St. Gregory of Nyssa
On the Life of the Venerable Macrina, Sister of Basil the Great #
(To the Monk Olympius)
This composition, though in form bearing the appearance of a letter according to its heading, exceeds the limits of a letter by its length and takes the shape of a long written narrative. Yet the subject about which you commanded me to write justifies this—being far broader than the scope allowed by a typical letter. Surely, you have not forgotten the time of our meeting, when I, fulfilling a vow, was intending to journey to Jerusalem to behold in visible form the memorials of our Lord’s life in the flesh, and came upon you near the city of Antiochus, and all the conversations we then had together. For our meeting could not have passed in silence, when your thoughtful nature offered so many topics for discussion.
As often happens at such meetings, the course of conversation led us to the recollection of a certain renowned life. The occasion for our narration was a woman—if indeed one may still call her by that name. For I know not whether it is fitting to designate by a name derived from nature one who had risen above nature. And the truth of our account is not based on hearsay or second-hand stories, but what was known through experience was carefully conveyed by our words, without relying for proof upon what had been reported by others. For the one remembered here was not a stranger to our family, such that we would need outside sources to learn of her wondrous deeds: she was born of the same parents as we, a sort of firstfruits of their offspring, being the first to grow forth from our mother’s womb. And since you have judged that accounts of the lives of the devout bring some benefit, it seemed good to me to obey your request, so that such a life might not be left unknown to future generations, nor such greatness of philosophical virtue pass without profit, hidden in silence. I therefore believe I acted rightly in obeying your request and setting forth, as best I could, in simple and unadorned words, an account of her life.
The maiden’s name was Macrina. Her parents gave her this name because there had been in our family, long ago, another Macrina—a woman of renown, our father’s mother—who had suffered for confessing Christ during the time of persecution. This, then, was her public name, by which she was known to those around her. But there was also a secret name given to her, revealed through a vision before she was brought forth into the world in the pangs of childbirth. For her mother too was virtuous, and in all things governed her life by the will of God, especially cherishing a pure and blameless mode of living. She did not enter marriage by her own desire, but having lost both parents while still in the flower of her bodily beauty—such beauty that the fame of it moved many to seek her hand—she was in danger of suffering some unwanted fate by force, for those drawn by her beauty were ready even for abduction. Therefore, she chose for herself a husband of upright character, well spoken of by all, so as to have in him a guardian of her life. And shortly afterward—at her very first childbirth—she became the mother of this daughter.
But when the time came for her to be delivered of the child, she fell into a deep sleep and saw in a dream that she held the babe—still yet in the womb—in her arms, and a figure appeared to her, in form and aspect more glorious than any man. He named the one carried in her arms Thekla—after that Thekla so renowned among virgins. Having said this and confirmed it thrice, he disappeared from view, and made the labor of childbirth easy, so that she awoke from sleep and immediately saw the very thing that had appeared to her in the dream. Thus this was the maiden’s hidden name.
But it seems to me that the one who appeared in the dream spoke not merely to indicate the name by which the child should be called, but rather to foretell the course of her life, showing by the likeness of the name the likeness of character. And so the child was raised; and although she had a nurse, she was for the most part brought up in her mother’s own arms. When she passed the stage of infancy, she showed great aptitude in learning the rudiments of childhood education, and in all that her parents deemed fitting for her to study, the young girl displayed brilliant progress. But her mother took care to instruct her not in the worldly and commonly accepted studies with which most children are usually filled—by reading poems and verse—but considered it shameful and completely improper that a tender and easily molded nature should be made to learn either the tragic passions derived from women, which have provided poets with themes, or the shameless scenes of comedy, thereby in some way defiling herself with indecent tales about women. Instead, what was judged more accessible to the early years from the divinely inspired Scriptures became the substance of her learning—especially the wise sayings of Solomon, and most of all those that pertain to moral life. Nor was she unfamiliar with the Psalms; at fixed hours she would go through a set portion of the psalmody. Whether she rose from bed, took up her work, set it aside, began a meal or finished it, lay down to sleep or stood for prayer—she always had a psalm on her lips, as though it were a good and constant companion that never left her side.
Thus growing in these and similar occupations, and diligently training her hands for labor, she reached the age of twelve, when the flower of youth begins especially to bloom. And what is worthy of marvel here is that, although the beauty of the girl was kept hidden, it could not remain concealed. In her whole homeland, there seemed to be nothing so wonderful as to compare with her beauty and graceful bearing, so that even the hands of painters could not capture it. Indeed, the art whose imitative power dares to depict even the grandest things—even the elements themselves— could not render the exquisite beauty of her appearance. Thus, many suitors came to her parents, desiring to enter into marriage with her. Her father, being wise and experienced in discerning good qualities, dismissed the others and selected one—a youth of noble family, known for his virtue and recently graduated from his studies—and resolved to betroth his daughter to him when she came of full age. Meanwhile, as this young man grew in virtue and gave ever greater hope of future excellence, offering, as it were, his good reputation as an engagement gift to the girl’s father by defending the oppressed in court with eloquence, fate suddenly shattered these bright hopes by snatching him from life, cutting short his promising youth.
The girl was not unaware of her father’s intentions. But when death broke off the engagement, she regarded her father’s decision as if it had already taken full effect. She resolved to spend the rest of her life alone and with herself. And this resolve was firmer than her years might suggest. For when her parents often spoke to her of marriage— because many, hearing of her beauty, desired to wed her—she would reply that it was unseemly and unlawful to disregard the marriage once appointed by her father, and to force herself to turn to another, since marriage by nature is a single union, as there is but one birth and one death. She asserted that the man who had been joined to her by her father’s decision was not dead, but alive in God, in hope of the resurrection; that he, in her view, was not truly dead but only gone for a time; and that it would be folly not to remain faithful to an absent bridegroom. With such words she repelled those who tried to persuade her to remarry, and found the surest way to guard this good resolve was never to part—even for a moment—from her mother’s side. So constant was her presence that her mother used to say she had borne her other children for a set time in the womb, but this daughter she still carried at all times, as though within herself.
Yet the daughter’s companionship was neither burdensome nor useless to her mother, for the services she rendered equaled those of many handmaids. There was between them a good and mutual exchange of help, so that each met the needs of the other. The mother served the girl’s soul, and the daughter served her mother’s body, fulfilling all necessary household tasks—so that she often baked bread with her own hands for her mother. Yet she did not devote herself solely to this task, but only after consecrating her hands to the service of the mysteries, regarding such manual labor as befitting her way of life, and from what remained of her labors, she would prepare food for her mother. Nor was this the only burden she shared. She also helped with all the other concerns her mother had to bear—for she still had four sons and five daughters, and besides that, had to pay tribute to three rulers, for her estates were scattered across three provinces.
Thus, when her mother was occupied with many concerns—since their father had already departed this life—Macrina became her companion in all things, sharing in her labors and lightening the weight of her griefs. Under her mother’s guidance, she maintained an undefiled life, continually finding both direction and approval in her mother’s eyes; and at the same time, by the example of her own life, she offered her mother great instruction toward the same goal (I speak here of the pursuit of philosophy), gradually drawing her toward an immaterial and more perfect manner of living. And when her mother had properly arranged the lives of her other daughters in a manner fitting to each, there returned from his long studies the great Basil, brother of the one we have spoken of, who had long pursued learning. Finding him filled with lofty thoughts about rhetoric, scorning every other excellence, and proud of his reputation beyond even the most honored nobles, she so quickly drew him too toward the goal of true philosophy, that he set aside worldly vanity and, despising the fame of his education, turned to that life of labor and action, preparing himself for the virtuous life through absolute poverty. But his life and the labors which followed—wherein he, becoming known throughout the world, overshadowed with his glory all others renowned for virtue—would require a long account and much time to recount. So let my narrative return again to its intended subject.
Since she had already severed all ties to vain pursuits, Macrina now persuaded her mother to forsake ordinary life, to leave behind its lavish comforts and the service of slaves to which she had until then been accustomed, and to adopt a way of humility equal to that of many others, uniting her life with that of the virgins, and making all those whom she had formerly kept as servants or slaves her sisters and equals. But here I wish to pause for a moment in the narrative, so as not to leave untold a certain event through which the noble character of the maiden is especially revealed.
Of the four brothers, the second after the great Basil was named Naucratius. He was gifted with natural talents, bodily beauty, strength, dexterity, and ability surpassing his brothers. Having reached the age of twenty-two, and publicly demonstrating the success of his learning to the admiration of all who heard him, he, by some divine prompting, suddenly abandoned all that he had and, driven by a great inward zeal, withdrew into a solitary and poverty-stricken life, taking with him nothing but himself. One of the household servants, named Chrysaphios, followed him, being deeply attached to him and sharing his intent in life. So, seeking some wilderness, he came to the river Iris (this river flows through the middle of Pontus, having its source in Armenia, and passes through our land on its way to the Euxine Sea). Near this river, he found a place overgrown with forest and a hill overshadowed by a towering rocky mountain. There the youth settled, fleeing the noise of the city, the affairs of war, and the rhetorical contests of the courts. Thus freed from all the worldly distractions that agitate human life, he served some aged men who lived there with him in poverty and illness, considering such service and care fitting to the life he had chosen. For this purpose, this noble man went out to fish; and since he was very skilled in all forms of hunting, by this means he provided food for the needy and at the same time subdued the fervor of his youth through such labors. He also fulfilled his mother’s wishes whenever she gave him any command. In this way, he perfected his life both by labor—disciplining youthful passion—and by obedience to his mother, thereby fulfilling the commandments of God and striving straight toward Him.
He had spent five years in this pursuit of philosophy, providing consolation to his mother both through his chastity and by submitting his will to hers. Suddenly, however, a grievous and lamentable misfortune—brought about, I think, by the envy of the adversary—struck his mother and brought sorrow and mourning to the whole household. The youth was unexpectedly taken from this life at a time when neither illness gave cause for foreboding, nor did any of the usual or known causes of death apply. He had gone on one of his regular expeditions to procure food for the elderly hermits, and he was brought back dead—along with his companion Chrysaphios.
His mother was far away when the tragedy occurred, at a distance of three days’ journey. Someone went to inform her of the calamity. And although she was in every way perfect in virtue, nature, by its right, prevailed even over her; her spirit collapsed, and she at once became breathless and speechless. Her reason, crushed by grief, left her lying there, struck down by the dreadful news, like a brave warrior felled by an unexpected blow.
It was then that the greatness of Macrina’s soul shone forth. Setting thought against grief, she preserved herself and, becoming the support for her mother’s weakness, raised her again from the depths of sorrow, guiding her soul toward courage with her own steadiness and resolve. At last, the mother ceased to be torn by grief and displayed none of the unworthy frailty of women—no wailing over her misfortune, no rending of garments, no collapse from sorrow, no outpouring of complaints and lamentations. In silence, she bore her grief, resisting the assault of natural feeling with reasoned reflection— both her own thoughts and those suggested by her daughter, offered as healing for the wound. At this time especially was the exalted and noble soul of the maiden revealed. For though nature had its claim on her too—since the one taken by such a death was her brother and the dearest of her brothers—she nonetheless placed herself above nature and lifted her mother up as well, raising her above sorrow by her reasoning and teaching her, by her example, both courage and endurance. Moreover, her life, ever growing in virtue, gave her mother not so much time to grieve over the lost treasure, as reason to rejoice over the one she still had before her eyes.
Thus, when the burden of raising and educating the children had been lifted from the mother, and most of the responsibilities of the material household had passed into the hands of the children, then, as was said, this virgin by her own life inclined her mother toward that immaterial way of life adorned with philosophy. Turning her away from all customary modes of living, she brought her to the level of her own humility, persuading her to stand alongside all the virgins, so that, having erased every distinction of rank from her life, they might share all things in common—table, bed, and everything pertaining to daily life. And such was their rule of life, such the height of their philosophy, and such the strictness of their conduct both day and night, that it exceeds all description. For just as souls, when separated from the body by death, also lay aside all worldly concerns, so also was their life withdrawn and removed from all the tumult of earthly affairs, and modeled after the life of the angels.
Among them there was no trace of anger, envy, hatred, pride, or anything of the sort. The desire for vain things—such as honor, glory, elevation, or superiority over others—was entirely banished from their midst. Their pleasure was in self-restraint, their glory was to be unknown, and their wealth was poverty and renunciation of all material possessions, as though it were dust of the earth. Among all the occupations that engage people in this life, there was none that they regarded as belonging to them. Their sole concern was the things of God: unceasing prayer, continual psalmody, flowing evenly through every day and night, so that this work became both their labor and their rest. What human speech could adequately portray such a life? Their existence touched both human nature and the nature of bodiless beings: for in ridding their nature of human passions, they rose above humanity; but in dwelling in the body, clothed in outward form, and living by means of the senses, they were lower than the angelic and incorporeal nature. Yet one may dare to say that even this distinction made them in no way inferior: for though they lived in the flesh, yet after the likeness of the bodiless powers they were not weighed down by the burden of the body, but their life was heavenly and exalted, soaring aloft together with the celestial hosts. And this life endured not for a short time, but with the passage of time their progress increased, for with every new labor of virtue, philosophy continually elevated the soul to greater purity.
Her chief helper in attaining this great goal was her full brother named Peter, through whom the pains of their mother’s childbearing came to an end. He was the last offspring of the womb and could rightly be called both a son and an orphan, for at the very moment of his birth, their father departed this life. Yet the eldest among the siblings, of whom this account speaks, soon took him from the nurse, after only a short period of nursing, and raised him herself, giving him the highest instruction, training him from infancy in sacred learning, that his soul might never have leisure for vain inclinations. Thus being to the boy everything—a father, a teacher, a guardian, a mother, a counselor in every good deed—she shaped him into such a man that before even reaching the threshold of manhood, while still in the bloom of youth, he had already risen in soul to the lofty pursuit of philosophy. And by a fortunate natural gift, he had an innate capacity for mastering every kind of manual skill, so that without any instruction he attained precise knowledge in the crafts that others learn only through long and difficult practice.
Thus, he scorned the pursuits of worldly learning and, having in his very nature a sufficient guide to every form of good instruction, he continually looked to his sister and took her as the model for every virtue, rising to such heights of moral excellence that in later life he seemed not at all inferior to the great Basil in the perfection of virtue. At that time he served as everything to his sister and mother, being their companion in this angelic life. Once, during a time of severe famine, when many people, having heard of his generosity, came from all around to the secluded place where he lived, he managed through his skillful efforts to provide so much food for the poor that his wilderness came to resemble a city from the multitude of those who flocked there. It was during this time that their mother, having reached advanced old age, passed to God, ending her life in the arms of both her children.
It is fitting to relate the words of blessing she spoke to her children. Remembering with love each of those who were absent, that none might be deprived of her blessing, she especially entrusted those present to God in prayer. For when both of them sat at either side of her bed, she touched each with her hands and uttered these final words to God: “To Thee, O Lord, I dedicate the first-fruit and the tithe of the fruit of my labor in childbirth—my firstborn, this daughter, and this last-born son. According to the law, both are consecrated to Thee, and I offer them to Thee as a gift. Let Thy sanctification come upon this my first-fruit and upon this tithe.” With these meaningful words she indicated her daughter and her son. Having completed the blessing, she also completed her life, leaving instructions to her children that her body should be laid in the tomb of their father. They fulfilled her will and strove toward even greater heights of philosophy, never being content with their current state, but surpassing their past achievements in virtue with yet greater labors.
At that time, the great Basil, renowned among the saints, was appointed head of the great Church of Caesarea. He brought his brother into the sacred clergy, and through his mystical rites, ordained him to the rank of presbyter. Their life thereafter continued to grow in holiness and piety, for to priesthood was joined philosophy. Eight years later, in the ninth year, the great Basil, known throughout the world, departed from men and was gathered to God, becoming an object of universal mourning both to his homeland and to the world at large.
When Macrina heard of this sorrowful news from afar, she grieved deeply at so great a loss. Could she not be touched by a grief that was shared even by the enemies of the truth? But just as gold is purified in various refining furnaces so that if any impurity remains from the first melting, it may be removed in the second, and at last the final process eliminates every trace of dross—so that the surest sign of pure gold is when it passes through all these fires and leaves no impurity—so too something similar occurred in her case: after her reason had been tested by many blows of misfortune, there was revealed on every side the pure and exalted quality of her soul. These trials were: first, the death of one brother; then the loss of her mother; and finally, the departure from this life of Basil the Great, the common adornment of their lineage. Yet through all these, she remained steadfast, like a mighty and unconquered athlete, never falling under the weight of affliction.
After the passing of nine months—or perhaps a little more—following this loss, a council of bishops was convened in the city of Antioch, in which we also took part. But when all dispersed again to their homes, and before the year had yet ended, I, Gregory, felt a strong desire to visit my sister. Much time had passed during which the harsh circumstances I had endured had prevented such a meeting—being driven from my homeland on every side by the leaders of heresy. When I reckoned the span of time during which these trials had obstructed our personal reunion, I found it to be no small space—nearly eight years had passed.
Thus, having completed most of the journey and being already within a day’s travel from the place, a vision appeared to me in sleep which stirred fearful expectations of what was to come. It seemed to me that I was carrying in my arms the relics of martyrs, from which shone a radiance like that of a polished mirror reflecting the full sun, so that my eyes were forced to close from the brilliance of the light. This vision came to me three times in one and the same night. I could not clearly understand what it signified, but sensing sorrow in my soul, I waited for the outcome to interpret the meaning.
When I drew near the place of retreat where my sister lived, leading her angelic and heavenly life, I first asked one of the servants whether her brother was there. When he replied that it had been four days since he had departed, I understood that he must have taken another road to come and meet us. Finally, I asked about the great one herself. When he said that she was suffering from an illness, I was troubled, and hastened the remainder of the way, for grief and dread—harbingers of what was to come—seized me and shook me inwardly.
When I reached the place and the news of my arrival reached the brethren, all the men of the male household came out to meet me; for it is their custom to honor cherished guests with a formal reception. And in the women’s quarters, a group of virgins stood modestly outside near the church, awaiting our arrival. When the prayers and blessings were concluded, and after they had bowed their heads for a blessing, they departed in an orderly manner to their dwellings, leaving not one behind. It was not hard to guess what this absence of the abbess among them signified.
Then someone led me into the house where the great one lived and opened the door; I entered her sacred cell. She was already greatly afflicted by her illness and lay not on a bed or couch, but on the ground—a board covered with sackcloth; another board, propped beneath her head at an angle, served as a pillow and supported the back of her neck.
When she saw me near the doorway, she raised herself on her elbow (she could not rise fully, for her strength had already been drained by fever), and leaning on her hands upon the floor, she half-lifted herself from her lowly bed to show me the honor of a proper greeting. I went up to her, took her face, which was bent toward the ground, in my hands, lifted it, and gently laid her back as she had been lying. And she, lifting her hands to God, said: “Thou hast granted me this joy also, O God, and hast not deprived me of that which I desired, but hast sent Thy servant to visit Thy handmaid.” That she might not sadden my heart, she held back her groans and struggled with all her strength to conceal the tightness of her breathing, and in everything strove to appear cheerful, initiating pleasant conversations herself and giving us topics by asking questions.
When the course of our conversation brought us to speak of the great Basil, my soul was stirred and my face darkened with sorrow; but she was far from descending to our grief. Instead, she took the memory of the saint as a springboard to a higher philosophy. She turned her attention to human nature and, with her words, unfolded the divine economy hidden within afflictions. As though inspired by the Holy Spirit, she spoke also of the life to come in such words that my soul, enraptured by her speech and lifted up through the guidance of her words into the heavenly sanctuary, seemed to me nearly to pass beyond the bounds of human nature.
As we read in the story of Job, who wasted away from rotting and festering sores covering his whole body, he never directed his thoughts to the feeling of pain; though disease racked his flesh, his mind remained engaged in lofty discourse. So also, in this great one, I beheld the same thing. Though the fever dried up all her strength and rapidly led her toward death, she, as though her body were refreshed by dew, preserved the clarity of her intellect undisturbed in the contemplation of heavenly matters, and her mind remained untouched by so great an illness. And if this account were not already expanding to boundless length, I would recount in order all the ways in which she elevated our conversation: her philosophizing with us about the soul, the cause of life in the flesh, the purpose of man’s creation, the origin of mortality, and the transition from death to life. Concerning all these things, as if inspired by the power of the Holy Spirit, she explained everything clearly and in proper order, and her words flowed with perfect ease, like water from a spring rushing freely down a slope.
After the conversation ended, she said to me: “Brother, it is time for you, after the toil of your difficult journey, to give your body a little rest.” And though it was a true and great rest for me to look upon her and listen to her lofty words, yet since this brought her delight and pleasure, I, so as to be in all things obedient to my teacher, found a pleasant resting place in one of the nearby gardens—beneath the shade of grapevines—and there I took my rest. But it was impossible to feel joy while the soul was gripped with foreboding sorrow. It seemed to me that what I had seen before my eyes was revealing the meaning of the dream I had earlier: for truly what lay before me were the relics of a holy martyr—dead indeed to sin, but shining with the indwelling grace of the Spirit. I thus interpreted my vision to one who had already heard it from me; and while we, with broken spirits, anxiously awaited a sorrowful outcome, she—whether by divine insight or by some other means—guessed our thoughts and sent us a more joyful message, bidding us be of good cheer and hope for the best, for she felt her illness was tending toward recovery. And she did not say this to mislead us, but in pure truth, though we did not then understand it.
For indeed, like a swift runner who has overtaken his opponent and nears the end of his course, already almost touching the victor’s crown, rejoicing inwardly as though he had already received the prize, and who calls out to the favorable spectators of his race to declare his victory—so she too, in this same spirit, let us know that we might hope for the best, for she already beheld the reward of her high calling, and was all but reciting the words of the Apostle: “Henceforth there is laid up for me a crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous Judge, shall give me” (2 Tim. 4:7–8), for she had “fought the good fight, finished the course, and kept the faith.”
Thus, cheered by this good news, we arose and went to partake of the meal set before us; it was varied, and everything had been prepared with full hospitality—such was the thoughtful care of the great one, extending even to this. But when we again returned to her presence (for she would not permit us to spend even the hour of rest apart), she began recounting, in order as if reading from a written book, all that had occurred to her throughout her life from youth onward: what she remembered of our parents, what had happened before her birth, and all that followed after. The purpose of her narrative was to offer thanksgiving to God. She spoke of the life of our parents as being honorable and renowned not so much for wealth as for the abundance of divine love. For our father’s parents, having confessed Christ, suffered exile for their faith; and our maternal grandfather, due to the wrath of the emperor, was stripped of his property, and all that he possessed was transferred to other owners. Yet despite this, because of their faith, their earthly goods were so increased that none at that time were more prominent than they. And though their property had been divided into nine shares according to the number of children, each one’s portion, by God’s blessing, increased so greatly that every child’s estate surpassed that of the parents. But as for herself, she kept nothing of her inheritance, which was hers by equal right with her brothers; she gave it all to a priest, that he might distribute it according to the divine commandment. As for her own life, with the help of God, she lived in such a way that she never ceased to work with her own hands, according to the commandment; she never turned to others for help, nor did she seek any man’s charity for a respectable life. Yet neither did she turn away those who asked, nor did she go seeking those who might give—for God, in His hidden providence, caused her modest means from her labor to increase like seeds, bringing forth diverse fruits in abundance by His blessing.
When I recounted my own sufferings—first, my exile at the hands of Emperor Valens for the faith, and then the hardships stirred by the disorders in the churches, which summoned us to labors and struggles—the great one said to me: “Will you never cease being ungrateful for God’s blessings? Will you not heal your soul of thanklessness? Will you not compare your condition with that of our parents? In this world we boast, above all, of our noble birth and descent from honorable parents. Our father, she said, was famed in his day for his learning, but his renown was limited to the courts of his own land. Though in the art of speech he surpassed others, his fame extended no further than Pontus. He was content to be honored in his own country. But you, she said, are known to cities, assemblies, and entire provinces; churches summon and call you for help and correction. Do you not see the grace of God? Do you not understand the reason for such great blessings—that it is the prayers of our parents that have lifted you to such heights, you who were scarcely or not at all prepared for this task at home?”
As she spoke in this way, I wished the daylight might be prolonged, so that she would not cease delighting our ears. But the voice of the singers summoned us to the evening prayer of thanksgiving. So she dismissed me to church, and the great one again turned in prayer to God. Thus the night passed.
When day dawned, I understood from what I saw that this was the final day of her life on earth. The fever had drained all her bodily strength. Yet she, seeing that we were cast down in spirit, skillfully strove to draw us away from sorrowful expectation, once again dispelling our grief with those beautiful words of hers, though now uttered with labored and broken breath.
At the sight of all this, my soul was torn by many conflicting thoughts. Nature, of course, urged sorrow, for I no longer expected to hear her voice again. A little while more—and the common glory of our family was to depart from the life of men. But my soul, beholding this sight, seemed to be inspired and led to the thought that she had truly transcended the bounds of human nature. For to be at the very point of death and to feel nothing extraordinary about that moment, to have no fear of departing from life, but rather to philosophize with elevated understanding concerning this life, maintaining to the end the same view she had held from the beginning—this seemed to me less a human act than that of some angel who, by divine dispensation, had taken on the form of man. An angel who, having no kinship or attachment to fleshly life, naturally keeps his reason undisturbed—for the flesh does not draw his mind into its passions.
Therefore, it seemed to me that this divine and pure love for the unseen Bridegroom, which she had nourished in secret within her soul, was now being openly declared before us all, clearly revealing her heart’s desire to hasten to the Beloved—to be loosed from the bonds of the flesh and united with Him. For truly, the course of her life had ever moved toward virtue, and nothing among the pleasures of this world had ever drawn her attention away from that path.
The greater part of the day had already passed, and the sun was leaning toward its setting; but the joyful disposition of her spirit did not abandon her. On the contrary, the closer she came to her departure, the more she beheld the beauty of the Bridegroom, and the more eagerly she hastened toward the Beloved. Her speech turned no longer to us who were present, but to Him upon whom her gaze was fixed with intense longing, for her bed was turned toward the East.
And so, leaving off her conversation with us, she spent the remaining time in prayer, communing with God, raising her hands and uttering words in a faint voice, so low that we could scarcely hear them. Yet her prayer was such that there was no doubt it was being poured forth sincerely to God and heard by Him.
She said: “Thou, O Lord, hast loosed for us the fear of death; Thou hast made the end of this earthly life the beginning of true life. Thou restest our bodies for a time in the sleep of death and shalt awaken them again at the sound of the final trumpet. Thou dost entrust to the earth our frail composition, fashioned by Thy hands, as a pledge—and wilt reclaim that which Thou hast given, transforming our mortal and dishonored form into immortality and glory.
Thou hast delivered us from the curse and from sin, becoming both curse and sin for us. Thou hast broken the heads of the dragon, who opened his jaws against man to draw him into the pit of disobedience. Thou hast opened for us the path to the resurrection, breaking the gates of hell and trampling underfoot him who had the power of death—the devil. Thou hast given a sign to them that fear Thee: the symbol of Thy holy Cross, for victory over the adversary and the protection of our life.
O Eternal God, to whom I have clung from my mother’s womb, whom my soul has loved with all her strength, to whom I have consecrated my soul and body from my youth until this very moment—appoint to me a shining angel to guide me to the place of refreshment, where is the water of rest, to the bosom of the holy fathers.
Thou who didst break the flaming sword and restore to Paradise the man crucified with Thee who had fled to Thy mercy—remember me also in Thy Kingdom. For I too am crucified with Thee, having nailed my flesh to the fear of Thee, trembling before Thy judgment. Let not that dreadful chasm separate me from Thy elect; let not the accuser obstruct my path; let not my sins rise up before Thy face—if in anything I have stumbled, through the weakness of the flesh, whether in word, deed, or thought.
Thou who hast authority on earth to forgive sins, forgive me, that I may find refreshment and may be found before Thee, when I have cast off this body, with the image of my soul untainted. May my spirit, pure and undefiled like incense before Thee, be received into Thy hands.”
And as she spoke this, she traced the sign of the Cross upon her eyes, lips, and heart. A little afterward, her tongue, dried from the fever, could no longer utter words, and her voice faded. Yet by the motion of her lips and the movement of her hands, we understood that she was still continuing her prayer.
As evening came and the lamp was brought in, she suddenly opened her eyes wide and, turning toward the light, gave indication that she was preparing to offer the evening thanksgiving prayer. But since her voice had failed, she fulfilled this intent with her heart and with the movement of her hands; her lips moved in harmony with the inner impulse of her soul.
When she had completed this thanksgiving, and when her hand, lifted to her face to seal herself with the sign of the Cross, indicated the end of her prayer—then, releasing a deep and long breath, together with her prayer she also released her life.
When she at last became still and breathless, I recalled the charge she had given me at our very first meeting—that she wished my hands to close her eyes and render the final honor to her body. So, though my hand was weakened by sorrow, I touched her holy face, only so as not to seem to neglect her command. For in truth, there was no need to perform this service: her eyes were already gently closed beneath their lids, as if in sleep; her lips modestly shut; her hands reverently folded upon her chest; and her whole body lay in such grace that it needed no arranging by any hand.
But my soul was doubly tormented by grief: by what my eyes beheld and by the wailing cries of the virgins that pierced my ears. Until that moment, they had been courageous, silent, suppressing their sorrow within, restraining their urge to weep out of reverence for her, afraid that even a sound might draw a rebuke from their teacher—even though her lips were now forever silent. They feared to grieve her with their sobbing.
But now, grief could no longer be restrained in silence. Sorrow, like a fire consuming their hearts, broke forth in a bitter and uncontrollable cry so intense that even my reason faltered in its firmness. My own sorrow, like an overflowing flood, burst outward—and forgetting all that I held in my hands, I surrendered wholly to weeping.
And the cause of their weeping seemed to me not only just but righteous. For they did not bewail the loss of some mere earthly comfort or ordinary care—but cried out over the loss of their very hope in God and the salvation of their souls. This is what they mourned in their tears, saying:
“The lamp of our eyes is extinguished! The light that guided our souls has been taken away! The support of our life is gone; the seal of incorruption is removed; the bond of chastity is broken; the stronghold of the weak is cast down; the healing of the infirm is taken from us! With thee, even the night was made as day, illumined by the purity of thy life—but now even the day shall turn to darkness!”
Yet more bitter than the rest were the lamentations of those who called her their mother and their nourisher. For there were some among them whom, during a time of famine, she had found abandoned by the roadside—whom she had taken in, fed, raised, and brought up into the pure and incorrupt life.
After this, I turned my gaze upon that holy head and, as if reproached by it for the disorder caused by the loud weeping of those present, I seemed to call my soul out from some deep place and, raising my voice, cried aloud to the virgins: “Look upon her, and remember her instructions, by which she taught us in all things to maintain order and decency. That divine soul appointed a time for tears, commanding that they be shed during prayer—this we can now fulfill by turning our sobbing into fitting psalmody.” I said this loudly, in order to drown out the wailing cries. Then I ordered that they all withdraw for a time into a nearby house, leaving only a few of those who had served her during life.
Among them was a noblewoman, who in her youth had been renowned for her wealth, lineage, bodily beauty, and other qualities. Having been married to a worthy man, she lived with him only a short while, was freed from wedlock in the prime of life, and had chosen the great Makrina as the guardian and guide of her widowhood. For a long time she lived among the virgins, learning from them the life of virtue. Her name was Vettiana; her father had been a member of the imperial senate. I said to her: “Now it would not be improper to lay upon this body more radiant garments, to clothe this pure and undefiled flesh in bright raiment.” But she replied that we ought first to learn what the saint herself would have approved in this matter, for it would be wholly unfitting on our part to do anything contrary to her will. Surely, she said, what is pleasing to God will also be pleasing to her.
There was a woman who presided over the choir of virgins, bearing the rank of deaconess, by name Lampadia. She said that she knew precisely what the saint had arranged for her burial. When I asked her about it (for she had been present at the discussion), she answered with tears: “The adornment the saint cared for was a pure life—this was her ornament in life, and now it is her garment in death. As for bodily decorations, she neither used them in life nor prepared any for this occasion. Therefore, even if we wished to do something, we cannot, for there is nothing prepared for this purpose.”
“But,” I asked, “can we not find something in the storerooms that might serve to adorn her body for the funeral?” “What storerooms,” she said, “are you speaking of? Everything she saved you now have in your hands. Here is her garment, here her head-covering, here her worn sandals—this is her wealth, this is her estate. Beyond what you now see, there is nothing kept in secret places, nothing locked away in chests or storerooms. The only place she knew to store her treasure was the heavenly treasury—there she laid up all things, and left nothing behind on earth.”
“And what,” I said to her, “if I bring something of what I have prepared for the burial—would even that be displeasing to her?” “I do not think that would be contrary to her will,” she said, “for even in life she did not refuse such an honor from you, for two reasons: for the priesthood she always revered, and because of your natural kinship. What belonged to her brother she never considered alien to herself; and that is why she charged you to prepare her body with your own hands.”
When this was approved and the holy body was to be clothed in garments, we divided the task among ourselves, each contributing one thing or another. I commanded one of my attendants to bring the clothing, and the aforementioned Vettiana, as she dressed the sacred head with her own hands, touched the neck, and looking at me, said: “Behold the adornment that hung upon the saint’s neck.” With these words, she untied a knot at the back and reached out her hand to show us an iron cross and a small ring of the same metal; both had been suspended from a fine cord of hair and had always rested over her heart.
“Let us divide this inheritance between us,” I said. “You take the saving cross, and let the ring be enough for me as a legacy—for the seal on it bears also the sign of the cross.” Looking carefully at the ring, the woman said again to me: “You have not erred in your choice of what remains—for beneath the stone of the ring there is a small cavity in which is hidden a fragment of the life-giving wood (of the Cross), and thus the seal that lies above it, by its engraving, reveals what lies hidden below.”
When the time came to clothe that pure body in garments, and the testament of the great Makrina had laid upon me the duty of performing this service, the woman who had assisted us and had shared in the great inheritance with us said: “Do not overlook the greatness of the wondrous deeds performed by the saint.” “What do you mean?” I asked. She uncovered a part of the breast and said, “Do you see this small, barely visible mark beneath the skin? It looks like a tiny prick made by a fine needle,” and with that she brought the lamp closer to the spot she indicated. “What,” I asked, “is so remarkable about an indistinct mark, perhaps left by some accidental prick?”
“This,” she said, “remains as a memorial of a great divine help. Once, a painful swelling appeared on this part of her body, and there was danger that it might need to be cut open. Otherwise, the illness might have become incurable if it had reached the region near the heart. Her mother long pleaded and urged her to seek the help of a physician, since, as she said, that art too is given by God for the benefit of man. But she, considering the uncovering of any part of her body before strange eyes more grievous than the illness itself, after fulfilling her usual service to her mother in the evening, withdrew to the holy sanctuary and spent the whole night in prayer to God the Healer. Mixing the tears flowing from her eyes with earth, she used this muddy paste as medicine on the swelling. And when her mother, grieved in spirit, again begged her to seek a physician, she replied that the only remedy she needed was for her mother to make the sign of the Cross over the swelling with her own hand. As soon as her mother laid her hand upon her breast and made the sign of the Cross, the illness vanished. But this small mark appeared immediately in the place of the once terrible swelling, and remained until the end of her life—so that it might serve, I believe, as a lasting sign of divine visitation, a memorial that would continually prompt her to give thanks to God.”
When we had finished our tasks and had adorned the body as best we could, the deaconess said: “It is not fitting that she, adorned like a bride, should lie openly before the virgins’ eyes. There is a dark-colored cloak of your mother’s kept with me—let us, I think, cover the body with it, so that her sacred beauty may not shine out with garments unworthy of her.” This opinion was accepted, and the cloak was laid over her. But even under the dark veil she still shone forth, for I believe a divine power had granted that grace also to her body, so that, in accord with my vision during the night, some radiant beams seemed to emanate from her beauty.
While we were thus engaged, and the combined sound of weeping and psalmody filled the place, I know not how, but word of the saint’s repose spread quickly through the surrounding region, and all the nearby inhabitants came running so that the courtyard could not contain the gathering crowd. All night long, as at the feasts of martyrs, psalmody was sung around her. At dawn, a multitude of men and women assembled from all parts of the region, and their wailing cries drowned out the psalmody.
Though deeply troubled in spirit by the sorrowful event, I did my utmost to ensure that the funeral was conducted with all due reverence. So I divided the people in two: the women I placed with the virgins’ choir, and the men with the assembly of monks, and from both I formed a single harmonious and orderly choir for psalmody, like that of well-trained singers. As the day advanced and the desert place grew crowded with the arriving multitudes, the bishop who oversaw the region, by name Araxius (for he had come with all his clergy), ordered that the funeral bier be carried slowly—since the way was long, and the crowd would hinder swifter movement—and summoned all his clergy to carry the body.
When this was received gladly, I lifted one side of the bier, offering the other to him, while two other honorable clergy took up the rear corners. Thus the procession moved forward as befitted the solemnity; but we progressed slowly, for the crowd pressed in on all sides and none seemed able to get their fill of the sacred sight. On either side of the bier walked many deacons and attendants in order, all bearing lighted wax candles. The whole scene was like a sacred procession: from the first to the last, all joined in a single voice, chanting the psalms in harmony, as in the hymn of the three youths.
Since the distance from the desert dwelling to the church of the holy martyrs—where her parents’ bodies lay—was about seven or eight stadia, nearly the whole day was spent in the procession. For the crowd already present and the steady stream of new arrivals did not permit us to complete the journey as swiftly as we had intended. At last, when we reached the church, we first laid down the bier and turned to prayer—but this prayer became a new occasion for lamentation. For when the psalmody ceased, and the virgins saw again the sacred face, and when the tomb of her parents was opened where she was to be laid, one of them cried aloud in anguish that from this hour we would no longer see her divine countenance, and the others raised their voices with hers.
Then the solemn and orderly psalmody dissolved into a great tumult, as everyone joined in their weeping. When we had at last calmed them to silence, the deacon began the prayer and proclaimed aloud the usual litanies of the Church. Only then was the reverent order of prayer among the people restored.
After the prayer had been properly concluded, a certain fear came over me—lest I transgress the divine commandment which forbids uncovering the nakedness of one’s father or mother (Leviticus 18:7). “How,” I asked myself, “shall I avoid condemnation, if I behold in the bodies of my parents the disfigurement common to human nature, for they have likely decayed, collapsed, and been transformed into a repulsive and unpleasant sight?” And as I pondered this, the account of Noah’s indignation against his son intensified my dread (cf. Genesis 9:25). Yet the same story of Noah provided me counsel for what was right to do.
Before the bodies were made visible to our eyes, they were covered with a clean linen cloth, which had been laid across from one raised side of the coffin lid to the other. And so, once the bodies were thus veiled in linen, I and the aforementioned local bishop, lifting the sacred body from the bier, laid it beside her mother, fulfilling the shared desire of both. For throughout their lives, they had prayed with one mind to God that their bodies, too, would be united in death, so that the companionship they had kept in life might not be sundered after death.
Once all the customary funeral rites had been fulfilled, and it was time for us to return, I fell before the tomb and kissed the dust, and set out again on my way, weeping and sorrowing in my heart as I reflected on what a great treasure I had lost in this life. On the return journey, a man well-known among the military—an officer stationed in a Pontic town called Sebastopolis, living there with his command—kindly came out to meet us as we approached the city. When he heard of the loss (for he was bound to us by ties of kinship and friendship), he was struck with grief and shared with me a miracle worked by her, which I shall now record as the final note of this narrative.
When our weeping had quieted and we entered into conversation, he said to me: “Listen to what a great and holy treasure has passed from this life.” And he told the story in these words:
“Once, my wife and I were filled with a strong desire to visit the school of virtue—for so I think that place should rightly be called, where the blessed soul dwelt. With us came our little daughter, who, due to a contagious illness, had suffered a condition in her eye that made her very unpleasant to look at. For a film had grown over the pupil, and a white spot had formed because of the disease. When we entered that divine dwelling, my wife and I, according to our sexes, were received into the respective areas: I into the men’s quarters, where your brother Peter was abbot, and my wife among the women, where she was received by the saint herself.
Now, after some time had passed, we decided it was time to return home from the desert. But at the moment of our departure, we were lovingly detained from both sides. Your brother invited me to stay and share the table of philosophy, and the blessed one would not release my wife, but holding our daughter in her arms said she would not give her back until she had set a table before them and shared with them the riches of virtue.
Then, as she kissed the child and pressed her lips to the girl’s eyes, she noticed the white film upon the pupil and said: ‘If you will grant me this favor and stay to share our table, I will give you a gift not unworthy of such a kindness.’ When the mother asked, ‘And what sort of gift is this?’ the great one replied: ‘I have a remedy that can cure this affliction of the eye.’ And when word of this reached me from the women’s quarters, and I heard of such a promise, we joyfully decided to stay, no longer concerned about the urgent need to return home.”
When the meal had ended and our desire had been fulfilled—your brother, the great Peter, himself served me with his own hands and delighted me with his conversation, while the holy Macrina, with the utmost gracious hospitality, sent my wife on her way—we returned with joy and gladness. Along the way, we each recounted to the other how we had spent our time. I told her what I had seen and heard in the men’s quarters, and she, recounting everything in detail like a written history, considered it her duty not to omit even the smallest matter.
As she narrated everything in order, like a well-composed tale, and came to the part where the healing of the eye had been promised, she suddenly interrupted herself. “What have we done? How could we have neglected her promise and failed to seek the healing ointment she offered for the eye?” When I likewise rebuked our negligence and ordered someone to run back quickly to request the medicine, the child, who was then in the arms of her nurse, happened by chance to look at her mother. The mother, gazing intently into her daughter’s eyes, cried out with joy and astonishment, “Stop reproaching our carelessness!”—speaking loudly in delight. “For behold, all that she promised us has been fulfilled! The true remedy she possessed—healing by prayer—she has indeed given us, and it has already worked: there is not the slightest trace left of the illness in the eye, now clear by that divine healing!” Saying this, she embraced the child and placed her in my arms.
Then I, reflecting on the Gospel miracles so often rejected by unbelief, said, “What is there to marvel at, if the hand of God once gave sight to the blind, when in our own time His handmaid, working healing through faith in Him, has performed a work only slightly lesser than those wonders?”
As he told this, his voice was broken by sobs, and tears streamed from his eyes. Such was the account given me by the military commander. As for the other similar miracles, which we heard from those who had lived with her and knew her whole life intimately, I do not deem it prudent to add them to this account. For many judge the truth of what is told to them by the measure of their own capacity, and if something surpasses their understanding, they take it as false and insult it with accusations of deceit.
Therefore, I shall omit that extraordinary event during a famine, when the grain distributed to the poor was not diminished in quantity, but remained equal to what it had been before its distribution. I shall also omit other, even more wondrous occurrences—healings of the sick, casting out of demons, and accurate predictions of future events. All this is undoubted truth for those who knew her well, though it may seem unbelievable to others. For those who are more carnal in mind, such things seem impossible, since they do not understand that the distribution of gifts is given according to the measure of faith: little to the faint-hearted, much to those rich in the capacity of faith.
Thus, lest the unbelieving suffer harm by disbelieving the gifts of God, I refrain from relating in detail the greater miracles she performed, considering it sufficient to end the account with what has already been said.
Text reproduced from the edition: Works of St. Gregory of Nyssa, Part 8. Moscow Theological Academy, 1871.