alone—for the profit from admiration is small—but that you may emulate the man in like circumstances, and the athlete may become your trainer, anointing your soul for endurance and courage by his own example at the time of the wrestling with trials), what then did the man do? Did he do anything ignoble or faint-hearted, either in word or by gesture, such as tearing his cheek with his nails, plucking out the hair of his head, sprinkling dust, beating his breast with his hands, throwing himself on the ground, surrounding himself with mourners, or calling out the names of the departed and lamenting over their memory? None of these things. But while the messenger of the evils related the calamity concerning his children, he both heard it and immediately began to philosophize about the nature of existing things, saying whence things come into being and by whom they are brought into generation, and what it is fitting to preside over existing things: "The Lord gave, the Lord took away." From God, he says, comes generation to men, and to Him the dissolution; whence each thing has been brought forth, to that it is also resolved. God, therefore, who has the authority to give, the same also has the authority to take away; being good, he plans good things; being wise, he knows what is beneficial. As it seemed good to the Lord (and it seemed good surely), so he did: "May the name of the Lord be blessed." Do you see how great is the height of the athlete's magnanimity? He turned the time of distress into an examination of the philosophy concerning existing things.

For he knew precisely that true life is stored up in hope, and that the present life is, as it were, the seed of the future life. And the things hoped for differ greatly from the things present, as much as the ear of grain differs from the grain from which it springs. The present life corresponds to the grain, while the life we hope for is shown in the beauty of the ear of grain. For this perishable thing must be clothed with imperishability, and this mortal thing must be clothed with immortality. Looking to these things, Job rejoices with his children in their good fortune, as having been more quickly released from the bonds of life. And a proof is that, although God's promise offered double in return for everything that had been taken away, and in all other things the compensation was doubled, he did not seek a doubling of the children, but only ten were given in place of the ten that had been taken away. But because the souls of human beings endure forever, for this reason he receives double compensation for the things that are lost, while in the case of children, those born later are counted together with those born earlier, since all are alive in God, and the death of the moment does not prevent the departed from existing. For death in the case of human beings is nothing other than a purification from evil.

Since our nature was originally fashioned by the God of all as a kind of vessel capable of receiving goods, but the enemy of our souls, through deceit, poured evil into us so that the good found no place, for this reason, so that the implanted evil might not persist with us forever, by a superior providence the vessel is dissolved for a time by death, so that, once the evil has flowed out, the human being may be remolded and restored to the original life unmixed with evil. For this is the resurrection: the restoration of our nature to its original state. If, then, it is impossible for nature to be restored to the better without resurrection, and resurrection cannot occur without death having preceded, then death would be a good, becoming for us the beginning and path of the change to the better. Therefore, let us cast out, brothers, the grief concerning those who have fallen asleep, which only those who have no hope endure. And hope is Christ: to whom is the glory and the power unto the ages of ages. Amen.