On Sorrow and Despondency

-St. Basil the Great

When I see the wicked prospering, while you, godly men, are worn out and falling into despair because of ceaseless afflictions, I am filled with sorrow.
But when again I call to mind the mighty hand of God, who raises up the oppressed, loves the righteous, humbles the proud and mighty, and casts them down from their thrones, then, changed once more by hope, I am comforted.

I know—and am fully persuaded—and I desire that you too be persuaded: deliverance will soon come to us; we shall not be utterly forsaken. For what we have endured, we have endured for our sins; but God, in His love and tender mercy toward His servants, will show us help. If we suffer punishment for our sins, then our wounds are sufficient to soften the wrath that would otherwise come upon us. If, on the other hand, by these trials we are being trained for the struggle of piety, the Contest-master is just: He “will not allow you to be tempted beyond what you are able, but with the temptation will also provide the way of escape, that you may be able to endure it” (1 Cor 10:13), and for what we have suffered He will give us the crown of patience and of our hope in Him.

Who could be found so hard of heart, so merciless and without pity, that, hearing everywhere the groaning that strikes our ears—as though some mournful choir were raising one common, harmonious voice of lamentation—he would not be distressed in spirit, cast himself upon the ground, and utterly melt with compassion at the sight of such unspeakable calamities?
These things I say to you not for consolation—for what word could be found able to heal so great a misfortune?—but only that I may, as far as possible, pour out to you by these words the sorrow of my heart.

We have now experienced the craftiness of the devil’s warfare. Seeing that in open persecutions from our enemies the Church only multiplies and flourishes the more, he has changed his plan: he no longer wages war openly, but lays secret snares for us, hiding his malice under the name our enemies bear, so that we may suffer the same things our fathers suffered, yet not appear to suffer for Christ’s sake, since even our persecutors bear the Christian name. This has terrified us and nearly driven us to madness.

To this was added the thought: Has the Lord utterly forsaken His Church? Is the final hour at hand? Is the apostasy now coming, that the man of lawlessness, the son of perdition, may be revealed, “who opposes and exalts himself above every so-called god or object of worship”? (2 Thess 2:3–4).

Yet though the temptation is for a season, endure it as good soldiers of Christ. Even if our affairs are given over to utter destruction, let us not lose heart over the present, but “look for the revelation from heaven of our great God and Savior Jesus Christ.” For if the whole creation shall be dissolved and the fashion of this world pass away, it is no wonder that we too, being a part of creation, should suffer the common evil and be delivered to afflictions which the righteous Judge sends upon us according to our strength, “not allowing us to be tempted beyond what we are able,” but granting together with the temptation the strength to bear it (1 Cor 10:13).

Do not grow faint, therefore, brethren! The crowns of martyrdom await you. The ranks of the confessors stand ready to stretch out their hands and receive you into their company. Remember the saints of old: not one lover of pleasure and flattery was ever counted worthy of the crown of patience; but all, tried by heavy afflictions as by fire, proved their virtue. Blessed is he who has been counted worthy to suffer for Christ; more blessed still is he who has endured the greater sufferings. “For I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory that shall be revealed in us” (Rom 8:18). He who does not faint in sorrows but overcomes the weight of grief by hope in God receives great reward from God for his patience.

Just as worms are most often generated in the weakest trees, so too sorrows are innate in weak human hearts. Yet neither women nor men should indulge in excess and immoderate weeping; rather, without transgressing the bounds of decency, it is not blameworthy to grieve in misfortune and shed some tears—only without wailing and outcry, without rending garments, scattering ashes upon the head, or doing anything else unseemly, as do those who have received no instruction concerning human calamities. To be excessively torn and broken in misfortune is the mark of a feeble spirit that has no strength from hope placed in God.

Tears arise from an unexpected blow that strikes and oppresses the soul, as though from some pressure upon the spirit around the heart; joy, on the other hand, is like a leaping of the soul when its desire is fulfilled. Hence the very appearance of people differs: the sorrowful are pale, livid, and cold in body; the joyful are blooming and ruddy, in whom the soul almost dances and, for gladness, scarcely remains within.

We know many who, in the midst of dreadful calamities, forcibly restrained their tears; but some of them thereby fell into incurable diseases—epilepsy, paralysis of the limbs—while others even lost their lives altogether, because their strength, like some frail rampart, was shattered by the weight of grief. We see the same thing in fire: if the smoke cannot escape but is kept circulating within, the flame is extinguished. Physicians say the same happens with the vital fluids of the body: they dry up and wither when they have no outlet.

Why, then, did the Lord weep over Lazarus? That by this He might heal the weak spirit of those who are very prone to immoderate weeping and lamentation. And that He wept not from any emotion of His own spirit but only for our instruction is clearly shown by His own words: “Our friend Lazarus has fallen asleep, but I go that I may wake him” (John 11:11). Who among us weeps for a sleeping friend whom he expects soon to see awakened? “Lazarus, come forth!” (John 11:43). The man who had been dead came to life and, though bound hand and foot, began to walk—a double miracle: to be bound yet have no hindrance to movement was surely a power above all hindrance. How then did the Lord, who was able to do such things, judge this event worthy of tears? Is it not plain that, strengthening our weaknesses on every side, He set inevitable and necessary passions within certain measures and bounds—removing from us the pitilessness proper to beasts, and at the same time rejecting the tendency to boundless sorrow and lamentation as dishonorable?

And what of Job? Was his heart made of adamant? Was his bosom formed of stone? Ten children fell in the twinkling of an eye, struck down together in the house of feasting while they were enjoying themselves, when the devil shook the house. He saw the banquet mingled with blood; he saw children born at different times yet ended by one common fate. Amid all these calamities he did not wail, did not tear his hair, did not utter a dishonorable cry; but sent up to God that thanksgiving praised and admired by all: “The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away; as it seemed good to the Lord, so it has come to pass. Blessed be the name of the Lord” (Job 1:21).

Was this man entirely without feeling? How could he be, when he himself says, “Did I not weep for every afflicted man?” (Job 30:25). Are his words false? Yet besides all his other virtues, Truth itself bears witness that he spoke truly, saying: “There was a man… blameless, righteous, godly, and true” (Job 1:1).

On the contrary, many people invent mournful songs to increase their lamentation, striving by dirges to break their own souls, and think that a mourner, like actors, needs the same preparation and appearance with which they come upon the stage: black clothing, disheveled hair, everything in the house dark and filthy, dust, and doleful singing that reopens the wound in the soul—ignorant that a soul which has once clung by desire to its Creator and grown accustomed to rejoice in heavenly beauty will not exchange its heartfelt joy for the manifold passions of the flesh, but rather, by what seems sorrowful to others, only doubles its gladness.

Just as those whose eyes are diseased turn away from very bright objects and find relief in looking upon flowers and grass, so the soul must not always set sorrowful events before itself or gaze continually upon present misfortunes, but turn its eyes toward the contemplation of the true goods.

By sorrow, as gold by fire, the soul is tested; and genuine afflictions, to those who have prepared themselves well, serve as a kind of nourishment or ascetic exercise that leads the contender to the glory of the Father. But excessive sorrow becomes the cause of sin: sorrow utterly overwhelms the mind, despondency plunges it into the abyss, and perplexity gives birth to ingratitude. It is shameful to give thanks only in prosperity and be silent in sorrowful and painful circumstances; rather, in these we ought especially to give thanks, knowing that “whom the Lord loves He chastens” (Heb 12:6).

God delivers the saints from sorrow, yet not without trial, but by granting them patience. If “tribulation produces patience, and patience proven character” (Rom 5:3–4), then he who refuses sorrow deprives himself of proven character. Just as no one is crowned without an adversary, so no one can be proved genuine except through sorrows. When Scripture says that God will deliver the righteous “from all afflictions,” it does not mean that He will allow them no affliction at all, but that together with the affliction He will give them strength to bear it. To say that the righteous ought not to have sorrow is the same as saying that a contender ought not to have an opponent.

Since sharing in lamentation brings some comfort to the sorrowful, it is not unfitting to grieve also over the misfortunes of others. For thus you will gain the love of the sufferer, neither appearing cheerful in the midst of others’ calamities nor bearing another’s misfortune without pity. Yet we must not, together with the sorrowful, transgress the bounds of decency—so as to wail or sob with the sufferer, or in other ways imitate one whose mind is darkened by passion: shutting oneself up with him, putting on black garments, casting oneself upon the ground, leaving the hair unkempt—for by these things sorrow is increased, not lightened.

Nevertheless, to grieve over calamities and lament in measure—so that a saddened countenance and a gravity joined with dignity show the soul’s compassion—is not blameworthy.

When we approach the sorrowful to speak with them, we ought not immediately rush to reproaches, as though attacking one who is already lying prostrate. Reproofs are heavy to those who have sorrow in their heart; they are unpleasant to the ears of the grieving and afford not the slightest comfort when spoken by those who feel no sympathy for their grief. For just as to an eye inflamed with pain even the slightest touch causes agony, so to a soul oppressed by the weight of sorrow, even words that might bring great comfort, if uttered at the height of intense grief, somehow seem vexatious to the sufferer.

But when you see a brother weeping in repentance for his sins, weep together with him and share his grief. For by grieving over another’s affliction you will heal your own. He who sheds warm tears over his neighbor’s sin gives healing to himself. Weep over sin: it is a disease of the soul; it is the death of the immortal soul; it is worthy of ceaseless weeping and groaning. For sin let every tear be shed, and let sighing never cease to rise from the depths of the heart.

Thus Jeremiah wept over the perishing people, and since natural tears were not enough for him (Jer 9:1), he asked for a fountain of tears and a lodging-place in the wilderness.

For all these things let us give thanks to Christ our God, to whom belong all glory, honor, and worship, together with His Father who is without beginning and the all-holy, good, and life-giving Spirit, now and ever, and unto the ages of ages. Amen.