Homily 23 — Matthew 7, verses 1 to 20

“Do not judge, so that you will not be judged.” [a]

What then? Are we not to find fault with those who sin? For Paul too says this very thing — or rather, there too it is Christ speaking through Paul, and saying, “Why do you judge your brother? And you, why do you despise your brother?” and, “Who are you to judge another man’s servant?” And again, “So do not judge anything before the time, until the Lord comes.”

How, then, does he say elsewhere, “Reprove, rebuke, exhort,” and, “Rebuke those who sin in front of everyone”? And Christ too said to Peter, “Go and tell him his fault between you and him alone”; and if he refuses to listen, take another with you as well; and if even then he does not give way, tell it to the church too. And how is it that he has set so many over us to reprove — and not only to reprove, but also to punish? For anyone who listens to none of these, he has commanded to be treated “as a pagan and a tax collector.” And how is it that he gave them the keys as well? For if they are not to judge, they will have no authority in any matter, and they have received the power to bind and to loose for nothing.

Besides, if this were the rule, everything would be ruined alike, in churches, in cities, and in households. For unless the master judges the servant, and the mistress the maid, and the father the son, and friends one another, every kind of wickedness will increase. And why do I say friends? Unless we judge our enemies, we will never be able to put an end to our hostility; everything will be turned upside down.

What, then, can the saying mean? Let us pay careful attention, so that no one takes the medicines of salvation and the laws of peace for laws of overthrow and confusion. First of all, then, even by what follows he has shown those who have understanding how excellent this law is, when he says, “Why do you look at the speck in your brother’s eye, but do not notice the beam in your own eye?”

But if it still seems rather obscure to many of the less attentive, I will try to explain it from the beginning. Here, then, as it seems to me at least, he does not simply command us not to judge any of people’s sins, nor does he simply forbid doing such a thing. He forbids it to those who are full of countless evils themselves and trample on others for trifles. And I think certain Jews too are hinted at here: while they were bitterly accusing their neighbors of small faults that came to nothing, they themselves were committing deadly sins without noticing. Toward the end, too, he rebuked them for this when he said, “You bind heavy burdens, hard to bear, but you will not move them with your finger,” and, “You pay tithes of mint and anise, and have neglected the weightier matters of the law: justice, mercy, and faith.”

Well, then, I think these people are included in his rebuke, and that he is checking them in advance about the things for which they would later accuse his disciples. For although his disciples had committed no such sin, there were things in them that were taken for offenses: for instance, not keeping the Sabbath, eating with unwashed hands, sitting at table with tax collectors. Of these people he also says in another place, “You who strain out the gnat and swallow the camel.” But even so, it is also a general law that he is laying down on these matters.

Paul, too, did not absolutely command the Corinthians not to judge. He told them not to judge their own superiors, and on grounds that were not established; he did not tell them to refrain altogether from correcting those who sin. Nor, indeed, was he then rebuking everyone without distinction. The object of his reproof was disciples doing this to their teachers, and people who, guilty of countless sins themselves, bring an evil report on the innocent. This, then, is the sort of thing Christ too hinted at here — and not only hinted at, but guarded with a great terror, and with the punishment from which no prayers can deliver.

“For with the judgment you pronounce,” he says, “you will be judged.” That is: “It is not the other person you condemn, but yourself. You are making the judgment seat terrible for yourself, and the reckoning strict.” [e]

Just as in the forgiveness of our sins the beginning lies with us, so also in this judgment it is we ourselves who lay down the measure of our own condemnation. So you see, we ought not to reproach others or trample on them, but admonish them; not revile them, but advise them; not attack them in pride, but correct them with tenderness. For it is not him but yourself that you hand over to the utmost punishment, when you do not spare him at a time when you may need to pass sentence on his offenses.

Do you see how these two commandments are both easy, and full of great blessings for those who obey them — just as, on the other hand, they are full of evils for those who disregard them? For the one who forgives his neighbor is the first of the two to free himself from the charges against him, and without any labor. And the one who looks into other people’s offenses with tenderness and indulgence has, by his own way of judging, laid up for himself in advance a great store of pardon.

“What then?” you say. “If someone commits sexual immorality, am I not to say that sexual immorality is a bad thing, or correct him at all while he lives so wantonly?” No — correct him, but not as an enemy, nor as an opponent exacting a penalty, but as a physician providing medicine. For Christ did not say, “Do not stop the one who is sinning,” but, “Do not judge”; that is, do not be bitter in pronouncing sentence.

Besides, as I have already observed, this is said not of great things, nor of things that are forbidden, but of those that are not even counted as offenses. That is why he also said, “Why do you look at the speck in your brother’s eye?”

Yes, for many do this now. If they see a monk wearing a garment he does not need, they bring the law of our Lord against him, while they themselves extort without end and cheat people every day. If they see him eating a little too heartily, they become bitter accusers, while they themselves drink to excess and gorge themselves every day. They do not realize that, besides their own sins, they are by this gathering a greater flame for themselves and stripping themselves of every defense. For on this point — that your own conduct must be strictly examined — you yourself were the first to make the law, by passing such sentences on your neighbor. So do not think it hard if you too must undergo the same kind of trial.

“You hypocrite, first take the beam out of your own eye.”

Here he wants to show how great his anger is against those who do such things. For whenever he means to show that a sin is great, and that the punishment and wrath in store for it are severe, he begins with a reproach. So to the man who was exacting the hundred denarii he said in his deep displeasure, “You wicked servant, I forgave you all that debt”; and just so here: “You hypocrite.” For such judging does not come from protective care, but from ill will toward people. A man puts on a mask of kindness while he is doing a work of the utmost wickedness: he makes groundless reproaches and accusations stick to his neighbors, and he seizes a teacher’s rank when he is not worthy to be even a disciple. That is why he called him “hypocrite.” You are so bitter about other people’s conduct that you see even the little things; how have you become so careless about your own that you rush past even the great ones?

“First take the beam out of your own eye.”

Do you see that he does not forbid judging, but commands you first to take the beam out of your own eye, and then to set right the conduct of everyone else? For indeed each person knows his own affairs better than other people’s, and sees the greater things more than the lesser, and loves himself more than his neighbor. So if you do it out of protective care, I tell you to care for yourself first, since in your case the sin is both more certain and greater. But if you neglect yourself, it is quite plain that you are not judging your brother out of care for him either, but out of hatred, and a wish to expose him. For what if he does need to be judged? It should be by someone who commits no such sin, not by you.

He had brought in great and lofty teachings of self-denial. So that no one could say, “It is easy to practice it like this in words,” he spoke this parable, wanting to show his complete confidence, and that he himself was open to none of the charges just mentioned, but had duly fulfilled everything. He did so because he too was going to judge later on, saying, “Woe to you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites!” Yet he was not open to the charge just described: he was not picking out specks, and he had no beam in his own eyes. Being clean of all these things, he corrected the faults of all.

“For it is not at all right,” he says, “to judge others when one is guilty of the same things.” And why wonder that he laid down this law, when even the thief on the cross knew it, saying to the other thief, “Do you not fear God, since you are under the same condemnation?” — expressing the same thought as Christ?

But you, far from taking out your own beam, do not even see it; yet your neighbor’s speck you not only see, but also judge, and try to take out. It is as if someone seized with a severe dropsy, or indeed with any other incurable disease, were to neglect it and find fault with another man for neglecting a slight swelling. And if it is an evil not to see one’s own sins, it is a double and triple evil to sit in judgment on others while carrying beams in one’s own eyes, as though past all feeling. For no beam is as heavy as sin.

So his command in these words is this: the one who is guilty of countless evil deeds should not be a bitter critic of other people’s offenses, especially when these are trifling. He is not doing away with reproof or correction, but forbidding people to neglect their own faults and gloat over those of others.

For indeed this was one cause of people’s going on into great vice, since it brought in a twofold wickedness. The man whose habit it had been to make light of his own faults, great as they were, and to search bitterly into those of others, slight and of no account as they were, was ruining himself two ways: first, by thinking little of his own faults; next, by bringing on himself hostility and feuds with everyone, and training himself every day in extreme harshness and lack of feeling for others.

Having done away with all these things by this excellent lawgiving of his, he added yet another charge, saying, “Do not give what is holy to the dogs, and do not throw your pearls before pigs.” [i]

“Yet surely further on,” someone will say, “he commanded, ‘What you hear in the ear, proclaim on the housetops.’” But this in no way contradicts the former. For even there he did not simply command them to tell everyone; he told them to speak freely to those to whom it ought to be spoken. And by “dogs” here he figuratively meant those who live in incurable ungodliness and offer no hope of a change for the better; and by “pigs,” those who go on continually in an unchaste life. All of these he has declared unworthy of hearing such things. Paul, too, it may be noted, declared this when he said, “The unspiritual man does not receive the things of the Spirit, for they are foolishness to him.” And in many other places too he says that a corrupt life is the reason people do not receive the fuller teachings.

That is why he commands us not to open the doors to them; for they become more insolent after they have learned. For just as to the well-disposed and intelligent, holy things seem worthy of reverence when they are revealed, so to the unfeeling they seem more so when they remain unknown. “Since, then, by their nature they are not able to learn them,” he says, “let the thing be hidden, so that at least out of ignorance they may revere them. For the pig does not know at all what a pearl is. So since he does not know, let him not see it either, so that he will not trample underfoot what he does not know.”

For nothing comes of it except greater harm to people of that disposition when they hear. The holy things are profaned by them, since they do not know what they are, and they themselves are all the more puffed up and armed against us. This is what is meant by, “so that they will not trample them under their feet, and turn and tear you to pieces.”

“But surely,” someone says, “these truths ought to be so strong that they stay just as unassailable after people have learned them, and do not give others openings against us.” But it is not the truths that give the openings; it is that these people are pigs. Just so, when a pearl is trampled underfoot, it is not trampled because it is really worthless, but because it fell among pigs.

And he was quite right to say, “turn and tear you to pieces.” For they pretend to be gentle so that they may be taught; then, once they have learned, they change completely into another sort of people, and jeer at us, mock us, and ridicule us as people who have been deceived. That is why Paul too said to Timothy, “You too beware of him, for he strongly opposed our words”; and again in another place, “Turn away from such people”; and, “Reject a man who is a heretic after a first and second warning.”

It is not, you see, that those truths supply them with weapons; they become fools in this way of their own accord, being filled with more willfulness. For this reason it is no small gain to them to remain in ignorance, since then they are not such complete scorners. But if they learn, the harm is twofold. They themselves will gain nothing from it, but rather be all the more damaged; and they will cause you endless difficulties.

Let them listen, those who shamelessly mix with everyone and make the awesome things contemptible. This is why we too celebrate the mysteries with the doors closed and keep out those not yet initiated: not because we have found any weakness in our rites, but because most people are still imperfectly prepared for them. For this very reason he himself also spoke much to the Jews in parables, “because seeing, they did not see.” For this reason Paul likewise commanded us “to know how we ought to answer each person.”

“Ask, and it will be given to you; seek, and you will find; knock, and it will be opened to you.” [l]

He had commanded great and marvelous things. He had ordered people to rise above all their passions; he had led them up to heaven itself; he had told them to strive to resemble not angels and archangels, but, as far as possible, the very Lord of all. He had bidden his disciples not only to do all this themselves, but also to correct others, and to tell apart the evil and those who are not, the dogs and those who are not dogs — although there is much in people that is hidden. He did not want them to say, “These things are hard and unbearable” — and in fact, later on, Peter did say something of the kind: “Who can be saved?” and again, “If this is how things stand for a man, it is not good to marry.” So, I say, so that they would not say so now as well, he acted as follows. In the first place, by what went before he had already proved it all to be easy, piling one persuasive reason on another. Now, after all this, he adds the crowning point of ease, providing no ordinary relief for our toils: the help that comes from persevering prayer. We are not, he says, to struggle alone, but also to call on the help from above; and it will surely come and be with us, and will aid us in our struggles, and make everything easy. That is why he both commanded us to ask and pledged himself to give.

He did not, however, command us simply to ask, but to ask with great persistence and earnestness. For this is the meaning of “seek.” The one who seeks puts everything else out of his mind; he is taken up with that alone which he is seeking, and takes no notice of anyone who is present. All who have lost gold, or servants, and are searching hard for them, know what I am saying.

By “seeking,” then, he meant this; by “knocking,” that we should come with earnestness and a burning mind.

So do not lose heart, my friend, and do not show less zeal for virtue than they show desire for wealth. Things of that kind you have often sought and not found; and yet, though you know you are not sure to find them, you set every kind of search in motion. But here, although you have a promise that you will surely receive, you do not show even the smallest part of that earnestness. And if you do not receive at once, do not lose hope even so. This is why he said, “knock”: to show that even if he does not open the door at once, we are to stay there.

And if you doubt what I say, at any rate believe his example. [m]

“For what man is there among you,” he says, “who, if his son asks for bread, will give him a stone?”

Among people, if you keep on doing this, you are even thought troublesome and tiresome; but with God it is when you do not do so that you provoke him more. And if you go on asking, even though you do not receive at once, you will surely receive. For this is why the door was shut: so that he might lead you to knock. This is why he does not grant your request at once: so that you may ask. So keep on doing these things, and you will surely receive. For so that you would not say, “What then, if I ask and do not receive?”, he has blocked that approach with this comparison. Again he builds his arguments, and by these human examples urges us to be confident in these matters; and by them he shows that we must not only ask, but ask for what we ought.

“For which of you, being a father, if his son asks for bread, will give him a stone?” So if you do not receive, the reason you do not receive is that you are asking for a stone. For even though you are a son, that is not enough for you to receive. Rather, this very thing stands in the way of your receiving: that, being a son, you ask for what is not good for you.

So you too, ask for nothing worldly, but for all things spiritual, and you will surely receive. Look at Solomon: because he asked for what he ought, see how quickly he received. So you see, two things should be in the one who prays: that he ask earnestly, and that he ask for what he ought. “For you too,” he says, “though you are fathers, wait for your sons to ask; and if they ask you for something harmful, you refuse the gift, just as, if it is good for them, you agree and give it.”

You too, then, bearing this in mind, do not withdraw until you receive; do not leave until you have found; do not slacken your diligence until the door is opened. For if you come with this mind and say, “Unless I receive, I will not go away,” you will surely receive — provided you ask for such things as are both fitting for the one you ask to give, and good for you who ask. And what are these? To seek spiritual things, all of them; to forgive those who have wronged us, and so draw near asking forgiveness; “to lift up holy hands without anger and doubting.” If we ask in this way, we will receive. As things are, our asking is surely a mockery, the act of drunk men rather than sober ones.

“What then,” someone says, “if I ask even for spiritual things and do not receive?” Then surely you did not knock with earnestness; or you made yourself unworthy to receive; or you quickly gave up.

“And why,” it may be asked, “did he not say what things we ought to ask for?” But he has mentioned them all in what went before, and has shown for what things we ought to draw near. So do not say, “I drew near and did not receive.” For it is never God’s doing that we do not receive — God, who loves us so much that he surpasses even fathers, and surpasses them as far as goodness surpasses this evil nature.

“For if you, being evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more your Father in heaven.”

Now he said this not to give human nature a bad name, nor to condemn our race as evil; but in contrast with his own goodness he calls a father’s tenderness evil — so great is the excess of his love for humankind. Do you see an argument beyond words, able to rouse to good hopes even someone who has fallen into utter despair?

Here, indeed, he shows his goodness by means of our fathers; but in what went before, by the chief of his gifts: by the soul, by the body. And nowhere does he set down the chief of all good things, or bring forward his own coming — for the one who was so quick to give up his Son to be slaughtered, “how will he not freely give us all things?” — because it had not yet happened. Paul, however, does set it out, saying, “He who did not spare his own Son, how will he not also with him freely give us all things?” But his discourse with them is still drawn from human things.

After this he wants to show two things: that we must not put our confidence in prayer while neglecting our own conduct, and that when we do take pains, we must not trust in our own efforts alone, but must both seek the help from above and add our own part as well. So he sets the one alongside the other. After much exhortation he taught them how to pray; when he had taught them how to pray, he went back to his exhortation about what we are to do; from there he turned again to the need to pray continually, saying, “Ask,” and “Seek,” and “Knock”; and from there once more to the need for us to be diligent ourselves. [o]

“For all things,” he says, “whatever you would like people to do to you, do the same to them.”

Here he sums everything up in a few words, and shows that virtue is brief, easy, and plain for everyone to know.

And he did not merely say, “All things whatever you would like,” but, “Therefore, all things whatever you would like.” He did not add this word “therefore” without a purpose; there is a hidden meaning in it. “If you want to be heard,” he is saying, “then along with what I have told you, do these things too.” And what are they? “Whatever you would like people to do to you.” Do you see how he has shown here as well that along with prayer we need a careful way of life? And he did not say, “Whatever you would like God to do for you, do that for your neighbor,” so that you could not say, “But how is that possible? He is God, and I am a man.” He said instead, “Whatever you would like your fellow servant to do for you, show the same to your neighbor yourself.” What could be less burdensome than this? What could be fairer?

Then comes the praise as well, and even before the rewards it is very great: “For this is the law and the prophets.”

From this it is clear that virtue is in keeping with our nature; that all of us know our duties by ourselves; and that we can never take refuge in ignorance.

“Enter in by the narrow gate. For wide is the gate and broad is the way that leads to destruction, and many are those who go in by it; and narrow is the gate and confined is the way that leads to life, and few are those who find it.” [q]

And yet after this he said, “My yoke is easy, and my burden is light.” And in what he said just now he hinted at the same thing. How then does he say here that the way is narrow and confined? First of all, if you pay attention, even here he shows it to be very light, and easy, and within reach. “And how,” someone may say, “is the narrow and confined way easy?” Because it is a way and a gate — just as the other, wide and spacious as it is, is also only a way and a gate. None of these things lasts; everything passes away, both the pains of life and its good things. Nor is this the only reason the part of virtue is easy; its end makes it easier still. For not only the passing away of our labors and toils, but also their coming to a good end — for they end in life — is enough to comfort those in the contest. So the short duration of our labors, the everlasting duration of our crowns, and the fact that the labors come first and the crowns afterward, must be a very great relief in our toils. That is why Paul too called their affliction “light” — not because of what the events were in themselves, but because of the resolve of those in the contest and their hope of what was to come. “For our light affliction,” he says, “works for us an eternal weight of glory, while we look not at the things that are seen, but at the things that are not seen.”

For to sailors the waves and the seas, to soldiers slaughter and wounds, to farmers winters and frosts, to boxers the sharp blows — all of these are light and bearable, for the hope of rewards that are temporary and perishing. How much more, then, when heaven is set before us, and blessings beyond words, and eternal rewards, will no one feel any of the present hardships! And if anyone still counts it toilsome even so, that impression comes from nothing but his own slackness.

See, at any rate, how he makes it easy from another side too, by commanding us not to have dealings with the dogs, nor to give ourselves over to the pigs, and to “beware of the false prophets” — in every way making people feel that they are in a real contest. And the very fact that he called it narrow did a great deal to make it easy, for it worked on them to be watchful. When Paul says, “We do not wrestle against flesh and blood,” he says it not to discourage the soldiers but to rouse their spirits; in the same way Christ called the way rough, to shake the travelers out of their sleep. And he worked on them to be watchful not only in this way, but also by adding that the way holds many who try to trip them up — and, what is harder still, they do not attack openly but in hiding, for that is what the false prophets are like. “But do not look at this,” he says, “that it is rough and narrow, but at where it ends; nor at this, that the other is wide and spacious, but at where it comes out.”

All this he says to rouse our eagerness to the full, just as elsewhere he said, “The violent take it by force.” For anyone in a contest, when he sees the judge of the games marveling at how hard he is striving, takes fresh heart.

So let us not be bewildered when many things spring up from this that bring us trouble. The way is narrow and the gate is narrow, but not the city. So we must neither look for rest here, nor expect anything painful there any longer.

In saying, “Few are those who find it,” he again pointed out the carelessness of most people, and taught his hearers to look not at the good fortune of the many but at the labors of the few. Most people, he is saying, far from walking this way, do not even choose it — which is the worst fault of all. But we should not look at the many, or be troubled by them. We should imitate the few, equip ourselves in every way, and so walk in it.

For besides being narrow, the way that leads there holds many who would throw us down. That is why he added:

“Beware of false prophets, for they will come to you in sheep’s clothing, but inwardly they are ravenous wolves.” See, alongside the dogs and pigs, another kind of ambush and plotting, far worse than that one. Those are known and in the open; these are veiled. That is why he commanded us to keep away from those, but charged us to watch these with the utmost care, as though they could not be recognized at the first approach. That is why he said “beware,” making us sharper at telling them apart. [s]

His hearers had just been told that the way was narrow and confined, that they must walk a road opposite to that of the many, and must keep themselves from pigs and dogs and, along with these, from another and more wicked kind, the wolves. So that they would not sink under this crowd of troubles — having both to go against the way of most people and, on top of that, to be so anxious about these things — he reminded them of what happened in their fathers’ days by using the term “false prophets,” for such things happened just as much then. “Do not be troubled now, I beg you,” he is saying, “for nothing new or strange is going to happen to you.” For against every truth the devil is always secretly slipping in a deception made to match it.

By the figure of “false prophets” here, I think he is picturing not the heretics but those who live corrupt lives while wearing a mask of virtue — the people most folk commonly call impostors. That is why he went on to say, “By their fruits you will know them.” For among heretics one can often find real goodness, but among those I was speaking of, never.

“What then,” someone may say, “if they counterfeit in these things too?” “No, they will be easily found out. For such is the nature of this way that I have commanded you to walk: painful and wearisome. But the hypocrite would not choose to take pains, only to make a show; and so he is easily exposed.” So, since he had said, “Few are those who find it,” he sifts out from among them once more those who do not find it but pretend to, commanding us to look not at those who merely wear the mask, but at those who truly pursue the way.

“But why,” someone may say, “did he not make them plain to see, instead of setting us to search them out?” So that we would keep watch and always be ready for the fight, guarding against our disguised enemies as well as our open ones. Paul too was pointing to this kind when he said that “by their fair words they deceive the hearts of the simple.” So let us not be troubled when we see many such people even now. Christ foretold this too from the beginning.

And see his gentleness. He did not say, “Punish them,” but, “Do not be harmed by them,” “Do not fall among them off your guard.” Then, so that you could not say, “It is impossible to tell that sort of person apart,” he again gives an argument from a human example: “Do people gather grapes from thorns, or figs from thistles? In the same way, every good tree produces good fruit, but the rotten tree produces bad fruit. A good tree cannot produce bad fruit, nor can a rotten tree produce good fruit.”

What he means is this: they have nothing gentle or sweet about them; they are sheep only as far as the skin, and so they are easy to recognize. And so that you would not have the slightest doubt, he compares it to certain necessities of nature, things that can turn out only one way. Paul spoke in the same sense when he said, “The mind of the flesh is death; for it is not subject to the law of God, nor indeed can it be.”

And if he says the same thing twice, it is not idle repetition. Someone might say, “Though the bad tree bears bad fruit, it bears good fruit as well, and since the crop is mixed, it is hard to tell them apart.” So he says: “That is not so. It bears bad fruit only, and can never bear good — and the same holds the other way around.”

“What then? Is there no such thing as a good man becoming wicked? And the reverse happens too; life is full of such examples.” But Christ does not say that the wicked have no way to change, or that the good cannot fall away. He says that as long as a man goes on living in wickedness, he will not be able to bear good fruit. A bad man may indeed change to virtue; but while he remains in wickedness, he will not bear good fruit.

What then? Did not David, a good man, bear bad fruit? Not while he remained good, but when he had changed. Certainly, if he had always stayed as he was, he would not have produced such fruit. It was surely not while he kept to the habit of virtue that he did what he did.

With these words he was also stopping the mouths of those who speak evil at random, and putting a bridle on the lips of every slanderer. Many people suspect the good because of the bad; by this saying he has taken away all their excuse. “You cannot say, ‘I was deceived and led astray.’ For I have given you this exact way of telling them apart, by their works, and I have added the command to look to their actions, and not to lump everyone together at random.”

Then, since he had not commanded them to punish these people but only to beware of them, he set up against them as a rampart the punishment they would receive from him — at once to comfort those whom they trouble, and to alarm the false prophets themselves and bring them to change. He said, “Every tree that does not produce good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire.” [w]

Then, to make the saying less harsh, he added, “So then, by their fruits you will know them.” He did not want to seem to make the threat his main subject, but to be stirring their minds by way of warning and advice.

Here he seems to me to be hinting at the Jews as well, who were showing fruits of this kind. That is why he reminded them of John’s sayings, describing their punishment in the very same terms. For John too said the very same thing, speaking to them of an “axe,” and of a “tree cut down,” and of “unquenchable fire.”

And though being burned up seems to be one single judgment, yet if you look carefully, there are two punishments here. For whoever is burned is of course also thrown out of God’s kingdom, and this second punishment is worse than the first. I know that many tremble only at hell; but I say that the loss of that glory is a far greater punishment than hell. And if it cannot be shown in words to be so, there is nothing surprising in that. For we do not know the happiness of those good things well enough to see clearly, on the other side, the misery of being deprived of them. Paul, since he knew these things clearly, knows that to fall from Christ’s glory is worse than anything. And we will know it then, when we come to the actual experience of it.

But may this never happen to us, O only Son of God! May we never have any experience of this punishment that nothing can remedy! How great an evil it is to fall from those good things cannot be told exactly. Still, as far as I am able, I will work and strive to make it clear to you by an example, even if only in some small measure.

Let us imagine a wonderful child who, besides his virtue, rules the whole world, and is so good in every way that he can draw everyone to love him with a father’s longing. What loss, do you think, would the father of this child not gladly bear, rather than be shut out of his company? What evil, small or great, would he not welcome, on condition of seeing him and enjoying him? Now let us reason in just the same way about that glory. For no child, however good, is as desirable and dear to a father as it is to have our share in those good things, and “to depart and be with Christ.”

Hell and its punishment are, no doubt, unbearable. Yet though you imagine ten thousand hells, you will describe nothing like what it will be to miss that blessed glory, to be hated by Christ, to hear “I do not know you,” to be accused of not feeding him when we saw him hungry. Yes, it would be better to endure a thousand thunderbolts than to see that gentle face turning away from us, and that peaceful eye unable to bear looking at us. For if, when I was his enemy, hating him and turning away from him, he pursued me so far as not to spare even himself, but gave himself up to death — then when, after all this, I do not grant him so much as a loaf of bread in his hunger, with what kind of eyes will I ever look at him again?

But notice his gentleness even here. He does not speak of his kindnesses at all. He does not say, “You have despised the one who did you so much good.” Nor does he say, “Me, who brought you from nothing into being, who breathed a soul into you, and set you over everything on earth; who for your sake made earth and heaven and sea and air and all that exists; who was dishonored by you, yes, valued less than the devil, and even so did not withdraw, but had countless thoughts for you after it all; who chose to become a slave, who was beaten with rods and spat upon, who was killed, who died the most shameful death; who also intercedes for you on high, who freely gives you his Spirit, who grants you a kingdom, who makes you such promises; who wants to be to you Head, and Bridegroom, and Garment, and House, and Root, and Food, and Drink, and Shepherd, and King; who has taken you to be his brother, and heir, and joint heir with himself; who has brought you out of darkness into the dominion of light.” These things, and more than these, he might have spoken of, but he mentions none of them. What, then? Only the sin itself.

Even here he shows his love, and reveals the longing he has for you. He does not say, “Depart into the fire prepared for you,” but, “prepared for the devil.” He tells them what wrongs they have done, and even then he cannot bear to mention them all, only a few. And before these he calls the other group, those who have done well, to show from this too that he is right to blame them.

What punishment, then, is as heavy as these words? If anyone saw a man who had been his benefactor going hungry, he would not neglect him; or if he did neglect him and were reproached for it in front of two or three friends, he would rather sink into the ground than hear of it. What will we feel, then, when we hear these words in front of the whole world — words he would not speak even then, if he were not seriously giving an account of his own dealings? That he brings these things up not to reproach us but in his own defense, to show that it is not without grounds or at random that he says, “Depart from me,” is clear from his kindnesses beyond words. For if he had wanted to reproach, he would have brought up all of them; as it is, he mentions only how he himself was treated.

So let us fear hearing these words, beloved. Life is not a game. Or rather, our present life is a game, but the things to come are not. Or perhaps our life is not only a game but something worse than a game, for it does not end in laughter; it brings great harm on those who will not order their ways carefully. Tell me, what difference is there between children playing at building houses and us building our fine houses? What difference between them playing at dinners and us with our dainty food? None — except that we do it at the risk of being punished. And if we do not yet fully see how poor these doings are, no wonder, for we have not yet become grown men. When we have, we will know that all these things are childish. [ab]

Those other things, too, we laugh at when we grow to manhood, though as children we think them worth worrying about. While we are gathering bits of broken pottery and mud, we think no less of ourselves than those who build great circuits of city walls. Yet those little buildings soon fall down and are gone, and even while they stand they are of no use to us — no more than those fine houses are. For they cannot hold the citizen of heaven, nor can the one whose homeland is above bear to stay in them. As we knock down the children’s houses with our feet, so he knocks down those fine houses by his lofty spirit. And as we laugh at the children crying over the ruins, so these people, when we are lamenting over it all, do not only laugh — they weep too, because their hearts are full of pity, and because great harm comes of it.

So let us become men. How long will we crawl on the ground, priding ourselves on stones and timber? How long will we play? And if only we were just playing! As it is, we are even throwing away our own salvation. Children who neglect their lessons and practice these games in their free time get very severe beatings. So it will be with us: we spend all our effort on these things, and when our spiritual lessons are required of us in our works and we cannot produce them, we will pay the utmost penalty. And there is no one to rescue us, whether father or brother or anyone you like. All these things will pass away, but the torment that follows them stays, undying and unending. Something like this happens with children too, when their father destroys their toys altogether because of their idleness and leaves them crying without end.

And to convince you that these things are so, let us bring forward wealth, the thing that more than anything seems worth our trouble, and set against it any virtue of the soul you like; then you will see most clearly how worthless wealth is. Let us suppose two men — and I am not yet speaking of wrongdoing, but of honestly gotten wealth. Let one of them gather money: let him sail the sea, farm the land, and find many other ways of trading (though I am not at all sure that a man who does so can make honest gains). Still, let it be so; let us grant that his gains are honestly gotten, that he buys fields and slaves and all such things, and let us suppose there is no injustice in any of it.

But let the other, who owns just as much, sell his fields, sell his houses and his vessels of gold and silver, and give to the poor. Let him supply the needy, heal the sick, set free those in hard straits; let him deliver some from chains, release others from the mines, bring these back from the noose, and rescue those who are captives from their punishment. Whose side would you be on? We have not yet spoken of the future, only of what is here. Whose part would you take, then? The one who is gathering gold, or the one who is putting an end to disasters? The one buying fields, or the one making himself a harbor of refuge for the human race? The one clothed with much gold, or the one crowned with countless blessings? Is not the one like an angel come down from heaven to set the rest of mankind right, and the other not even like a man, but like some little child gathering everything together, pointlessly and at random?

But if getting money honestly is so absurd, the height of madness, then when even the honesty is missing, how can such a man be anything but the most wretched of all? If the absurdity is so great, how much lamenting does he deserve, both living and dead, when hell is added to it, and the loss of the kingdom?

Or would you like us to take up some other part of virtue as well? Then let us bring in another man. He holds power; he gives orders to everyone; he is clothed in great dignity, with a splendid herald, a belt of office, lictors, and a large crowd of attendants. Doesn’t this seem great, and worth calling happy? Very well. Against this man let us set another: one who puts up with wrongs, gentle, humble, and patient. Let this second man be insulted and beaten, and let him bear it quietly and bless those who do such things to him. [ac]

Now which of them deserves to be admired, I ask you? The one who is puffed up and swollen, or the one who has mastered himself? Isn’t the second like the powers above, who are so free from passion, and the first like a blown-up bladder, or a man swollen with dropsy and badly inflamed? Isn’t the one like a physician of souls, and the other like a ridiculous child puffing out his cheeks?

Why are you so proud of yourself, my friend? Because you are carried high in a carriage? Because a pair of mules is pulling you? And what is that? Why, you can see the same thing happen to mere logs and stones. Is it because you are dressed in beautiful clothes? Then look at the man who wears virtue for his clothing, and you will see that you are like withering grass, and he is like a tree that bears marvelous fruit and gives great delight to everyone who sees it. For you are carrying around food for worms and moths, and if they attack you, they will quickly strip you bare of this finery. Clothes, gold and silver are, after all, the one the spinning of worms, the others earth and dust, and they turn back into earth and nothing more. But the man who is clothed with virtue has a garment that not only worms cannot harm, but not even death itself. And that is only natural. These virtues of the soul do not have their origin in the earth; they are a fruit of the Spirit, and that is why they are not exposed to the mouths of worms. No, these garments are woven in heaven, where there is no moth, no worm, nor anything else of the kind.

Tell me, then, which is better: to be rich or to be poor? To be in power or in disgrace? To live in luxury or in hunger? The answer is plain: to be in honor, and in enjoyment, and in wealth. So if you want the things themselves and not just their names, leave the earth and what is here, and find yourself an anchorage in heaven. For what is here is a shadow, but everything there is immovable, steadfast, and beyond the reach of any attack.

So let us choose those things with all diligence, so that we may be set free from the turmoil of the things here and, having sailed into that calm harbor, be found with a full cargo and with that wealth of almsgiving that is beyond words. May we all reach it, by the grace and love for humankind of our Lord Jesus Christ, to whom be glory and power forever and ever. Amen.