Oration 43: Funeral Oration for Basil, Archbishop of Caesarea in Cappadocia #

St. Gregory the Theologian

It remained only that the Great Basil—who so often had furnished me with many subjects for discourse (for he rejoiced in my words more than any man rejoices in his own)—should now, at last, offer even himself as a subject for rhetorical struggle, and that a most exalted one, even for those well-versed in the art of speech. Indeed, I think that if someone, wishing to test his strength in oratory, sought to determine its measure and chose from all possible themes a single one—just as painters take ideal models for their craft—he would surely set this one aside as beyond the reach of words, and pick another of the lesser sort. So difficult is it to speak in praise of this man—not only for me, who long ago renounced all ambition for glory, but even for those who devote their lives to eloquence, who labor solely in it, and seek renown through subjects such as this! And I understand the matter thus, with full confidence in my judgment.

Nevertheless, I do not know whether I would ever offer words for any other cause, if I should not offer them now—nor whether I could please myself, or those who cherish virtue, or the very nature of speech itself, if I should choose any subject but the praise of this man. For on my part, it shall serve as a sufficient recompense of my debt, since he was perfect both in deed and in speech; and if we owe anything besides, it is through words that we must repay it. And to lovers of virtue, a discourse on virtue is both delight and incentive. For whatever I hear praised, in that I also see growth made manifest. And thus, there can be no common progress in any realm that lacks common praise. Finally, even the word itself does not go unrewarded in either case: if it draws near to the worthiness of the subject, it proves its own power; and if it falls far short—as it must when attempting to praise Basil—then the very failure becomes a testimony that the subject surpasses all human expression. These are the reasons that compelled me to speak and to enter upon this undertaking.

But let no one wonder that I approach this task late, after many have already praised Basil, both in private and in public. May his divine soul—always, as now, most honored by me—forgive me! Surely he, who while yet among us corrected many things in me by right of friendship and by the highest law (for I am not ashamed to say that he was, for all, a living law of virtue), will also be merciful to me now that he has passed above. And may you likewise pardon me—those among you who praise Basil with great ardor—if indeed one of you burns more fervently than another, and not all stand equal in zeal to honor him. For I did not delay out of negligence—God forbid that I should ever so disregard either duty or virtue or friendship—nor did I consider others more obligated than myself to speak of Basil. But I delayed, first (and I say this truly), so that, as is fitting for those who approach sacred things, my lips and thoughts might first be purified. Moreover, as you know—yet I remind you—I was heavily burdened during that time with concern for the true faith, which was in peril, and I endured a kind of blessed compulsion: I was exiled, perhaps by the will of God, and not against the will of that valiant champion of truth, who lived and breathed for nothing but the pious and saving doctrine meant for the whole world. As for bodily infirmities, perhaps it is not fitting for a manly soul even to mention them—he who had, even before his departure, set himself above the body, being assured that the blessings of the soul suffer no harm from these fetters. Such is my justification, and let it be enough—for I think it needless to say more when dealing with Basil and with those who know my situation well.

Now, I must begin the eulogy itself, dedicating the discourse to Basil’s own God, so that I may neither offend Basil with my praises nor fall far beneath the level of others—though, in truth, we all fall equally short of Basil, just as we do before heaven and the rays of the sun.

If I had seen that Basil took pride in his ancestry or in any trivial thing so often valued by those attached to earthly matters, then, in reciting what honors I might ascribe to his forebears, I would have produced a new roster of heroes and yielded nothing in splendor to the works of historians. Rather, I would have the advantage of boasting not in myths and fabrications, but in real events with many witnesses. For as to his paternal line, Pontus offers us many accounts not less wondrous than the ancient marvels for which that land is famed, and which fill the writings of historians and poets. And the noble Cappadocians—my own kinsmen—are not less renowned, whether in the breeding of noble youths or noble steeds, and could well match his mother’s lineage to his father’s. And which of these two houses, whether more often or more greatly, produced generals, statesmen, men of power at royal courts, wealth, high offices, civic honors, and dazzling oratory? If we wished to speak of such things, we would find the lineages of Pelops, Cecrops, Alcmaeon, Ajax, Heracles, and other famous ancients to be of little worth in comparison. Some, having nothing praiseworthy to say of their own deeds, turn instead to silent things—to gods and demons—and recite fables about their ancestors, where the most admirable parts are unbelievable, and the believable parts are disgraceful.

But since our subject is a man who believed that nobility is to be judged by personal virtue, and who held that we must form our character not by borrowing from others, but by our own efforts—just as we judge the beauty of a face, or the strength of a horse, by the thing itself and not by its pedigree—so, after a brief mention of one or two details concerning his ancestors and the life close to his own, which even he would gladly have heard, I now turn to the man himself.

Each generation, and each member within it, possesses some distinguishing trait, of which more or less noble tales are told—tales that begin in ages near or far and are passed down, like a paternal inheritance, to the descendants. So it was with Basil: the distinction of both his father’s and mother’s line was piety, as I shall now relate.

Persecution arose—and of all persecutions, the most dreadful and grievous. I speak of the persecution by Maximin, which you know well. He appeared after many other recent persecutors and made all of them seem gentle in comparison, so great was his impiety and such was his fierce determination to excel in wickedness. Many of our champions contended with him—some to the death, others nearly so, preserved only to outlive the conflict and inspire virtue in others by their example, becoming living martyrs, animated memorials, silent sermons. Among these, the ancestors of Basil on his father’s side were counted. And having run the full course of piety, this time crowned their struggle with glory.

Though their hearts were ready to endure all things with joy for which Christ crowns those who imitate His suffering on our behalf, they also knew that the struggle must be lawful. And the law of martyrdom is this: while sparing both the persecutors and the weak, one must not enter the contest of one’s own will, yet having entered, one must not retreat—for the first is presumption, the second cowardice. Therefore, to honor the Lawgiver even in this, what did they undertake? Or rather, where did Providence, governing all their actions, lead them? They fled to a forest in the mountains of Pontus—such forests are many there, vast and deep. They fled with only a few companions and servants.

Others may marvel at the length of their flight—which, as is said, lasted seven years or more—or at the hardship they endured: people once accustomed to comfort now suffering the extremes of heat, cold, and rain, cut off from friends, without human contact, tormented by solitude after once enjoying honor and admiration from the multitude. But I intend to say something greater still, more wondrous than this, which only those would disbelieve who have no regard for the sufferings and persecutions endured for Christ—either because they know little of them or understand them poorly.

These courageous ascetics, weary from time and their hardships, desired some small delight for refreshment. Yet they did not speak as the Israelites did, nor did they murmur like those suffering in the wilderness after fleeing from Egypt, who said it would have been better for them to remain in Egypt with its countless pots of meat and all the other abundance that the desert could not offer (Exodus 16:3), for, in their folly, they deemed bricks and clay of no account. On the contrary—how much more pious were they, and what faith they showed! For they said: “What is incredible in this—that the God of wonders, who richly fed the wandering and fugitive people in the wilderness, who rained down bread, sent quails, and provided food not merely for necessity but even for luxury; who divided the sea, stayed the sun, and halted the river’s flow (to which they added other deeds of God, for in such circumstances the soul eagerly recalls ancient stories and praises God for His many wonders)—what is incredible if this same God should now also feed us, the champions of piety, with sweet nourishment? There are many beasts who, having escaped the feasts of the wealthy (such as you once enjoyed), now hide in these mountains. There are many birds, fit for food, flying above us who hunger for them. Shall they not be captured—if only Thou willest it?” Thus they cried out to God—and behold, the prey appeared: food offering itself into their hands, a banquet prepared without labor. Suddenly deer were seen upon the hills! And what fine deer—so tall, so fat, so ready for sacrifice that one might suppose they were indignant that they had not been summoned sooner. Some beckoned the hunters; others followed them. But were they driven by anyone, chased or urged forward? No one. Were they fleeing from horses, hounds, barking, shouting, and all the usual snares of the hunt set by eager youths? No, they were held fast by prayer and the righteous plea.

Has anyone ever heard of such a hunt, either now or in times past? What a marvel! The hunters were themselves the masters of the game: all they had to do was desire, and they took what they pleased and sent away what was superfluous, back to the wild until another feast. Here were unexpected stewards of the meal, a glorious supper, grateful companions at table, already tasting the fulfillment of their hopes—in the present miracle! From this, they grew even more zealous for the ascetic struggle which had won them so great a reward.

Such is my account! Now you, my scoffing persecutor, go on and tell me your tales—of huntress goddesses, of Orions and Actaeons, of deer transformed in place of maidens—go on, if your vanity is satisfied even with that, and if your story might be received as something more than a fable. But the continuation of such myths is shameful indeed—for what good is such a substitution, if the goddess spares the maiden only to train her to kill strangers, returning cruelty for mercy?

The event I have recounted is only one among many, yet in my judgment, it alone is worth many others. I have not described it to add anything to the glory of Basil—for the sea needs no rivers, though many great ones flow into it. Likewise, he who is praised today needs no additions from others to his own praiseworthiness. Rather, I wished to show what examples stood before him from the very beginning, what patterns he observed, and how greatly he surpassed them. If for others it is a glory to borrow honor from their ancestors, for him it is a greater glory that, like a river flowing upstream, he added much to the renown of his parents.

The marriage of his parents was not so much a union of the flesh as a shared striving toward virtue. It was marked by many distinguishing traits: feeding the poor, welcoming strangers, cleansing the soul through abstinence, and dedicating part of their wealth to God—a practice which many followed even then, as they do now, when the custom has gained strength and is honored by the memory of ancient examples. That household had other noble qualities as well, sufficient to be known far and wide, even if Pontus and Cappadocia had been divided from one another. But it seems to me that the most important and renowned of all was their blessed offspring. That some should have many children, and good ones at that, we may find examples of in fable. But Basil’s parents have been confirmed to us by real experience: that they themselves were praiseworthy even without having such children, and that having them, they excelled all others even if they had not advanced so greatly in virtue—by their piety alone they surpassed all. If among children one or two are praiseworthy, that may be attributed to nature. But excellence in all is clearly a testament to the merit of the parents.

And this is shown by the most blessed number of their offspring—priests, virgins, and even those joined in marriage—yet in such a way that marriage did not hinder them from excelling in virtue equally with the others. Rather, they made it a choice only of condition, not of way of life.

Who does not know Basil’s father, Basil—a name held in honor by all? He fulfilled the hopes of his parents—not alone, I do not say, but as far as a man could fulfill them. For in virtue he surpassed all, and only in his son did he find a rival to his primacy. Who does not know Emmelia? Whether she was so named because she would become what her name signified, or whether she became it because of the name—she was indeed worthy of the name Emmelia (meaning harmony or grace), and she was to women what her husband was to men. And thus, if it was fitting that such a man as the one you praise should be granted to the world—as in former times God granted great men for the benefit of all—it was fitting that he should be born of such parents, and that they should be called the parents of no other son. So fittingly and beautifully did all things come together!

Now that we have rendered the first honors of our praise to Basil’s parents, obeying the divine law which commands us to honor our father and mother, we turn now to him himself. But first let me say one thing, which I believe everyone who knew him will agree is just: that anyone who would praise Basil must possess Basil’s own tongue. For just as he is the most worthy subject of praise, so only one with his power of speech could match the subject.

As for beauty, strength, and bodily stature—which many seem to admire—I will leave these to those who value such things. Not because Basil, even in youth, when reason had not yet fully conquered the flesh, yielded to anyone in those outward attributes so prized by the worldly and limited to the body—but because I do not wish to share the fate of novice wrestlers, who, having exhausted themselves in trivial and random struggles, are found too weak for the real contest that brings victory and the crown. My praise will focus only on that which, once said, I do not think will be considered idle or off the mark.

I hold—and I believe anyone of sound mind would agree—that the first of all blessings is education. And I do not mean only our noble form of education, which scorns rhetorical ornament and verbosity, pursuing instead salvation and the beauty of contemplation, but even external learning, which many Christians, through poor judgment, despise as deceitful, dangerous, and alienating from God. Yet we do not despise heaven, earth, air, and all they contain, simply because some have misunderstood them and offered divine worship to created things rather than to God. On the contrary, we make use of their benefits for life and delight, and we avoid what is harmful. We do not, like fools, set the creature against the Creator—but, as the divine Apostle says, we draw conclusions about the Creator from the creation, and take every thought captive in obedience to Christ (2 Corinthians 10:5).

Likewise, of fire, food, iron, and other things, we do not say that any of them is inherently good or evil—it depends on how they are used. Even among creeping things, there are some we mix into healing remedies. So too with the sciences: we have borrowed from them their inquiries and reasoning, but rejected what leads to demons, error, and ruin. We have drawn from them what is useful, even for piety itself—learning the better from the worse, and turning their weakness into strength for our doctrine. Therefore, we must not belittle learning, as some argue. Rather, we must deem foolish and ignorant those who hold such views, and who would wish all others to resemble themselves, so as to hide their own deficiency in a shared poverty and avoid exposure in their ignorance.

Having stated and affirmed this by common agreement, let us now begin our review of the life of Basil.

Basil’s early years, under the guidance of his illustrious father—who stood in Pontus as a universal instructor in virtue—were swaddled in discipline and formed into that better and purer creation which the divine David beautifully calls “the day,” in contrast to “the night” (Psalm 138:16). Under this guidance, the wondrous Basil was educated both in deed and word, which in him grew side by side and mutually supported one another. He did not boast of any Thessalian or mountainous cave as a school of virtue, nor of some haughty centaur as teacher of their heroes. He did not learn from him how to shoot hares, outrun goats, catch deer, win wrestling matches, or ride horses better than others—using the same being as both mount and instructor. Nor was he, as the fables go, suckled on the brains of deer and lions. On the contrary, he studied the elementary circle of sciences and trained himself in godliness; to speak briefly, from his very first lessons he was led toward future perfection.

For those who excel either in action, while neglecting speech, or in speech while neglecting action, are, I think, no better than one-eyed men—they suffer great loss when they themselves look out, and even greater shame when others look upon them. But the one who can excel in both, becoming equally skilled with both hands, such a person may be called perfect, and in this life can already taste the blessedness of the life to come. Thus it was to Basil’s great benefit that he had at home a living pattern of virtue, upon which to gaze and thus hasten to perfection. Just as we see young colts and calves galloping after their mothers from birth, so did he, with the zeal of a young stallion, pursue his father, never lagging behind in the lofty course of virtue. Or, if another comparison is allowed, just as a sketch hints at the beauty of the finished painting, so did Basil foreshadow his future virtue before the time of full maturity, tracing out in advance the features needed for a life of strictness.

When he had acquired sufficient learning at home—yet was not content to let any good escape him, nor to fall short of the diligent bee that gathers what is most useful from every flower—then he hastened to Caesarea to enroll in its schools. I speak of the famed Caesarea—our own city (for it also served as my own guide and teacher in the art of words)—a city which may be called the metropolis of learning, as it is also the metropolis of the cities under her jurisdiction. Whoever would deny her primacy in learning would rob her of her chief distinction. For other cities boast different kinds of adornments, whether ancient or new, so that there may be something to recount or behold. But Caesarea’s distinction is learning—as a label is to a weapon or a title to a tale.

Let those who taught Basil, and who delighted in his learning, testify to what followed. Let them declare what sort of student he was before his teachers, and what sort he was among his peers; how he equaled some and surpassed others in every form of knowledge; what fame he acquired in so short a time, both among common folk and among the leading citizens, showing a learning beyond his years and a steadfastness of character beyond his learning. He was already a rhetor among rhetors before he mounted the sophist’s chair, a philosopher among philosophers before hearing a single philosophical proposition, and—most importantly—a priest among Christians even before receiving the priesthood. In all things, all yielded to him. The rhetorical arts were for him an external matter, and he borrowed from them only what could benefit our pursuit of wisdom—for eloquence, too, is needed in order to clearly express what the mind conceives. A thought that does not express itself in words is a motion frozen in silence.

But his chief endeavor was philosophy—that is, the detachment from worldly things and dwelling with God, ascending from the things below to those above, and gaining through the fleeting and unstable what is eternal and immovable.

From Caesarea, Basil was led—by God Himself and by his noble thirst for knowledge—to Byzantium, the foremost city of the East. For it was then famed for its most accomplished sophists and philosophers, from whom, thanks to his sharp intellect and innate gifts, he gathered the very best in a short time. And from Byzantium, he proceeded to Athens—the dwelling-place of learning. To Athens, truly golden in my own experience, and a source of many blessings for me—for it was there, more perfectly, that I came to know this man, though he had not been entirely unknown to me before. While seeking knowledge, I found myself the beneficiary of what happened to Saul, who, while looking for his father’s donkeys, found a kingdom—so that the incidental proved more valuable than the thing he sought.

So far, our discourse has flowed smoothly—traveling a level, easy, and truly royal road of praise for Basil. But now I am uncertain where to direct it next, for the word encounters a turning point. Having brought the account up to this moment and touching now upon myself, I desire to add to what has been said something of our personal relationship: how and why our friendship began, how it took root, and how it was confirmed into unity—or rather, into a kind of spiritual kinship. Just as the eye is reluctant to turn away from a beautiful sight, and if forced to do so, quickly turns back again, so also the word lingers with pleasure on an engaging narrative. Yet I fear the difficulty of the task. Still, I shall try to carry it out with moderation. And if I am swept along somewhat by love, let it be pardoned as the most righteous of passions—one which, if resisted, would itself prove a loss for any intelligent soul.

Athens received us like a river sweeping along those separated from a common spring—that is, from a shared homeland—each drawn in different directions by love for learning, yet brought together again, as if by mutual agreement, though in truth by divine Providence. A little before, it had welcomed me; and then came Basil, awaited with broad and great expectations, for his name had already been on many lips before he arrived, and all were eager to see realized what had already won their affection in anticipation. It will not be amiss to add to this narrative a touch of sweetness—a brief anecdote, both to refresh the memory of those who know and to instruct those who do not.

In Athens, a great number of foolish young men—some of noble lineage and some already enjoying fame—were, like an unruly mob driven by youthful recklessness, madly devoted to their sophists. With what excitement do horse-racing enthusiasts gaze at the competitors on the track! They leap up, shout aloud, toss dust into the air, mimic the riders as if they themselves were driving the chariots, strike the air with imaginary whips, and busy themselves assigning horses, stables, and trainers—though all this is entirely beyond their power. And who are these enthusiasts? Often paupers and beggars who lack even enough to eat for a single day. Just so was the passion of Athenian youths for their teachers and for those who competed for their favor. They took pride in gathering large groups of followers, and their teachers enriched themselves through them. And what was most strange and pitiful: the cities, the roads, the harbors, the mountain tops, the plains, the wilderness—all of Attica and beyond—had already been divided among them beforehand. Even a large portion of the city’s inhabitants were counted as belonging to various academic factions.

Thus, whenever a newcomer arrived—whether by will or by force—and fell into the hands of those who laid claim to him, he was subject to a uniquely Attic custom, mingling seriousness with jest. The newcomer would be taken in by some earlier arrival—a friend, relative, fellow-countryman, or a distinguished student associated with one of the lucrative teachers—thereby earning him a place of honor. For these men considered it a reward simply to have gained someone’s allegiance.

Then the new student would be subjected to the jests of anyone who pleased. This, I believe, was done to temper the arrogance of newcomers and to seize control of them from the start. Some jests were sharp and mocking; others witty and subtle, depending on whether the newcomer was crude or cultured. To the uninformed, such treatment seemed harsh and merciless. But to those who knew beforehand, it was quite pleasant and indulgent, for what appeared fierce was mostly for show.

At last, the newcomer would be led in a festive procession through the marketplace to the bath. This was done with elaborate ceremony: the youths would arrange themselves in pairs and march at a distance in front of the guest, all the way to the bathhouse. When they reached it, they would raise a loud shout and begin to dance like madmen. The uproar signaled that they could proceed no further, for the bath would not receive him. At the same moment, they would burst open the doors, terrify the entrant with their noise, and finally allow him to enter. Then, welcoming him as an equal and full member of their brotherhood, they would greet him as he emerged—this sudden release from mockery and the end of the initiation rites being the most delightful part of the whole affair.

It was I who, with great esteem, personally welcomed the great Basil when he arrived, for I foresaw in him firmness of character and maturity of understanding. And I persuaded the other young men—who had not yet had the chance to know him—to treat him in like manner. Many already respected him based on what they had heard beforehand. And what followed from this? He alone, among the newcomers, almost entirely escaped the usual rite of initiation and was instead granted the highest honors—not as a new arrival. This was the beginning of our friendship; from this spark sprang the first flame of our bond. Thus were we struck with love for one another.

After this, another event occurred, one that ought not to be passed over in silence. I have noticed that Armenians are not simple or openhearted people, but rather secretive and inscrutable. So it happened at that time that a few, who were better acquainted with Basil—through family ties dating back to the companionship of their fathers and grandfathers who had studied together—approached him with outward friendliness (though in truth driven by envy, not goodwill), and began to pose questions more contentious than reasonable. Long aware of Basil’s talent and unable to bear the honor he was then receiving, they attempted from the start to bring him into subjection. For it was intolerable to them that, though they had long since donned the philosopher’s cloak and had grown accustomed to making a great display of words, they should be shown no superiority over a foreigner newly arrived.

But I, being devoted to Athens and somewhat naive—believing their outward manner and not suspecting their envy—when I saw them faltering and on the verge of retreat, grew jealous for the honor of Athens, and, lest its reputation should fall through them and soon be held in contempt, I reentered the discussion, encouraged the young men, and, lending weight to their cause by my participation (for even a small aid can turn the tide in such matters), brought, as it were, equal forces into the field. But as soon as I discerned the true purpose of the discussion—since it could no longer be concealed and revealed itself plainly—I made a sudden turn, reversed course, and aligned myself with Basil, rendering the victory uncertain. Basil perceived the whole matter instantly, for he was sharp-sighted beyond most men; and filled with zeal (to borrow the Homeric phrase), he stirred confusion among the ranks of these bold men by his eloquence, and did not cease to strike them with syllogisms until he had driven them to complete flight and won a decisive victory.

This second encounter did not kindle a mere spark but rather lit a bright and lofty torch of friendship between us. The others withdrew in disgrace, blaming themselves for their rashness but bitterly resenting me, treating me as a traitor, and accusing me of betrayal—not only of them but even of Athens itself, for, as they said, they had been overthrown in their first attempt and shamed by a single man, whom the mere fact of being a newcomer should have prevented from daring such a thing.

But such is the weakness of human nature! When we hope for more but obtain only what we had expected, we count it beneath our imagined desires. Basil too felt the sting of this weakness—he grew sorrowful and despondent in spirit. He could not approve of himself for coming to Athens, for he looked in vain for what he had hoped to find, and called the city a deceptive happiness. Such was his state of mind, and I did much to dispel his grief—now reasoning with him, now offering words of comfort—arguing (and rightly so) that a man’s character cannot be known at once, but only through time and close association, and that learning, too, must be judged not by a few minor encounters. By these means I brought him to a state of peace and, after mutual testing in friendship, bound him even closer to myself.

When, after some time, we had revealed to each other our desires and our shared pursuit—philosophy—then we became all things to one another: companions, table-fellows, kindred souls. With one aim, we grew ever stronger in our burning love for each other. For carnal love is tied to what is fleeting, and it too soon fades, like the flowers of spring. Just as a flame cannot continue once its fuel is consumed, so too that passion cannot last once the spark that kindled it withers. But love that is in God is both chaste and constant, for it is fixed upon what is unchanging, and it abides. The greater the beauty possessed by those who share such a love, the more firmly they bind each other and are bound to the same good. Such is the law of love, which is above us all!

I confess I am carried beyond time and measure—I know not how I come to speak such things, but I cannot restrain myself from the telling. For as soon as I pass something over, it seems to me more necessary and better than what I chose before. And if someone were to drag me away by force, it would be with me as with octopuses—whose limbs cling so tightly to the rocks that either part of the creature is torn away with the stone, or the stone is pulled up with the creature. So if anyone yields to me, I shall gain what I desire; if not, I shall draw it forth from myself.

In such a state of mutual affection, we pressed on together, like golden pillars (as Pindar says) propping up a house of virtue—our love and God aiding us in all things. O, can I recall it without tears? We were joined by equal hopes in the noblest pursuit—learning. But there was no envy between us; rather, rivalry made us all the more zealous. Each of us strove not to surpass the other but to yield the first place. For each of us regarded the other’s glory as his own. It seemed as though one soul dwelled in two bodies. Though it is not to be believed when men say that all things are in all, one might truly say of us that we were each in the other and each belonged to the other.

We had one work: virtue. One goal: to renounce this life and live for the hope of what is to come. We directed our whole lives and endeavors toward this purpose, guided by God’s commandments and encouraging one another to virtue. And if it is not too bold to say so, we were for each other both rule and standard—measuring what was straight and what was crooked. We made friendships too, but only with those who were chaste and peaceable, not with the impudent and contentious, for we knew well that it is easier to acquire vice than to transmit virtue—just as it is easier to catch a disease than to pass on good health.

As for our studies, we preferred not the most pleasing but the most perfect. For these, too, help young men either to grow in virtue or to fall into vice. We knew of two paths: one—the first and noblest—led to our sacred temples and to the teachers there. The other, lesser path led to instructors of external learning. The other roads—those leading to feasts, spectacles, assemblies, and pleasures—we left to those who desired them. For we did not even count worthy of attention anything that did not lead to virtue or make its devotee better. Others may take their titles—whether from fathers, or by profession, or from their trades—but for us, there was one great work and one great name: to be and to be called Christians. And in this we took greater pride than Gyges did in his magic ring (if that tale be not mere fable), which made him king of Lydia; or than Midas in his gold, which ruined him the moment his wish was granted—turning all he touched into gold (this too is another Phrygian fable).

What more shall I say? Shall I speak of the Hyperborean’s arrow or the Argive’s Pegasus? None of these lifted their riders so high into the air as we rose together—one through the help of the other—soaring toward God. Or to say it more briefly: though for others (and the pious say this with good reason) Athens is harmful to the soul, because it overflows with evil riches—idols more numerous there than in all Greece, so that it is hard not to be drawn in by those who praise and defend them—yet for us, there was no harm. Our hearts were tightly fenced and guarded. Rather (to say what is more common), it was in Athens that we grew firm in faith, for there we discovered the falsehood and deceit of idols, and there we learned to scorn demons, in the very place where they were admired.

If there truly exists—as some say, or as popular belief has it—a river that flows sweetly even through the sea, or a creature that leaps through consuming fire and is not burned, then we were like that among our peers. And best of all was this: the community around us was not ignoble, being guided and shaped by such a leader as Basil, and being drawn to the same things that drew him. Though following his flight and way of life was as difficult as running on foot after a Lydian chariot, still we followed.

Through this, we gained renown not only among our teachers and companions but throughout all of Greece, and especially among its most distinguished men. Reports of us even spread beyond Greece, as was evident from the many who spoke of it. For whoever knew Athens had heard of our teachers; and whoever had heard of our teachers, had heard of us. To all, we were known and spoken of as a notable pair; and compared to us, their Orestes and Pylades, their Molionides praised by Homer—famous for their shared misfortunes and skill at charioteering in perfect harmony—seemed insignificant. But now I am clearly drawn into praising myself, though I never sought praise from others. Yet it is no wonder if even in this regard I have inherited something from our friendship—if I drew from him lessons in virtue while he lived, why not also take, now that he has passed on, an occasion to speak honorably of myself?

Let my speech now return to its course. Who, before his hair turned grey, possessed such grey-haired wisdom? For even Solomon calls this the true mark of old age (Proverbs 4:9). Who—not only among our contemporaries but among those who lived long before us—was held in such esteem by both young and old? Who, because of the example of his life, had less need of words? And who, while being such an example, possessed greater eloquence?

What kind of knowledge did he not study? Better to ask: in what field did he not excel as though it were his sole pursuit? He studied everything as others do one subject, and he mastered each as if he had studied nothing else. In him, diligence and talent did not lag behind one another—they were perfectly united. Though his intense application hardly needed his natural quickness, and his quickness required little labor, he so thoroughly combined both that one cannot say whether it was diligence or natural genius that was more astonishing.

Who could compare with him in oratory—an oratory that breathed the strength of fire—though in his manners he was nothing like the professional rhetoricians? Who, like him, brought grammar and language into proper form, shaped history, mastered poetic meter, and laid down rules for verse? Who was so strong in philosophy—philosophy that was truly lofty and aimed at heavenly things, both practical and contemplative—and also in its branch of logic, with its arguments and counter-arguments, and its art of debate known as dialectic? For it was easier to escape a labyrinth than to disentangle oneself from the nets of his reasoning, when he chose to ensnare you.

In astronomy, geometry, and arithmetic, he studied just enough that no expert could confound him—yet he discarded all excess as useless for those striving to live a godly life. And here we can marvel more at what he chose than what he rejected—and more at what he rejected than what he accepted.

Medicine—the fruit of philosophy and labor—was made necessary for him both by his own bodily ailments and his care for the sick. Beginning with this concern for others, he advanced to such skill in the art that he mastered not only what is seen and physical, but what pertains to true science and wisdom.

Yet all of this, great as it is, amounts to little when compared to the moral instruction of Basil. Whoever has personally known him will not esteem Minos or Rhadamanthus, whom the Greeks honored with golden meadows and the fields of Elysium—a vision of Paradise they likely borrowed from Moses and our Scriptures, though their names differ. The essence, I think, is the same.

Such was his attainment in all things. He was like a ship so laden with knowledge that it carried all that human nature can bear—for beyond the Pillars of Hercules, there is no further sailing. But it was time for us to return home, to enter a more perfect life, and to begin realizing the hopes and callings we had long conceived.

The day of departure came—and as always on such days, there were parting speeches, farewells, entreaties to stay, weeping, embraces, tears. Nothing is more painful than for companions of Athens to part from Athens and from each other. Truly, it was a scene full of sorrow and worthy of description. A crowd of friends and fellow students surrounded us; even some of the teachers were there, insisting they would not let us go under any circumstances, pleading, persuading, even physically restraining us. And as is typical for the grieving, what did they not say or do?

Here I must blame myself a little—and, boldly, even that divine and blameless soul. For Basil, explaining the necessity of returning home, overcame all who tried to hold him back, and they—though unwillingly—consented to let him go. But I remained in Athens, partly because I was moved by their entreaties (to speak honestly), and partly because he, in a way, betrayed me—allowing himself to be persuaded to leave me behind, though I was unwilling to be parted, and yielding to those who detained him. This was a thing that seemed impossible until it happened. It was like splitting a single body in two and killing us both—or like separating yoke-mates raised together, who low plaintively for one another and cannot bear separation.

But my loss did not last long. I could not endure to remain a pitiful spectacle, explaining to all the reason for our parting. So I stayed in Athens only a little longer. Love made me like Homer’s horse: the cords of those restraining me were broken, I left the plains behind, and I raced to rejoin my companion.

When we returned home, we yielded something to the world and its expectations, fulfilling the desires of many—for we ourselves had no wish to live for public display or acclaim. Then, as quickly as possible, we took up our calling and passed from youth into manhood, bravely entering the life of philosophy. Though we were not yet outwardly united—for envy did not permit it—we were yet inwardly inseparable through mutual love.

Basil was kept for a time by the city of Caesarea, as though by a second parent and patron; later he undertook certain travels, necessary due to our separation and in keeping with his intended goal of philosophy. As for me, I was held back from Basil by reverence for my parents, care for those elderly ones, and various misfortunes that came upon us. Perhaps this was not good or just—but I was torn from Basil, and I wonder whether this is why all the hardships and struggles of my life later fell upon me—whether this is why my pursuit of philosophy proved so ineffective and fell short of my desire and intention. Still, let my life be ordered as God wills—and may it be bettered by the prayers of Basil.

As for Basil himself, the manifold love and providence of God for mankind, having tested him through many circumstances and revealing him more and more brilliantly, made him a radiant and glorious light for the Church. First, He numbered him among the sacred ranks of the priesthood, and from one city—Caesarea—He lit a flame for the whole world.

And how was this done? Not hastily. God raised him step by step—not washing and enlightening him at once, as now often happens with many who crave high office—but honoring him in order and according to the law of spiritual ascent. I do not praise disorder or unpreparedness (though, alas, we have examples of that even among Church leaders—I dare not accuse them all, for that would be unjust). But I do praise the rule of sailors: first to the oar, then to the stern; after many voyages and careful study of the winds, the seaman is placed at the helm. So too in the army: first a soldier, then a captain, finally a general. This is the best and most beneficial order for subordinates. And our own profession would be far more honorable if this same order were kept.

But now there is danger that the most sacred office may become the most ridiculed—for leadership in the Church is often acquired not by virtue, but by scheming, and thrones are not occupied by the worthiest, but by the strongest. Samuel was a seer, foreseeing what lay ahead (Isaiah 41:26); but so too was Saul, who was later rejected. Rehoboam, the son of Solomon, became king—but so did Jeroboam, a servant and apostate. No physician or painter begins without learning how to diagnose or mix colors or sketch properly—but Church leadership is conveniently “sought out”; without labor, without preparation, the man barely planted has already sprung up, like the giants of fable. In a single day we ordain saints, we expect wisdom from those who have learned nothing, and who possess nothing besides their ambition.

He who is worthy of high office prefers a low seat, and stands humbly, having subdued the flesh to the spirit by much study in God’s word and many laws. But the arrogant man becomes leader, lifts his brow against those better than himself, mounts the throne without fear, and is not ashamed to see the temperate beneath him. On the contrary, he thinks that having gained power, he has gained wisdom—so little does he know himself! Power has stripped him of the capacity to reason.

But not such was the all-embracing and great Basil. He is a model to many—not only in all other things, but also in his observance of order in this matter. This interpreter of the sacred Scriptures began by reading them to the people, and he did not consider this degree of service at the altar to be beneath him; then, he sat upon the throne of the elders, and finally, in the rank of bishop, he gave praise unto the Lord (Ps. 106:32)—not having seized, nor appropriated authority by force, nor pursued honor, but himself pursued by honor, having taken no advantage of human favor, but receiving grace from God and from God alone.

But let our discourse on presidency pause for a while; let us rather offer something concerning the lower degree of his service. Consider, for instance, this one matter—almost forgotten by me, yet occurring during the time we describe. There arose a disagreement between him and the one who governed the Church before Basil; how and from what cause, it is better to remain silent—suffice it to say that it occurred. Although the bishop was in all other respects not lacking in virtue, and even admirable for his piety, as was shown by the persecution and uprising against him at that time, yet in his judgment of Basil he was overtaken by human weakness. For disgrace touches not only common men, but even the most excellent; and it belongs to God alone to be utterly without stumbling and unmoved by passions. Thus, the most elect and wisest in the Church rose up against him—if, indeed, they are wiser than many who have renounced the world and dedicated their lives to God—I mean our Nazoreans, who are especially zealous in such matters. It was grievous to them that their authority was despised, having been insulted and rejected; and they dared a most dangerous thing—they resolved to secede and to rend themselves away from the great and tranquil body of the Church, taking with them not a small portion of the people, both high and low in station.

And this was all too easy to accomplish for three very powerful reasons. Basil was a man highly honored, and hardly any among our philosophers enjoyed such reverence; if he had so wished, he had the power to embolden his supporters. And the one who offended him was under suspicion by the city for the disorder which accompanied his elevation to the throne, since he had obtained the office of primate not so much lawfully and in accordance with the canons, as by force. Moreover, there appeared certain bishops from the West, who drew to themselves all the Orthodox within the Church.

What then does this virtuous disciple of the Peacemaker do? It was not for him to oppose either his offenders or his defenders; it was not for him to kindle strife and tear apart the body of the Church, which was already embroiled in struggle and imperiled by the prevailing dominance of heretics. Having taken counsel with me, his sincere adviser, he fled away with me and withdrew to Pontus, and there governed the monasteries, establishing in them something worthy of remembrance. He embraced the wilderness, along with Elijah and John, those great guardians of the love of wisdom, finding it more beneficial for himself to act thus than to conceive anything unworthy of wisdom amid the present conflict—and, having learned to govern his thoughts in peace, to cast them into turmoil in the midst of storm.

Yet although his retreat was so full of wisdom and wonder, his return we shall find even more sublime and admirable. It came about in the following manner. While we were in Pontus, there suddenly arose a stormcloud bearing hail, threatening destruction—it crushed every Church over which it broke and upon which extended the power of that gold-loving and Christ-hating emperor, possessed by these two grievous maladies: insatiable greed and blasphemy. A persecutor after the persecutor, and though not an apostate after the apostate, yet in no way better for the Christians—especially for those among the Christians who were more pious and pure, the worshipers of the Trinity—which alone I call true piety and saving doctrine. For we do not weigh the Godhead, nor do we make the one unapproachable Essence alien to Itself by introducing foreign persons into It; we do not cure one evil with another, nor do we destroy the impiety of Sabellian confusion by an even more impious division and rending apart, as did Arius—the man of frenzy, sharing even the name of madness—who shook and corrupted a great portion of the Church, neither honoring the Father nor giving due glory to Those Who proceed from the Father, by introducing unequal degrees of Godhead. Rather, we know one glory of the Father—the equality of honor of the Only-Begotten—and one glory of the Son—the equality of honor of the Spirit. Honoring and acknowledging the Three according to their personal properties, and the One in Godhead, we hold that to abase One of the Three is to overthrow all.

But this emperor, thinking nothing of such matters, unable to lift his gaze on high, and rather drawn down by his counselors ever lower and lower, dared to degrade even the divine nature to his own level. He became a cunning creature, dragging down lordship to slavery, and placing the uncreated and eternal Essence on par with creation. Such was his doctrine, and with such impiety he armed himself against us! For this must be considered nothing less than a barbarian invasion, in which not harbors, nor cities and houses, nor any other lesser thing built by human hands and quickly restored, were destroyed—but souls themselves were plundered. Along with the emperor there marched an army worthy of him: wicked leaders of the Churches, pitiless tetrarchs of the world he ruled. One portion of the Churches they had already seized, another they were attacking, and a third they hoped to acquire by the authority and hand of the emperor, which was either already lifted or at least threatening to strike. They came to overthrow even our Church, placing their greatest hope in the weakness of soul of those previously mentioned, as well as the inexperience of our then-leader and our own infirmities.

A great struggle lay before us. Among most of us there was valiant zeal, but our host was feeble—we had no champion or skilled combatant, mighty in word and spirit. And what of that brave soul, full of lofty thoughts and true love for Christ? Basil needed little persuasion to come forth and take our side. On the contrary, the moment he saw me pleading—both of us were destined for a common contest as defenders of right doctrine—he was moved by the entreaty. With beautiful and most philosophical discernment, guided by spiritual wisdom, he judged within himself that if ever there were a time to fall into faint-heartedness, it would be another time—a time of safety—but that in a time of necessity, it is the hour for greatness of soul. Thus, he at once departed with me from Pontus, caring for the truth that was in danger, becoming a voluntary defender, and offering himself for the service of the Mother Church.

But perhaps he showed such zeal, yet served in a manner unworthy of that zeal? Or perhaps he acted with courage but without prudence? Or even with discernment, but not encountering dangers? Or though all this were perfect in him and beyond description, were there yet traces of faint-heartedness? Not at all. Rather, all things at once: he reconciled, he gave counsel, he brought the host into order, he eliminated all the stumbling-blocks and hindrances which our adversaries had relied upon to wage war against us. Some things he accepted, others he restrained, yet others he repelled. For some he was a firm wall and bulwark, for others a hammer breaking the rock (Jer. 23:29), and fire among thorns (Ps. 117:12), as Divine Scripture says—easily consuming those like withered branches and the despisers of the Godhead. And if, together with Paul, Barnabas also labored—he who speaks and writes of these things—then let thanks be given to Paul as well, who chose him and made him a sharer in the struggle! Thus the enemies were put to shame and defeated for the first time; they learned that it is not without peril to scorn not only others, but also the Cappadocians—who are especially noted for steadfastness in the faith, and for loyalty and devotion to the Trinity, from Whom they derive unity and strength, and in defending Whom they themselves are defended—indeed, far more and more securely.

The second concern and labor of Basil was to render service to the Primate, to dispel suspicion, and to assure all people that the distress which had arisen was a temptation of the evil one—a strike from him who envies harmony in goodness—and that he himself understood well the laws of obedience and spiritual order. Therefore, he would come, advise with wisdom, obey, and counsel. To the Primate he became all things: a wise adviser, a faithful advocate, an interpreter of the word of God, a guide in affairs, a staff in old age, a pillar of the Faith, the most trustworthy in internal matters, the most diligent in external ones. In a word, he became regarded with as much goodwill as he had formerly been considered suspect. From that time forward, the governance of the Church passed, in fact, to Basil, though he held the second seat, for his benevolence was repaid with authority. And there was some wondrous harmony and union of rule—one governed the people, and the other, the governor. Basil became like a lion-tamer, subduing the one in power with his skill, for that one stood in need of guidance and support, being newly raised to the episcopal throne, still bearing traces of worldly habits and not yet confirmed in the spiritual life, while all around was great agitation and the Church was surrounded by enemies. Thus, he was glad of Basil’s collaboration, and under Basil’s leadership, he considered himself the true ruler.

Many other proofs there are of Basil’s care and diligence for the Church: his boldness before magistrates, both generally and before the most powerful in the city; his resolution of disputes—resolutions accepted not merely by trust but, once spoken by his lips, established by usage into law; his intercessions on behalf of the needy, mostly in spiritual matters, but at times in bodily ones too (for even such bodily kindness softens hearts and often heals souls); his feeding of the poor, his hospitality, his care for virgins, his written and unwritten rules for monastics, his ordinations of prayer, his adornment of the altar, and all else by which a man of God, truly working in accordance with God, may be of service to the people. Yet even greater and more glorious was the following deed.

There came a famine—the most severe in memory. The city languished. There was no help, no means to ease the suffering. Coastal regions bear such lack more easily, for they both produce and import by sea. But we, dwellers of the inland, even in abundance have no outlet, and in want, no means of relief; for we have nowhere to send what we have in surplus, and nowhere from which to bring what we lack. Yet even worse in such circumstances is the callousness and insatiable greed of those who possess abundance. They seize upon the time, make gain from scarcity, reap a harvest from misery. They heed not that “he that hath pity upon the poor lendeth unto the Lord” (Prov. 19:17), or that “he that withholdeth corn, the people shall curse him” (Prov. 11:26). They listen neither to promises made to the merciful nor to threats against the cruel. On the contrary, they are insatiable beyond all measure and think wrongly, shutting up their bowels against the poor and thus shutting God’s mercy against themselves—though they themselves have more need of that mercy than others have of their alms. Such are the buyers and sellers of wheat, who are not ashamed of their kinship to their fellow men, nor give thanks to God, from Whom they have abundance while others suffer want.

But it was not for Basil to call down bread from heaven by prayer and feed the people fleeing into the wilderness; not to draw forth unending food from vessels that (wonderfully) were filled by their own emptying, repaying hospitality with nourishment; not to feed thousands with five loaves, the miracle of which was doubly wondrous in the abundance of the leftovers. All these things befitted Moses, Elijah, and my God—Christ—by Whom such power was given to the former, and to Whom alone belongs all glory. Perhaps such miracles were also necessary only in those times and under those conditions, for signs are not for the faithful but for the unbelieving.

Yet what leads to the same end, and is akin to those wonders, did Basil both conceive and accomplish in equal faith. By word and exhortation, he opened the storehouses of the wealthy and fulfilled the word of Scripture: he “hath dispersed, he hath given to the poor” (Ps. 112:9); he “filled the hungry with bread” (Ps. 132:15); he “fed them in famine” (Ps. 33:19); and “satisfied the longing soul with good things” (Ps. 106:9). And how did he do this? For the manner greatly magnifies the deed. He gathered into one place the hungry, and even those barely breathing—men and women, children and the aged—all the miserable ranks. He sought every kind of food that might satisfy hunger, set up cauldrons filled with vegetables and salted provisions such as the poor among us eat. Then, imitating the ministry of Christ Himself, Who girded Himself with a towel and stooped to wash the feet of His disciples, Basil, with the help of his servants or attendants, ministered to their bodily needs—and to their souls as well—joining honor to nourishment and lightening their lot in both respects.

Such was our new Giver of Bread, our second Joseph! But of him we may even say more. For Joseph profited by the famine—by his kindness he purchased Egypt, having stored up in time of plenty and been taught this by the dreams of others. But Basil showed mercy freely, helped with no gain to himself, and in distributing bread looked only to this: to gain mercy through mercy, and by giving earthly bread (Luke 12:42), to be made worthy of the heavenly gifts. To this he added also the nourishment of the word—a complete act of charity and truly lofty, heavenly giving—for the word is the bread of angels, by which souls that hunger for God are fed and refreshed, seeking not perishable and fleeting food, but that which endures forever. And this man—so poor and needy in all else, so far as we know—was the richest provider of such food, healing not the famine of bread nor the thirst for water, but the hunger for the word of life (Amos 8:11), which, when it feeds well, leads one to spiritual maturity.

For these deeds and others like them (for is it needful to recount them all?), when the man whose name was shared with piety had already reposed and peacefully yielded up his soul in Basil’s arms, Basil was raised to the high episcopal throne. Yet not without difficulty—not without envy and opposition from those in power in his homeland, and from the most depraved among the citizenry allied with them. Still, the Holy Spirit must needs triumph, and truly He triumphed in surpassing measure. For from neighboring lands He stirred up men renowned for piety and zeal, and among them a new Abraham—our patriarch, my father—through whom something wondrous came to pass. Not only had his strength waned through many years, but being also afflicted with illness and drawing his last breath, he dared to undertake the journey to aid the election by his voice. And putting his hope in the Spirit (to speak briefly), he was laid upon a stretcher like one dead in a coffin, yet returned as a youth, full of vigor, gazing upward, strengthened by the hand, the anointing (and it is not much to say), and the head of the anointed one. And let this be added to the ancient tales: that labor grants health, zeal raises the dead, and old age anointed by the Spirit leaps for joy.

Thus, having been counted worthy of the primacy, as is proper for men who had become like him and received such grace, Basil brought honor to the office. In nothing afterward did he bring shame upon his wisdom or disappoint the hope of those who had entrusted him with this ministry. Rather, he continually surpassed even himself, just as he had already surpassed others, judging this matter with excellent and philosophical discernment. For to be merely not evil, or to be good in whatever measure, he considered to be the virtue of a private man. But in a leader and a primate—especially one with such a high office—even to be little better than the common people is already a fault. Unless he constantly proves himself to be better and better, unless he matches virtue to the dignity and height of his throne, he falls short. For he that stands high barely succeeds even halfway; and he that excels in virtue scarcely draws others to mediocrity. Or, to say it more loftily (and let me philosophize here), what I perceive (and I trust every wise man will perceive with me) in my Savior, when He walked among us—having taken upon Himself both that which is above us and our own nature—that same image I see here. Christ, as it is written, “increased in wisdom and stature, and in favor with God and man” (Luke 2:52)—not as if He grew in these things (what could be added to Him Who is perfect from the beginning?), but rather, these things were gradually made manifest and revealed in Him. So too did the virtue of Basil not gain in substance, I think, but in scope, finding in his new authority more ground on which to display itself.

First of all, he made it manifest to all that the office bestowed upon him was not granted by human favor, but was a gift of divine grace. And this was likewise shown by his conduct toward me. For in all wherein I had observed discretion in the matter, he too adhered to the same restraint. When others thought I would hasten to the new Bishop with joy (as perhaps another might have done), and rather share in his authority than be content with equal power—and they drew these conclusions based on the closeness of our friendship—then, avoiding arrogance (which I shun in all things no less than any other vice), and also avoiding any occasion for envy—especially while circumstances were not yet settled but still in turmoil—I remained at home, restraining by force my desire to see Basil. He, it is true, complained of this—but nonetheless, he excused it. And afterward, when I came to him but, for the same reason, refused the honor of mounting the episcopal throne or of receiving precedence among the presbyters, he not only refrained from rebuking me but also (and wisely so) praised my choice. He preferred to bear accusations of pride from those who did not comprehend such foresight, rather than do anything contrary to reason and its dictates. And how could he have more clearly proved that his soul stood above all flattery and human pleasing, and that his only aim was the law of goodness, than by thus thinking of me—whom he counted among his foremost and closest friends?

Then he softened and healed those who had risen up against him, with words full of high wisdom and healing power. And he accomplished this not with flattery or unworthy deeds, but with boldness befitting his rank, like one who looks not only to the present but cares for future obedience. Observing that gentleness of temper produces pliability and timidity, while harshness breeds stubbornness and obstinacy, he tempered the one by the other—mingling steadfastness with softness, and gentleness with firmness. Rarely did he need to resort to words; more often, the matter yielded itself to healing. He did not enslave by cunning, but won favor by his goodwill. He did not impose authority in advance but conquered authority by forbearance—and, most of all, by reason itself: for all yielded to his judgment, and acknowledged his virtue as something unattainable, and found in one thing alone their salvation—to be with him and under his leadership—and in one thing their peril—to stand against him; and separation from him they counted as estrangement from God. Thus, they submitted and obeyed willingly, as though bowed beneath a thunderclap. Each brought his apology, and in the same measure as he had once shown hostility, he now showed goodwill and progress in virtue, finding in that alone his strongest justification. Only one utterly corrupted and beyond healing would despise and reject this, destroying himself as rust consumes iron.

And when the affairs of the household were settled as he wished—and not as unbelievers, who did not know him, had expected—then he conceived in his mind something greater and more sublime. Other men cast their eyes only to their own feet, calculating how their own matters might be kept safe (if such may be called true safety); they go no further and are unable to devise or carry out anything lofty or bold. But he, though in all other things he practiced moderation, in this knew no moderation at all. Rather, lifting his head high and surveying all around with the eye of his soul, he encompassed the whole world—wherever the saving word had spread. Observing that the great inheritance of God, gained by His teachings, His laws, and His sufferings—the holy nation, the royal priesthood (1 Peter 2:9)—was brought into great distress, entangled in a thousand opinions and errors, and that the vine brought out of Egypt, transplanted from that godless and dark ignorance, had grown into beauty and vastness, so as to cover the whole earth, and stretch beyond mountains and cedars—this very vine was laid waste by the cunning and savage boar, the devil (Ps. 79:9–14)—seeing all this, Basil did not consider it sufficient merely to bewail the calamity in silence and to lift up his hands to God, seeking an end to the surrounding evils, while himself remaining at rest. Rather, he judged it his duty to contribute something himself and offer whatever help he could.

For what could be more grievous than such a calamity? And what more worthy of the care of one whose gaze is fixed above? When a single man does well or ill, it foretells nothing for the whole. But when the whole body fares well or ill, then each of its members must necessarily share in the same condition. This was the image that Basil, the guardian and defender of the common good, kept before his mind. And because, as Solomon judges in agreement with Truth itself, envy is the rottenness of the bones (Prov. 14:30), and the indifferent man is carefree while the compassionate one is sorrowful—unceasing care dries the heart—so Basil trembled, was grieved, pierced to the soul. At times he was as Jonah, at times as David—he was distressed in spirit (Jonah 4:8), gave neither sleep to his eyes nor slumber to his eyelids (Ps. 131:4), wore out his flesh with care until he could find a remedy for the evil. He sought help—divine or even human—so long as it could stop the widespread fire and scatter the darkness that surrounded us.

Thus, he devised one exceedingly saving remedy. As much as he could, withdrawing into himself and shutting himself in with the Spirit, he strained the full strength of human intellect, delved deep into all the mysteries of the Scriptures, and committed the teaching of piety to writing. He refuted the heretics, contended and disputed with them, repelled their boundless insolence—those who were near, he overthrew with the sharp weapon of his mouth; those far off, he struck with the arrows of his letters—no less worthy of reverence than the inscriptions on the tablets, for they established laws not for a single Jewish nation, small in number, nor concerning foods and drinks, nor sacrifices instituted for a time, nor bodily purifications, but for all nations, for all regions of the universe, concerning the word of truth by which salvation is gained.

Yet he had another remedy still. For just as a deed without a word, so also a word without action is equally imperfect, he joined to his words the power of deeds. Some he visited in person, others he sent for; still others he summoned to himself; he advised, reproved, forbade (2 Tim. 4:2), threatened, rebuked; he defended peoples, cities, and individuals, devised all forms of salvation, and was a healer to all. This Basil, the architect of the tabernacle of God (Ex. 31:1–2), employed every material and every skill; he wove all things together, so that harmony and order would produce a single Beauty. Is there need to speak of anything more?

Meanwhile, once again the Christ-fighting emperor returned to us—a persecutor of the Faith—and the greater the adversary he faced, the more grievous was his impiety and the more inflamed his army, more so even than before, imitating that unclean and deceitful spirit who, after leaving a man and wandering, returns to him with a greater number of spirits, to dwell in him, as the Gospel says (Luke 11:24–26). That spirit’s disciple this emperor became—seeking both to erase his former defeat and to add to his past cunning. It was a grievous and shameful thing to behold: that the ruler of many nations, he who had been exalted in glory and had subjugated all the regions around him to the dominion of impiety, he who had thrown down every barrier, should now be overcome by a single man and a single city, and become, as he himself noted, a laughingstock—not only to his fellow champions of godlessness but to all mankind.

They tell of the Persian king, how, when he marched into Greece with his army, bringing all sorts of people, boiling with rage and swelling with pride, he gloried not only in that but went so far in his threats as to command even the elements to fear him. There were tales of unnatural droughts and seas, of this new creator—of armies marching across the sea and sailing across dry land, of islands being stolen, of the sea itself whipped with scourges, and many other such things, which clearly testified to the madness of both general and soldiers. These things struck terror into the fainthearted, though they stirred laughter in those of firmer mind and spirit. Our assailant had no need of such theatrics, yet, according to reports, he said and did things even worse and more ruinous. “He set his mouth against the heavens, and his tongue walked through the earth” (Ps. 72:9). Thus did the divine David long before us expose to shame this one—who brought down heaven to earth and numbered the eternal Essence among creatures, though that Essence cannot be contained even by creation itself, though for our sake It dwelt among us for a time, out of love for mankind, to raise up us who were fallen to the dust.

And though the emperor’s first displays of daring were dazzling, more dazzling still were his final exploits against us. What do I mean by his first displays? Exiles and flights, confiscations of property, open and secret accusations, enticements when there was time, coercion when persuasion failed; the expulsion of confessors of the true and our doctrine from the churches, and the insertion of imperial partisans—those who demanded written confessions of impiety and composed writings even more terrible; the burning of presbyters at sea; ungodly generals who did not defeat Persians or subdue Scythians or chase some barbarian tribe, but made war on Churches, mocked holy altars, stained bloodless sacrifices with human blood, and violated the modesty of virgins. And for what end was all this? That the patriarch Jacob might be cast out, and Esau set in his place—he who was hated before he was born (Mal. 1:2). Such were the tales of his first exploits—tales which, even today, when recalled or retold, bring tears to the eyes of many.

But when the emperor, having passed through other lands, turned with intent to subjugate this unshakable and invincible Mother of Churches—this last remaining living spark of truth—then for the first time he perceived the failure of his designs. For he was repelled, like an arrow striking a rock and glancing back, like a branch broken off and cast aside. Such a hierarch of the Church he encountered! And upon such a rock did he dash himself—and was broken! Those who suffered the calamities of that time can tell of other things as well (and there is no one who does not tell of them); but whoever knows the struggles of that time, the assaults, the promises, the threats, knows also that Basil was approached with the intent to persuade him—sometimes by those acting as judges, sometimes by military men, sometimes by the emperor’s women-attendants—those men among women, and women among men, manly only in impiety, who, though by nature unfit for sensual vice, yet committed fornication with their tongues, which was their only instrument. Finally came that arch-magician, Nebuzaradan himself, who threatened Basil with the tools of his craft—and went off into the fire, which for him was already a familiar place.

But I, as briefly as possible, shall convey what seems to me most wondrous and of which I cannot keep silence, even if I wished. Who does not know the then-governor of the province, who directed his boldness especially against us (for he had either been baptized by them or ruined among them), and who, beyond all measure, sought to please the Sovereign, retaining power for long through his sycophancy in all things?

It was to this governor—who gnashed his teeth at the Church, assumed a leonine visage, roared like a lion, and was inaccessible to many—that the valiant Basil was introduced, or rather, entered of his own accord, as one summoned to a feast and not to judgment. How can I fittingly recount either the governor’s audacity or Basil’s wise resistance?

“Why,” said the former—addressing Basil by name, for he did not deign to call him ‘bishop’—“do you persist in bold defiance of such power, remaining alone among all in your stubbornness?”

The valiant man replied, “In what, and wherein lies my arrogance? I cannot understand this.”

“In this,” said the first, “that you do not share the King’s faith, whereas all others have submitted and yielded.”

“My King requires no such thing,” answered Basil. “I cannot worship the creature, being myself a creature of God and commanded to become a god.”

“And what are we, in your view?” asked the governor. “Do we count for nothing, we who command this? Why is it of no consequence to you to join us and enter into communion with us?”

“You are rulers,” replied Basil, “and I do not deny that you are notable rulers—yet you are not greater than God. It is of consequence to me to be in communion with you (why not? You too are God’s creatures), but not more so than with any of your subordinates, for Christianity is defined not by the dignity of persons but by the faith.”

At this the governor was shaken, inflamed with greater wrath, and rising from his seat, spoke more harshly to Basil than before:

“What then—do you not fear my authority?”

“No,” said Basil, “not for anything that may come, or any suffering I may endure.”

“Not even if you suffer one of the many things in my power?”

“What then?” said Basil. “Explain it to me.”

“Confiscation of property, exile, torture, death.”

“Threaten something else, if you have it,” said Basil, “for none of this affects us. Confiscation? He owns nothing who possesses nothing—unless you mean this hair-shirt and a few books, which are my entire wealth. Exile? I know not the meaning of it, for I am bound to no place; this place I now dwell in is not mine, and any place you send me shall be mine. Better to say: all the earth is God’s, and wherever I am, I shall be His sojourner and stranger (Psalm 38:13). Torture? What can you take from me when I have no body, unless you mean the first blow, in which alone you have power? As for death—it is a benefit to me, for it will the sooner bring me to God, for whom I live and labor, to whom I have already mostly died, and to whom I hasten longingly.”

The governor, astonished at these words, said that no one had ever spoken to him thus, and named himself as he said it.

“Perhaps,” answered Basil, “you have never met a bishop. Otherwise, if the matter were the same, you would assuredly have heard similar words. For in all else, O governor, we are humble and lowlier than all men—such is the commandment given us. We do not lift our brows even before power like yours—indeed, not even before any man. But when it is a question of God, and when men rise against Him with boldness, then we look to God alone, and we despise all else. Fire, sword, wild beasts, rending claws—these for us are delights rather than terrors. Therefore revile, threaten, do whatever you please, use your authority to the full. Let even the king hear of it—that you shall not subdue us nor make us join in ungodliness, no matter what horrors you may threaten.”

When Basil had said this, and the governor, having listened, understood how unshakable and invincible was his steadfastness, he then ceased from his former threats and with some measure of respect and gentleness ordered him to depart. And he himself, hastening with all speed, came before the emperor and said: “We are vanquished, O King, by the overseer of this Church. This man is beyond threats, unmoved by arguments, unyielding to persuasion. Others, not so stout-hearted, must be tested; but him, unless you overpower him by open force, there is no hope that he will yield to intimidation.”

After this, the emperor, blaming himself and overcome by the praises of Basil (even the adversary marveled at the virtue of his opponent), ordered that no violence be done to him. And just as iron softens in fire but remains iron, so the emperor, having changed his threats into admiration, yet did not accept communion with Basil—ashamed to show himself altered—but sought a more dignified excuse. And this, too, the account shall relate.

For on the day of Theophany, with a great assembly gathered, the emperor entered the church with his retinue and joined the people, thereby showing outward signs of unity. But this, too, must not go unmentioned. When he entered the church and his ears were struck like thunder by the psalm-singing, when he beheld the sea of people and the splendor within the altar—not so much human as angelic—and at the front stood Basil, upright as Scripture describes Samuel (1 Samuel 7:10), unbending in body, gaze, or thought (as if nothing new had occurred in the church), fixed (so I shall say) upon God and upon the altar; and when those surrounding him stood in fear and reverence—then, I say, the emperor, finding no image to compare with what he saw, weakened as a man, and his eyes and soul were darkened and dazed with awe.

Yet this was not plainly visible to many. But when the emperor was to bring to the divine table the gifts he had prepared with his own hands, and—according to custom—no one touched them (not knowing whether Basil would receive them), then his weakness was revealed. He wavered on his feet, and had not one of the altar servants stretched forth a hand to support him, he would have fallen—a fall worthy of tears.

As to what Basil then said to the emperor, and with what wisdom he spoke (for on another occasion, the emperor, while in our church, passed beyond the veil and, as he had long desired, held audience and converse with Basil), what else need be said, except that those who stood by the emperor and we who entered with them heard divine words?

Such was the beginning and such the first experience of royal condescension toward us. By that meeting, like a flood being stayed, most of the wrongs inflicted upon us until then were brought to a halt.

But here is another incident, no less significant than those already recounted. The wicked had prevailed; exile was decreed for Basil, and nothing hindered the execution of the sentence. Night had fallen, a carriage was prepared, his enemies exulted, the devout were cast down in spirit, and we surrounded the traveler, who was willingly preparing for departure. Everything else necessary for this noble humiliation had also been arranged. And what then? God shatters the decree. He who smote the firstborn of Egypt, hardened against Israel, now strikes down the son of the king with illness. And how swiftly it happened! Here was the writing of exile, and there—at that very moment—a decree of sickness; and the hand of the malicious scribe was arrested. The holy man was saved, and a fever—gift of divine grace—came upon the king’s son, bringing correction to the bold sovereign. What could be more just or more immediate than this?

The consequences were as follows. The royal son languished and suffered in body; his father, too, suffered with him. And what did the father do? He sought help from all quarters, summoned the best physicians, offered prayers with a fervor he had never before shown, and cast himself upon the ground—suffering has the power to humble even kings. Nor is this strange; for it is written that David, too, grieved over his son (2 Samuel 12:16).

Yet, as no remedy could be found, the king turned at last to the faith of Basil. But, ashamed of his recent insult, he did not approach the man himself, but commissioned those closest and most loyal to him to make the request. Basil came without protest, without mention of the past, as another man might have done. At his coming, the illness was alleviated, and the father gave himself over to hopeful expectation. And had he not mingled sweetness with bitterness—had he, after summoning Basil, ceased to place trust in the unorthodox—then perhaps his son, restored to health, might have been saved by his father’s hands, as all those present and sharing in the sorrow were persuaded.

It is said that soon thereafter the same fate befell the provincial governor. Illness overtook him as well, bringing him under the hand of the Saint. For the prudent, punishment becomes a true lesson; for them, suffering is often more beneficial than prosperity. The governor grieved, wept, lamented, sent messengers to Basil, begged him, called out: “You are satisfied—now grant me salvation!” And he received what he had asked, as he himself confessed and assured many who knew nothing of it, for he never ceased marveling at Basil’s deeds and telling of them.

Such were the actions of Basil with these men, and thus they came to their end. But did Basil act differently with others? Did he ever engage in petty quarrels over trifles? Did he ever show less wisdom, such that it would be more fitting to pass over it in silence or speak of it without praise? No. But He who once raised up Hadad as a scourge upon Israel (1 Kings 11:14), raised against Basil the governor of Pontus—outwardly enraged over a woman, but in truth an enemy of piety and a defender of impiety. I pass over how many insults he heaped upon this man—and thereby upon God Himself, against whom, and for whom, the battle was waged. I recount only that which most shamed the offender and exalted the champion—if indeed it is great and noble to be wise, and to overcome many by wisdom.

A certain woman, noble through her husband who had recently died, was pursued by a colleague of this judge, who sought to force her into marriage against her will. Unable to escape his advances, she resolved—more prudently than boldly—to flee to the sacred altar, choosing God as her protector against her assailant. And if I may speak before the very Trinity (I borrow this legal phrase amid praises), what ought to have been done, not only by the great Basil, who in such matters was a lawgiver for all, but even by any other, far lesser than Basil—any priest? Ought he not to have intervened, to have received the one who fled for refuge, to have cared for her, and stretched forth a helping hand, in accordance with divine compassion and the law which honors the altar? Ought he not to have chosen rather to do and suffer anything than to permit any violence against her, thereby profaning the sacred altar and mocking the faith with which the afflicted woman supplicated?

But no—the new judge declared that she ought to have submitted to his authority, and that Christians should betray their own laws. One man demanded the petitioner; the other resisted by every means. The former became enraged and at last sent officers to search the Saint’s chamber—not that he found it necessary, but rather to disgrace him. What say you? To search the dwelling of one without passions, guarded by angels—one whom women dare not even look upon! He not only ordered the search of his home but also commanded that Basil himself be brought before him and interrogated—not gently and with kindness, but as one already condemned.

One arrived; the other stood, filled with anger and pride. One stood as my Jesus stood before Pilate, while the thunders tarried; the weapon of God was already sharpened, but held back, the bow drawn, but restrained (Psalm 7:13), granting time for repentance—such is God’s law!

Behold the renewed struggle between the champion and the persecutor! The one ordered Basil to remove his outer garment. The other replied, “If you wish, I shall cast off my tunic before you as well.” The one threatened flogging to the fleshless man; the other bowed his head. The one menaced with claws; the other said, “By thus rending me, you will heal my liver, which, as you see, greatly troubles me.”

Thus they contended. But when the city learned of the outrage and the threat that concerned all (for each saw this affront as a danger to himself), the whole populace was thrown into tumult and inflamed. Like a swarm of bees disturbed by smoke, all classes and ages were stirred to frenzy—especially the armorers and the royal weavers, who in such situations, due to the freedom they enjoy, are most readily provoked and act most boldly. Everything at hand became a weapon—whatever tools were used in their trade, whatever was nearest. Some held torches, others lifted stones, others raised clubs; all shared one aim, one cry, one intent. Wrath was a dreadful warrior and commander. In this fury even the women were not unarmed—their weaving beaters served as spears—and inspired by zeal, they ceased to be women. Boldness transformed them into men.

In short, they believed that by tearing the governor to pieces, they would divide among themselves the cause of piety. And the more pious among them was he who first laid hands upon the one who had dared such insolence against Basil.

And what of the severe and arrogant judge? He became wretched, miserable, the humblest of supplicants. But the bloodless martyr appeared, the crowned one without wounds, and by sheer force held back the people—tamed by reverence—and saved both his persecutor and petitioner. Thus did God fashion His saints, He who made all things and transforms them (Amos 5:8) to better ends—God who resisteth the proud but giveth grace unto the humble (Proverbs 3:34). And He who divided the sea, who cleft the river, who altered the laws of the elements, who by the raising of hands established monuments of victory to save His fleeing people—what would He not do to deliver Basil from peril?

From that time forth, the strife from the world ceased and came to a just end from God, worthy of Basil’s faith. But from that same time began another kind of warfare—this time from bishops and their supporters; and in it there was much disgrace and, still worse, much harm to the flock. For who shall persuade others to moderation, when such are their leaders?

They had long borne ill-will toward Basil for three reasons. First, they were not of one mind with him concerning the Faith—or if they agreed, it was only out of necessity, compelled by the multitude. Second, they had not entirely renounced the base practices they had employed during ordinations. And third, the fact that Basil so far outshone them in reputation was most grievous to them, though the hardest thing of all was to confess it.

Another quarrel arose, renewing the former one. When our native land was divided into two provinces and two cities were made its capitals, with much transferred from the old to the new, then confusion arose also among the bishops. One of them believed that with the civil division the ecclesiastical jurisdiction also should be divided, and so he claimed for himself what had newly been added to his city, as if it now belonged to him and had been taken from another. But the other maintained the ancient order and the division that had come down from the fathers. Because of this, many troubles had already occurred, and more were soon to follow.

The new metropolitan withdrew from councils and synods, seized revenues, and the presbyters of the churches—some sided with him, others were replaced. The state of the churches steadily worsened under the weight of discord and division, for men are ever eager for innovations, finding in them some personal advantage. And it is always easier to break a rule than to restore what has been broken. Most of all, the new metropolitan was provoked by the Tauric mountain passes and routes, which lay in his sight but belonged to Basil. He also greatly coveted the revenues from Saint Orestes, and once even seized Basil’s own mules while the Saint was traveling—his way barred by a band of lawless men.

And what a noble pretense! Spiritual children, the salvation of souls, the cause of the Faith—these were all used as coverings for insatiable greed (the easiest thing in the world!). Added to this was the convenient axiom: that one ought not to pay tribute to the unorthodox (and whoever offends you, he is unorthodox).

But the Saint, truly God’s own, a Metropolitan of the heavenly Jerusalem, did not fall along with the rest, nor did he allow this matter to pass unnoticed. Nor did he devise some weak remedy to end the evil. Let us see how great, how marvelous it was—and what more can be said? It was worthy only of his soul. He turned the very strife into an occasion for the growth of the Church, and gave the best possible outcome to what had occurred, by increasing the number of bishops in the homeland. And what came of this? Three chief benefits: greater care for souls, rights given to each city, and thereby the feud brought to an end.

To me this idea was terrifying. I feared lest I myself should become an appendage—or I know not what more fitting term to use. I marvel at everything in Basil, and cannot even express how great is my wonder. But (I confess my weakness, which is not unknown to many already) I cannot praise only this particular innovation concerning me and this astonishing act—for time itself has not erased my sorrow over it. For from it came all the troubles and confusions of my life. Because of it, I could neither be nor be regarded as wise—though in the latter there is little true importance. Perhaps someone may excuse this man by saying that he thought beyond what is human; that before he departed from this life, he already lived entirely according to the Spirit; that, though he honored friendship, he withheld it only where God was to be preferred, and the eternal given precedence over the perishable.

I fear that, in trying to avoid reproach from those who demand an account of all Basil’s deeds, I may incur censure from others who praise moderation. For Basil himself did not disdain moderation. Indeed, he especially commended the maxim that moderation in all things is perfection, and he practiced it throughout his life. Yet, ignoring both extremes—those who prefer excessive brevity and those who indulge in excessive length—I shall continue the account.

Each man excels in some particular virtue, and some in more than one among the many kinds of excellence. But in all things, no one has attained perfection—certainly none among those known to us. On the contrary, we deem the man most perfect who has excelled in many things or in one above all. But Basil is so perfect in all things that he appears as though nature’s model of excellence.

Let us examine this more closely.

Does someone praise non-acquisitiveness, a life of poverty, free from excess? Then what did Basil ever possess besides his body and the bare coverings necessary for it? His wealth was to own nothing, and to live with nothing but the Cross—which to him was more precious than countless possessions. It is impossible to acquire everything, even if one wished; but it is necessary to learn to despise all things—and thus seem greater than them all. So Basil reasoned, and so he lived. He desired neither altars, nor vain glory, nor popular acclaim, such as: Crates grants freedom to the Theban Crates. He sought to be perfect, not merely to seem so. He did not dwell in a barrel, nor in a marketplace where he could enjoy all pleasures, turning want into a new kind of abundance. Rather, without ostentation, he was poor and without possessions, and delighting to cast overboard all that he had, he easily crossed the sea of life.

Worthy of admiration are self-restraint and contentment with little; it is praiseworthy not to surrender to the tyranny of pleasure or to bow in servitude to that burdensome and base master—the belly. And who, to such a degree, seemed almost one who tasted not of food and, one may say, lived as though bodiless? Gluttony and overindulgence he rejected entirely, leaving them to those who resemble the beasts and live a life that is slavish and groveling. For himself, he found no greatness in anything that, once it has passed the throat, holds equal worth with the rest. But so long as he lived, he sustained life by what was strictly necessary, and acknowledged but one form of luxury: not even the appearance of luxury, but rather the example of the lilies and the birds, whose beauty is uncontrived and whose nourishment is ever at hand—looking upon them according to the high teaching of my Christ (Matthew 6:26–28), who became poor for our sakes, that we, through His poverty, might be made rich with the divine.

It was for this reason that Basil possessed but a single tunic, a single worn outer garment; his bed was the bare ground, his wakefulness unbroken, his lack of bathing part of his adornment. His most delightful supper and meal were bread and salt—a new kind of seasoning—and his drink, both sober and unfailing, was the water brought forth even to those who do not toil, from the springs. And in this, or while continuing in it, he lightened and healed his ailments according to a principle of philosophy we shared: for I, though lacking in other things, was obliged to match him in a life of hardship.

Great is chastity, the unmarried life, the fellowship with the angels—those solitary beings—and I hesitate not to say: fellowship with Christ Himself, who, though He deigned to be born for us who were already born, was born of a Virgin, thereby giving sanction to purity. That same purity was meant to raise us from this world, to limit its dominion—or rather, to translate us from one world to another, from this present to the world to come. But who honored purity more than Basil? Who more effectively prescribed laws for the body—not only by personal example, but also by the works of his labor?

Who established the abodes of virgins? Who composed the written rules by which he taught chastity to every sense, brought each member of the body into order, and persuaded all to preserve true purity—turning inner beauty from the visible to the invisible, mortifying the outer, removing the fuel of passion, and revealing to God the hidden self—the only Bridegroom of pure souls, who welcomes them to Himself if they go out to meet Him with brightly burning lamps and an abundant supply of oil?

There were many disputes and disagreements concerning the solitary and the communal forms of ascetic life. Without doubt, both have their merits and their dangers, each with its admixture of good and evil. The former—though more silent, orderly, and apt for drawing the soul into contemplation of God—is, by being untried and unmeasured, often not without arrogance. The latter—though more active and beneficial—is not free from disturbances. Basil combined both ways in the most excellent fashion. He built sketes and monasteries not far from the communities and centers of life, did not wall them off as by some separation, nor divide them, but brought them together and placed them in close relation, so that philosophy might not become uncommunicative, nor action bereft of contemplation; but rather, as sea and land exchange their gifts, so these might work together for the one glory of God.

What else? Lovely is philanthropy, the feeding of the poor, the relief of human weakness. Go a little distance from the city and behold the new city—this storehouse of piety, this common treasury for the surplus goods of the wealthy. Into it, at Basil’s urging, not only the abundance of wealth was deposited, but even people’s last possessions; and here no one keeps anything for himself, nor is there joy for thieves, but security from envy and from the decay of time. Here illness learns philosophy, misfortune is sweetened, and compassion is tested.

Compared to this institution, what are to me the seven-gated Thebes of Egypt, the walls of Babylon, the tombs of Mausolus in Caria, the pyramids, the countless bronze statues in Colossae, or the greatness and beauty of temples that no longer exist but still astonish men and are described in histories—although they brought no benefit to their builders, save a little empty renown? For me, far more wondrous is this short path to salvation, this most convenient ascent to heaven.

No longer do we see before our eyes the miserable and grievous sight of men who, though still alive, have in part died already—whose bodies are mostly dead, who are driven out of cities, homes, marketplaces, fountains, and even from the company of their dearest ones—recognizable only by name, not by appearance. No longer are they laid down by companions and kinsmen at the gathering places of the people to provoke not pity so much as loathing by their disease, chanting mournful songs—if voice remains to any.

But why describe all our afflictions, when words are insufficient? Basil, above all others, exhorted us not to despise men as men, not to dishonor Christ—the one Head of all—by our inhumanity toward the suffering, but to work out our own salvation by means of others’ misfortunes, and to lend our mercy to God, since we ourselves are in need of mercy.

Therefore this noble man, born of noble parents and shining in glory, did not shrink from greeting the diseased with a kiss of the lips, did not scorn to embrace the sick as brethren—not out of vanity (as someone might suspect; but who was farther from this passion than Basil?), but to teach through his own wisdom that suffering bodies ought not to be left without care. This was both a wordless and an eloquent sermon.

Nor was this blessing confined to the city, but extended to the region and beyond. On the contrary, he laid before all leaders of the people a common challenge—to love mankind and show generosity to the afflicted. Others had their food-preparers, sumptuous feasts, cooks with artfully seasoned dishes, beautiful carriages, soft and flowing garments; but Basil had the sick, the healing of wounds, and an imitation of Christ—not in word only, but in deed—healing the lepers.

And what shall those say who accuse him of pride and haughtiness—those evil judges of so many virtues, who measure rules by no rule? Is it possible to kiss the leprous and to humble oneself so deeply—and yet be proud when healthy? Is it possible to mortify the flesh by abstinence, and yet inflate the soul with vain glory? Is it possible to condemn the Pharisee, to preach the destruction of pride, to know that Christ took upon Himself the form of a servant, dined with publicans, washed the feet of His disciples, accepted even the Cross in order to nail my sins thereon—and, what is more astonishing still, to see God crucified, crucified between thieves, mocked by passersby—God, who is unconquerable and higher than suffering—yet to soar above the clouds and consider no one as one’s equal, as the slanderers of Basil allege?

On the contrary, I believe they called his constancy, firmness, and unshakable character pride. I reason, too, that they are the kind who would call courage presumption, discretion cowardice, chastity misanthropy, and truthfulness aloofness; for not without cause have some concluded that vices follow close upon the heels of virtues, and are their near neighbors—so that he who has not learned to distinguish between such things most easily mistakes one thing for another.

Who honored virtue more than Basil, or punished vice more sternly, or showed greater favor to the worthy and severity to the erring? Oftentimes a mere smile from him served as praise, and silence as a reproof—one that left the evil-doer rebuked by his own conscience. But if someone were not loquacious, not playful, not fond of gatherings, and displeased many by not being all things to all men, by not pleasing everyone—what of it? To those who possess understanding, would he not rather deserve praise than blame?

Shall a man censure the lion because he does not look like a monkey, but with regal and awe-inspiring gaze; because his very leap is noble, astonishing, and majestic? And shall we praise those who put themselves on display for the crowd’s amusement, for their affability and jesting, because they please the people and rouse laughter with resounding slaps? Yet even if we were to demand that Basil also possess this charm in gatherings, who was ever more pleasing than he in company, as I know from frequent personal experience? Who conversed more captivatingly, jested more instructively, wounded without offense, rebuked without arrogance, and praised without flattery—tempering both reproof and praise with discernment, and adapting them to their due season, in accordance with the law of Solomon, who assigns a time for every purpose (Ecclesiastes 3:1)?

But what is all this compared to Basil’s perfection in speech, to the power of his gift to teach, which conquered the world? Until now, we have lingered at the foot of the mountain, not yet ascending to its summit; we have sailed in the bay, without venturing into the open and profound sea. I believe that if there was—or shall be—a trumpet which fills the greater part of the air (Isaiah 27:13; 1 Corinthians 15:52), if one imagines the voice of God that encompasses the world, or the universe shaken by a new revelation and wonder, this may serve as a likeness to Basil’s voice and mind—so far did they surpass and leave beneath them every other voice and every other intellect, as much as we ourselves surpass the nature of the dumb beasts.

Who more than Basil purified himself for the Spirit and prepared himself to be a worthy interpreter of divine Scripture? Who was more enlightened by the light of knowledge, who saw deeper into the mysteries of the Spirit, and with God explored all things knowable about God? Who possessed a word so fitting to express thought, so that unlike many in whom thought fails to find utterance, or utterance lags behind thought, he was lacking in neither, but equally admirable for thought and for speech, always consistent with himself, and in the truest sense, perfect?

It is written of the Spirit that He searcheth all things, even the deep things of God (1 Corinthians 2:10)—not because He does not know, but because He delights in contemplation. And Basil too searched out the depths of the Spirit and from these depths drew forth what was needed—to shape moral character, to instruct in exalted speech, to detach men from this present world and translate them into the world to come.

David extols the beauty and majesty of the sun—its swiftness, its might: how it shines as a bridegroom, is glorious like a giant, and runs its course from one end of the heavens to the other without losing warmth (Psalm 18:6–7). In Basil, beauty was virtue, majesty was theology, his course was the continual ascent toward God, and his power was the sowing and distribution of the Word. And so, I say without hesitation: Their voice is gone out into all the earth, and their words to the ends of the world—which Paul spoke of the Apostles (Romans 10:18), borrowing the words of David (Psalm 18:5).

What now constitutes the joy of gatherings? What gives delight at feasts, in marketplaces, in churches? What gladdens rulers and subjects, monks and those in communal seclusion, the lay and the ordained, those versed in secular wisdom and those in ours? One and the same source of greatest delight everywhere—the writings and works of Basil. After him, no other treasure is needed for authors; his works suffice for all students as a complete education.

This alone I will say of him.

When I hold in my hands his Hexaemeron and recite it aloud, I converse with the Creator, I comprehend the laws of creation, and I marvel at the Creator more than I once did when my only teacher was sight. When I read his polemics against heretics, I behold the fire of Sodom by which wicked and lawless tongues are consumed, and the tower of Chalaneans, built to harm and beautifully overthrown. When I read his treatise On the Spirit, then the God I already possessed I find anew, and I feel within me boldness to declare the truth, ascending by the steps of his theology and contemplation.

When I read his other commentaries, which he made clear even to those of feeble vision, having written them three times upon the tablets of his heart (Proverbs 22:21), then I am persuaded not to rest upon the letter alone, nor to look only on the surface, but to go further—passing from one depth into another, calling deep unto deep, and gaining light through light until I attain the highest meaning.

When I read his eulogies of the ascetics, I come to despise the body, I converse with those praised, and I am stirred to emulation. When I read his moral and practical writings, then my soul and body are cleansed, I become a temple pleasing to God, an instrument struck by the Spirit, a singer of God’s glory and might. Through all this, I am transformed, brought into harmony, becoming from one man another, changed by a divine change.

Now that I have spoken of theology and of how lofty was Basil’s eloquence therein, I shall add this also, for it is most useful to many not to suffer harm by forming a false opinion of him. I speak to those ill-disposed minds who lend strength to their own deficiencies by ascribing them to others.

For the first and foundational teaching—namely, the unity and consubstantiality (or however better and more clearly to name it) of the Holy Trinity—Basil would readily have consented not only to be deprived of episcopal thrones, which he had never sought even at the beginning, but also to flee them entirely, and even to accept death itself, with all its attendant torments, as gain rather than misfortune. And he proved this by what he both did and suffered, when, condemned to exile for the sake of the truth, he gave no other thought than to tell one of his companions: “Take your notebook and follow me.”

At the same time, he deemed it necessary to give strength to his words in judgment, taking counsel from the divine David (Psalm 111:5), and to postpone open conflict for a little while, to endure the domination of heretics until the time of liberty should come and grant boldness to the tongue. The heretics, for their part, were ever laying traps to catch a plain confession from him that the Spirit is God—which indeed is just and true, yet seemed blasphemy to them and to their wicked champion. Their aim was to expel Basil—the very mouth of Theology—from the city, and to seize the Church for themselves, turning it into a stronghold of their heresy, from which they might sally forth, as from a fortress, to wage war on others.

But Basil, by other utterances of Scripture and by incontestable testimonies of equal force, and by the irresistible might of his reasoning, so hemmed them in that they could no longer oppose him. They were caught in the net of their own words—a proof both of the peculiar power and wisdom of his speech. This also he demonstrated in that treatise he wrote on the matter, dipping his pen, as it were, in the very vessel of the Spirit. And even then, Basil delayed to use his own direct formulation, beseeching the Spirit Himself and the sincere defenders of the Spirit not to be offended at his caution, since when piety is tottering, to insist too strongly upon a single expression may ruin all through excess.

To the defenders of the Spirit, no harm arises from a slight change of words, when under different terms they recognize the same meaning—for our salvation lies not so much in words as in deeds. We would not have rejected the Jews had they consented to join us on the condition that, for a time, they might retain the term Anointed One instead of Christ. On the other hand, it would be of greatest harm to all if heretics were allowed to possess the Church.

That Basil more than all others confessed the Spirit to be God is proved by the fact that, whenever opportunity allowed, he publicly preached it, and privately bore witness with great zeal to those who inquired. And this he declared even more clearly to me, in whose presence he hid nothing when we conversed on such subjects. Nor did he merely affirm it—he confirmed it with the most dreadful oaths, saying that if he did not honor the Spirit as consubstantial and equal in glory to the Father and the Son, he ought to be deprived of the Spirit Himself.

And if anyone thinks me a sharer in his convictions on this point, I will reveal something perhaps already known to many: that in those difficult times, when Basil imposed restraint upon himself, he granted freedom to me, whom—being held in regard—none would dare judge or drive from our homeland. This he did so that our proclamation of the Gospel might be firm through his discretion and my boldness.

And I mention this not in defense of his reputation (for Basil stands higher than any accuser, should any even be found), but as a warning to those who take for the full measure of piety only those exact words that happen to appear in his writings—lest they weaken in faith, and turn his theology to the justification of their own impiety, when in fact, by the prompting of the Spirit, he shaped it in due proportion to the times. Let them rather attend to the meaning of what is written and the purpose for which it was written, that they may rise ever more toward truth and shut the mouths of the ungodly.

O that his theology might be mine—and the theology of all who are of one mind with me! So much do I trust the purity of his faith, that among all things I am ready also to share that with him. Let it be accounted before God and the pious among men that my faith belongs to him, and his to me. For we do not call the Evangelists contradictory, though some wrote chiefly of Christ’s humanity and others of His divinity—some began with what pertains to us, others with what transcends us. They divided the proclamation in this way for the benefit of the hearers, as I believe, and by the prompting of the Spirit who spoke through them.

But since in both the Old and the New Testaments there were many men renowned for piety—lawgivers, generals, prophets, teachers, and martyrs unto blood—let us, comparing Basil with them, form a fitting judgment of him.

Adam was honored to be the handiwork of God, to partake of the delights of Paradise, and to receive the first commandment. Yet (that we may not speak irreverently of our forefather, even in the name of reverence), he did not keep the commandment. But Basil both received and preserved it; he took no harm from the tree of knowledge, and—passing, as I am fully persuaded, beyond the flaming sword—he attained unto Paradise.

Enos was the first to call upon the Lord (Gen. 4:26); but Basil not only called upon Him, he preached Him to others—which is far greater than merely invoking His name. Enoch was taken up into heaven as a reward for but a small measure of piety (for the fullness of faith had not yet come), and thus was spared the trials of later life. But Basil, perfected in the life of virtue, spent his whole life in a continual ascent, a constant assumption into heaven.

To Noah were entrusted the ark and the seeds of the second world, preserved upon the waves by a small vessel. But Basil escaped the flood of impiety, made his city into an ark of salvation, and easily crossed the sea of heresies, renewing from it a whole new world.

Abraham is great, patriarch and priest of an extraordinary sacrifice, who offered his son born of promise unto the Giver, as a ready victim, hastening to the altar. But Basil’s offering was no less—for he gave himself wholly to God, and received nothing in return of equal worth (indeed, what could be equal to such an offering?), and thus completed the sacrifice.

Isaac was promised before his birth; but Basil was his own promise, a self-vow. He received Rebecca—that is, the Church—not from afar, nor by the mediation of a servant, but as one granted and entrusted by God. He was not deceived in his discernment between his sons, but rightly allotted to each his due, judging according to the Spirit.

I praise the ladder of Jacob and the pillar he anointed to God, and his struggle with God—if struggle it was, and not, as I suppose, the elevation of human measure to the height of divine, from which he bore the mark of conquered nature. I praise his care for the flock, his prosperity, the twelve patriarchs descended from him, the division of the blessing, and the renowned prophecy of things to come. But I also praise the ladder which Basil not only saw, but ascended, through successive virtues. I praise the pillar he raised—not anointed, but erected unto God—which brings shame to the ungodly. I praise the contest in which he fought not with God, but for God, casting down heretical teachings. I praise his pastoral skill, by which he gained more of the marked sheep than of the unmarked. I praise the godly multitude of his spiritual offspring, and the blessing with which he strengthened many.

Joseph dispensed bread—but only to Egypt, and not often, and it was bodily bread. But Basil gave to all, at all times, the spiritual bread, which I hold far more precious than Joseph’s provision.

He too was tested, like Job of Ausitis, and prevailed; and at the end of his trials, it was proclaimed of him with loud voice that none of those who sought to shake him succeeded, but rather that he cast down the tempter with great triumph and silenced the foolishness of friends who had not grasped the mystery of suffering.

Moses and Aaron are named among His priests (Ps. 98:6)—Moses, that great one who smote Egypt, saved the people with signs and wonders, entered into the cloud, and gave a double law: one of the letter and one of the Spirit; and Aaron, his brother both in flesh and spirit, who offered sacrifices and prayers for the people, and was witness to the mystery of the sacred and great tabernacle, which the Lord established, not man (Heb. 8:2).

But Basil emulated both: not with carnal but with spiritual and rational scourges did he chastise the heretical and Egyptian race; and he brought a peculiar people, zealous of good works (Tit. 2:14), into the Promised Land, inscribed laws on tablets—not ones that break, but that save; not veiled, but entirely spiritual. He entered into the holy of holies, not once a year, but often—indeed, one might say, daily—and from there made manifest to us the Holy Trinity. He cleansed men not with temporary sprinklings, but with eternal purifications.

What is most exalted in Joshua? His generalship, the division of inheritances, and the possession of the Holy Land. But is not Basil also a leader, a commander of those being saved by faith, the distributor of the various lots and mansions of God, which he apportions to those he leads? Therefore, we may say of him: “Girded with strength” (Ps. 18:33); “In Thy hand are my times” (Ps. 31:15)—a lot far more precious than earthly and perishable inheritances.

And not to speak of the Judges or the most eminent among them—Samuel is named among those who call upon His name (Ps. 98:6), dedicated to God before birth, sanctified immediately thereafter, anointer of kings and priests with the horn. And was not Basil also sanctified to God from the womb, consecrated to Him and clad with the little robe (1 Sam. 2:19)? Was he not the Lord’s anointed, who beheld the heights of heaven and anointed the perfect with the Spirit?

David is glorious among kings. And though many victories and triumphs are told of him, yet his chief virtue is meekness; and before he reigned, the strength of his harp, which drove away the evil spirit (1 Sam. 16:23). Solomon asked of God a broad heart, and having received it, surpassed all his contemporaries in wisdom and contemplation. And Basil, in my judgment, yields nothing to one in meekness nor to the other in wisdom. He subdued the fury of raving kings; and not one queen from the South, but many from the ends of the earth, came at the report of his wisdom.

Of Solomon’s latter days I will say nothing—though well known, we shall deal gently with them.

You praise Elijah for his boldness before tyrants and for his fiery ascension. You praise Elisha for his beautiful inheritance—the mantle—and the spirit that followed it. Then praise also Basil’s life in the fire: that is, amid many temptations; his salvation through fire, which inflames but does not consume (the well-known miracle of the bush); and the noble covering of skin from above—that is, his impassibility.

I pass over others: the youths bedewed in the flames; the fleeing prophet praying in the belly of the whale and emerging as from a royal chamber; the righteous man who tamed lions in the pit; the struggle of the seven Maccabees, with the priest and the mother consecrated to God by their blood and every kind of torment. Basil emulated their endurance and obtained their glory.

I now turn to the New Testament, and comparing those glorified within it to Basil, I shall esteem the disciple according to his teachers. Who is the Forerunner of Jesus? John—voice of the Word and lamp of the Light—leapt before Him in the womb, and went before Him even into Hades, being sent ahead by Herod’s frenzy, to proclaim there also the Coming One. And if my word seems bold to anyone, let him first consider that I do not prefer Basil to him who is the greatest among those born of women, nor do I place them as equals; rather, I desire to show in Basil a zealot who bears certain distinguishing features of John. For even slight imitation of great models is not unimportant for those being instructed. And is not Basil a clear image of John’s philosophy? He too dwelt in the wilderness; his nightly garment was a haircloth—unknown to others and not displayed; he loved the same kind of food, purifying himself for God through abstinence. He too was deemed worthy to become a preacher—though not the Forerunner of Christ—and to him flocked not only those nearby, but even those dwelling beyond the borders of the land. He stood between the two Testaments, resolving the letter of the one and revealing the spirit of the other, transforming the abolition of the visible into the fulfillment of the hidden. In zeal he imitated Peter, in tirelessness—Paul, and in faith—both these renowned and renamed Apostles; in thunderous speech—the sons of Zebedee; in poverty and moderation—all the disciples. For this, too, were entrusted to him the keys of the heavens; he encompassed with the Gospel not only the space from Jerusalem to Illyricum, but a far wider circle. Though he was not called by the name, he became a son of thunder. And reclining upon the bosom of Jesus, he drew from there the power of speech and the depth of thought. He was ready to become Stephen, but was hindered by the reverence in which he was held, restraining the hands of the stoners. Yet I intend to speak briefly, without entering into detail. Some of the perfections he discovered himself, in others he was an imitator, and in yet others he surpassed; and by excelling in all, he rose above all who are now known.

In addition to all this, I shall say one more thing—and briefly. Such was the virtue of this man, such the abundance of glory, that even many small and seemingly unremarkable things in Basil—even bodily shortcomings—others sought to turn into a means of glory for themselves. Such were the pallor of his face, the growing of hair upon it, the quietness of his gait, the slowness of his speech, the extraordinary pensiveness and withdrawal into himself—which, in many, through unskilled imitation and improper understanding, became mere sullenness. Such also were the look of his garments, the arrangement of his bed, his habits of eating—all of which he did not practice with intentionality, but simply and as it happened. And you may see many Basils in outward appearance—these are mere statues, casting the shadow of Basil; for it would be much to say that they are even his echo. The echo, though it is only the end of the words, yet repeats them clearly; but these men are farther from Basil than they wish to approach. It was held to be a not small, but great honor if someone happened to be close to Basil, or to serve him, or to remember something said or done by him—whether in jest or in earnest—which, so far as I know, I too have often boasted of; for even Basil’s unpremeditated acts were more precious and remarkable than the labored deeds of others.

And when, having finished the course and kept the faith, he desired to depart, and the time drew near for him to receive the crowns—not hearing that command, “Get thee up into the mountain, and die there” (Deut. 32:49–50), but another: “Finish thy course and come up unto Us”—then did he accomplish a marvel no less than those already described. Though already nearly dead and breathless, having left behind most of his life, yet he showed himself still strong to pronounce his final discourse, so as to depart hence with exhortations to piety. And for the ordination of his most faithful servants, he extended his hand and spirit, that the altar might not be deprived of his disciples and fellow laborers in the priesthood.

True, it is difficult even to touch upon what followed—but I shall touch on it nonetheless, though to speak of it would better befit others rather than myself, who, though I have studied philosophy, cannot maintain philosophical composure in sorrow, when I call to mind the common loss and the grief that then encompassed the whole world.

Basil lay in the final throes of life, being called to the heavenly assembly, to which his gaze had long been lifted. The whole city was in turmoil around him; the loss was unbearable. His departure was mourned as though it were a kind of oppression; they sought to hold back his soul, as though it could be grasped and restrained by hands and prayers—so bitter was their grief that it rendered them irrational. Each person, had it been possible, was ready to give him a portion of his own life. But when all their efforts proved in vain (for it was fitting that he be revealed as a mere man), and when, having spoken his final words, “Into Thy hands I commend my spirit” (Psalm 30:6), he was received by the angels and joyfully breathed his last—yet before departing, he secretly ministered to those present and completed them through his exhortations—then there occurred a miracle more wondrous than any that had ever taken place.

The saint was borne aloft by holy hands. Each man sought to grasp either the hem of his garments, or the canopy, or the sacred bier, or merely to touch him—for what could be holier or purer than his body?—or even simply to walk beside those who bore him, or to delight in the sight alone, as if even that brought some benefit. The marketplaces, the passages, the second and third stories of buildings were all filled; thousands of people of every sort and age, previously unknown to one another, preceded, followed, and surrounded the bier, pressing upon one another. The chanting of psalms was drowned out by weeping, and philosophy dissolved into sorrow.

We contended with outsiders—with pagans, with Jews, with strangers—and they with us, each seeking to gain the greater benefit from the sight, to draw more deeply from it for himself. I say in conclusion: sorrow ended in actual disaster. Because of the press, the tumult, and the frenzy of the people, a not insignificant number lost their lives, and their death was counted blessed, for they departed this life alongside Basil and became (as one most devoted might say) sacrificial offerings upon his tomb.

At length, his body, wrested with difficulty from greedy hands and leaving behind those who followed him, was entrusted to the tomb of his fathers. And so a high priest was gathered to the ranks of priests, a great voice to the chorus of preachers—a voice that still echoes in my hearing—and to the martyrs, a martyr.

Now he is in heaven, and there, as I believe, he offers sacrifices for us and prays for the people—for though he has left us, he has not wholly abandoned us. But I—Gregory—am half-dead, half-dismembered, torn from that great union (as befits one separated from Basil), dragging on a life of pain and failure, and I know not how I shall end it, now that I am bereft of his guidance. Even so, he still offers me counsel; and when I transgress the bounds of propriety, he brings me to sobriety in nocturnal visions.

Yet if I mingle tears with praises, if I paint with words the life of this man, if I present to future generations a composite image of virtue—a model of salvation for all churches and souls—upon which, as upon a living law, we may gaze and order our lives, then what other counsel shall I give to you, who are enlightened by his teaching, than this: that always turning your gaze to him, as to one still seeing you and seen by you, you may be perfected in spirit?

Come then, all you standing before me—the full assembly of Basil: all ministers of the altar, all lesser servants of the Church, all clerics and laypeople—draw near and join me in praise of Basil. Let each recount some one of his virtues. Let those enthroned seek in him a lawgiver, civil rulers a builder of cities, common folk a teacher of propriety, scholars a master, virgins a guardian of chastity, spouses a guide in purity, ascetics a winged aid, those living in society a judge, lovers of simplicity a guide, contemplatives a theologian, those given to merriment a bridle, the afflicted a comfort, the aged a staff, the young a tutor, the poor a provider, the rich a steward. I think widows will extol a protector, orphans a father, the destitute a lover of the poor, strangers a hospitable host, brothers a brother-lover, the sick a physician—one who healed every disease—and the healthy a preserver of health; in short, all will praise him as one who became all things to all men (1 Corinthians 9:22), that he might gain all, or as many as possible.

This, Basil, is my word to you—from me, whose voice was once most pleasing to you; from me, your equal in rank and in age. And if my words approach your worth, that too is your gift—for it was in reliance upon you that I ventured to speak of you. But if they fall far short and are well beneath what was hoped, what could I do—crushed as I am by old age, illness, and grief for you? Yet even that which is within one’s strength is pleasing to God.

Look down upon me from on high, O divine and sacred head! And the thorn in the flesh given me for my chastening—the angel of Satan (2 Corinthians 12:7)—either still it by your prayers, or teach me to bear it patiently. And guide all my life to what is most profitable. And if I pass from this life, then there too receive me under your protection, that, dwelling together, we may with greater purity and perfection contemplate the holy and blessed Trinity—of Whom we now have but a partial knowledge—so that this may be our desire in this life, and our reward in the life to come, for which we have both labored and been labored upon.

This is my word to you! But who shall praise me, the one left behind in life after you, even if I do offer something worthy of praise, concerning Christ Jesus our Lord, to Whom be glory forever. Amen.

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