Homily 28 — First Corinthians 11, verses 28 to 34

“But let a man examine himself, and so let him eat of the bread and drink of the cup.” [a]

What do these words mean, when another subject has been set before us? It is Paul’s custom, as I said before, not only to deal with the things he had set out to discuss, but also, if some question comes up along the way, to take that up too with great care, especially when it concerns very necessary and pressing matters. So when he was speaking to married people and the question of slaves came in his way, he dealt with it very forcefully and at great length. Again, when he was speaking of the duty not to go to law before those courts, he came upon the warning against greed and spoke at length on that subject too.

He has done the same thing here. Having once found an occasion to remind them of the mysteries, he judged it necessary to go on with that subject, for it was no ordinary one. That is why he spoke of it in such awe-inspiring terms: he was looking after what is the sum of all good things, that they should come to those mysteries with a pure conscience. So he was not content with what he had said before, but adds this too: “But let a man examine himself.” He says the same in the second letter: “Test yourselves; examine yourselves” (Second Corinthians 13, verse 5).

He does not mean it the way we do now, coming forward because of the season rather than from any earnestness of mind. For we do not consider how we may come prepared, with the evils inside us cleansed out and full of heartfelt sorrow, but how we may come at the festivals, and whenever everyone else does. That is not how Paul told us to come. He knows only one season for coming forward and sharing: the purity of a person’s conscience. If even the kind of banquet our senses perceive cannot be shared by us when we are feverish and full of bad humors without the risk of dying, much more is it forbidden for us to touch this table with unholy cravings, which are worse than fevers. When I say unholy cravings, I mean those of the body, and of money, and of anger, and of malice — in a word, all that are unholy. The one who comes forward ought first to empty himself of all these things, and then to touch that pure sacrifice.

If he is sluggish and reluctant, he should not be forced to come because of the festival; nor, on the other hand, if he has repented and is prepared, should anyone stop him because it is not a festival. For a festival is a display of good works, a reverence of soul, and strictness of conduct. If you have these things, you may keep festival at all times and come forward at all times. That is why he says, “But let each man examine himself, and then let him come.” And he does not tell one person to examine another, but each to examine himself, making the court a private one and the conviction one without a witness.

Verse 29: “For he who eats and drinks unworthily eats and drinks judgment on himself.” [c]

What are you saying, tell me? Has this table, which is the cause of so many blessings and is overflowing with life, become judgment? Not by its own nature, he says, but by the will of the one who comes to it. Just as his presence, which brought us those great blessings beyond words, condemned all the more those who did not receive it, so too the mysteries become a store of greater punishment for those who share in them unworthily.

But why does he eat judgment on himself? “Not discerning the Lord’s body”: that is, not searching, not bearing in mind as he ought, the greatness of the things set before him; not weighing the greatness of the gift. For if you came to know accurately who it is that lies before you, and who it is that gives himself, and to whom, you would need no other argument. This would be enough to make you use every care — unless you had fallen away altogether.

Verse 30: “For this reason many among you are weak and sick, and not a few sleep.”

Here he no longer draws his examples from others, as he did in the matter of food sacrificed to idols, when he told the ancient histories and the punishments in the wilderness. He draws them from the Corinthians themselves, and this made his words strike them more sharply. He had been saying, “He eats judgment on himself,” and, “He is guilty.” So that he would not seem to be speaking mere words, he points to facts as well and calls them themselves as witnesses. That kind of thing comes home to people more than threats do, because it shows that the threat has already ended in some real event.

Yet he was not content with this alone. From these facts he also brought in and confirmed the argument about the fire of hell, terrifying them both ways. And he settles a question that is discussed everywhere. Many people ask one another, “Where do untimely deaths come from? Where do people’s long illnesses come from?” He tells them that many of these unexpected events come because of certain sins.

“What then?” you say. “Those who are always healthy and reach a vigorous old age — do they not sin?” Why, who would dare say that? “Then how is it,” you say, “that they are not punished?” Because there they will suffer a more severe punishment. But we, if we were willing, need suffer it neither here nor there.

Verse 31: “For if we discerned ourselves,” he says, “we would not be judged.”

He did not say, “if we punished ourselves, if we took revenge on ourselves,” but: if we were only willing to acknowledge our offense, to pass sentence on ourselves, to condemn what we have done wrong, we would be rid of the punishment both in this world and in the next. For the one who condemns himself wins God’s favor in two ways: by acknowledging his sins, and by being more on his guard in the future. But since we are not willing to do even this light thing as we ought, even so God cannot bear to punish us along with the world. Even so he spares us, exacting the punishment in this world, where the penalty lasts only for a time and the comfort is great. For the result is both release from our sins and a good hope of things to come, which lightens the present evils. He says these things at once to comfort the sick and to make the rest more serious. That is why he says,

Verse 32: “But when we are judged, we are disciplined by the Lord.”

He did not say, “we are punished”; he did not say, “we suffer vengeance”; but, “we are disciplined.” For what happens is a matter of warning rather than condemnation, of healing rather than vengeance, of correction rather than punishment. And not only that: by the threat of a greater evil he makes the present one light, saying, “so that we may not be condemned along with the world.” Do you see how he brings in hell also, and that awesome judgment seat, and shows that that trial and punishment is necessary and must certainly come? For if the faithful, those God especially cares for, do not escape without punishment in whatever they do wrong — and this is clear from what happens now — much more will the unbelievers not escape, and those who commit the sins that can be neither pardoned nor cured.

Verse 33: “So then, when you come together to eat, wait for one another.” [e]

So while their fear was still at its height and the terror of hell remained, he chooses to bring in once again his appeal on behalf of the poor, for whose sake he had said all these things. He implies that if they do not do this, they must be partaking unworthily. And if not sharing our goods shuts us out from that table, much more does taking them by force. He did not say, “So when you come together, share with those in need,” but, what sounds more respectful, “wait for one another.” For this too prepared the way for that and hinted at it, and brought in the appeal in a becoming form. Then, to shame them further, he says,

Verse 34: “And if anyone is hungry, let him eat at home.”

By giving permission he forbids it, and more strongly than by a flat prohibition. For he takes the man out of the church and sends him to his house, sharply rebuking them and making them look ridiculous, as slaves of the belly who cannot control themselves. He did not say, “If anyone despises the poor,” but, “If anyone is hungry,” speaking to them as to impatient children, as to animals without reason that are slaves to their appetite. For it would indeed be very ridiculous if they were to eat at home because they were hungry.

Yet he was not content with this, but added another, more fearful thing, saying, “so that your coming together may not be for judgment”: so that you do not come together for chastisement, for punishment, insulting the church and dishonoring your brother. “This is why you come together,” he says, “to love one another, to do good and to receive good. But if the opposite happens, it would be better for you to feed yourselves at home.” He said this, however, to draw them to himself the more. Indeed, this was the very purpose both of his pointing out the harm that would come from this, and of his saying that the condemnation was no trifling one, and of his terrifying them in every way: by the mysteries, by the sick, by those who had died, and by the other things mentioned before.

Then he alarms them again in another way, saying, “And the rest I will set in order whenever I come.” He means either some other things or this very matter. For it was likely that they would still have some reasons to put forward, and it was not possible to set everything right by letter. “Let the things I have charged you be kept for now,” he says; “but if you have anything else to bring up, let it wait until I come.” He is speaking either of this matter, as I said, or of some other things not very urgent. And he does this so that from this too he may make them more serious, for being anxious about his coming, they would correct their fault. For Paul’s staying in any place was no ordinary thing. To show this he said, “Some are puffed up, as though I were not coming to you” (First Corinthians 4, verse 18); and again elsewhere, “Not as in my presence only, but now much more in my absence, work out your own salvation with fear and trembling” (Philippians 2, verse 12). That is why he did not merely promise to come, in case they should disbelieve him and grow more careless, but also gives a necessary reason for his staying with them, saying, “The rest I will set in order when I come.” This implies that the correction of what remained would have drawn him there even if he had had no wish at all to come.

So, having heard all these things, let us take great care of the poor, restrain our appetite, rid ourselves of drunkenness, and be careful to share in the mysteries worthily. And whatever we suffer, let us not take it bitterly, either for ourselves or for others — as when untimely deaths happen, or long illnesses. For this is release from punishment; this is correction; this is the most excellent warning. Who says this? The one who has Christ speaking in him. [f]

And yet, even after this, many of our women are so foolish as to go beyond the unbelievers in the excess of their grief. Some do this blinded by their feelings, but others for show, and to avoid the criticism of those outside — and these, to my mind, have the least excuse of all. For she says: “So that no one will accuse me, let God be my accuser. So that people more senseless than the beasts will not condemn me, let the law of the King of all be trampled underfoot.” Why, how many thunderbolts do such sayings not deserve?

Again: if anyone invites you to a funeral supper after your loss, no one says a word against it, because there is a human law that requires such things. But when God by his law forbids your mourning, everyone argues against it. Does Job not come into your mind, woman?

Don’t you remember his words at the disaster that struck his children? They adorned that holy head more than ten thousand crowns, and proclaimed louder than many trumpets. Do you make no account of the greatness of his misfortunes, of that shipwreck without precedent, of that strange and monstrous tragedy? You perhaps have lost one child, or a second, or a third; but he lost so many sons and daughters, and the man who had many children suddenly became childless.

Nor was his own flesh and blood worn away from him little by little: with one sweep all the fruit of his body was snatched from him. Nor was it by the common law of nature, when they had reached old age, but by a death both untimely and violent; and all together; and when he was not present or sitting beside them, so that at least, by hearing their last words, he might have had some comfort for so bitter an end. Against all expectation, and without his knowing anything of what was happening, they were all overwhelmed at once, and their house became their grave and their trap.

And it was not only their untimely death; there were many other things besides to grieve him. They were all in the flower of their age, all virtuous and loving, all together; not one of either sex was left; it befell them not by the common law of nature; it came after so great a loss; and he suffered these things when he was aware of no sin, either on his own part or on theirs. Each of these circumstances is enough by itself to trouble the mind. But when we find them all coming together, imagine the height of those waves, the violence of that storm! And what was greater and worse than his bereavement: he did not even know why all these things had happened.

So, having no cause to point to for the misfortune, he goes up to the good pleasure of God and says, “The Lord gave, the Lord has taken away; as it pleased the Lord, so it has happened; blessed be the name of the Lord forever” (Job 1, verse 21). He said these things when he saw himself, who had pursued every virtue, in the last extremity, while wicked men and frauds were prospering, living in luxury, and reveling on every side. And he uttered no such word as some of the weaker sort would likely have uttered: “Was it for this that I brought up my children and trained them with all care? Was it for this that I opened my house to everyone who passed by, so that after running so many courses on behalf of the needy, the naked and the orphans, I might receive this return?” Instead of these, he offered up those words, better than any sacrifice: “Naked I came out of my mother’s womb, and naked I will return there.”

If, however, he tore his clothes and shaved his head, do not be surprised. He was a father, and a loving father; and it was right that both the compassion of his nature and the mastery of his spirit should be shown. Had he not done this, someone might perhaps have thought that his mastery of himself came from mere lack of feeling. So he shows both his natural affection and the strictness of his devotion, and in his grief he was not overthrown.

Yes, and when his trial went further, he is adorned again with other crowns for his reply to his wife: “If we have received good things at the hand of the Lord, shall we not endure evil?” (Job 2, verse 10). For by now his wife was the only one left. Everything he had was utterly destroyed — his children, his possessions, his very body — and she was kept back to tempt and ensnare him. This was the very reason the devil did not destroy her with the children, nor asked for her death: he expected that she would contribute a great deal toward ensnaring that holy man. So he left her as a kind of tool for himself, and a formidable one. “For if even out of paradise I drove humankind by her means,” he says, “much more will I be able to trip him up on the dunghill.” [i]

And notice his cunning. He did not use this stratagem when the oxen or the donkeys or the camels were lost, nor even when the house fell and the children were buried under it. All that long while he watched the contestant and let her stay silent and quiet. But when the fountain of worms gushed out; when the skin began to rot and drop off, and the wasting flesh gave off a most foul discharge; when the devil’s hand was wearing him down with a pain sharper than roasting grates and furnaces and any flame, consuming him on every side and eating away his body more cruelly than any wild beast; and when a long time had been spent in this misery — then he brings her to him, now that he was softened up and worn down.

If she had come to him at the beginning of his misfortune, she would not have found him so weakened, nor would it have been in her power to swell and exaggerate the misfortune so with her words. But now, when she saw him thirsting for release after so long a time, and longing for an end to what pressed on him so violently, then she comes at him. To show that he was completely worn down, that by now he could not even draw breath, and that he even wanted to die, listen to what he says: “Would that I could lay hands on myself, or ask another, and he would do it for me!” And notice, please, the wickedness of his wife, and the point she begins from at once: the length of time. She says, “How long will you hold out?”

Now, if words alone, when there were no real hardships, have often been enough to break a person’s spirit, consider what he was likely to feel then, when besides these words the things themselves were galling him. And what, it seems, was worst of all, it was his wife who spoke this way, and a wife who had utterly collapsed and was giving herself up, and for that reason was trying to throw him too into despair. But so that we may see more clearly the siege engine that was brought against that wall of diamond, let us listen to the very words. What are they?

“How long will you hold out, saying, ‘Look, I will wait a little while longer, expecting the hope of my rescue’?” “No,” she says, “time has exposed the folly of your words. It drags on, yet it shows no way of escape.” She said these things not only to push him into despair, but also to reproach and mock him.

For he, always comforting her when she pressed him, and putting her off, would speak like this: “Wait a little longer, and there will soon be an end of these things.” So, reproaching him, she speaks: “Will you now say the same thing again? A long time has gone by already, and no end of these things has appeared.”

And notice her malice. She makes no mention of the oxen, the sheep or the camels, knowing that he was not very troubled about these; she goes straight to nature and reminds him of his children. For at their death she had seen him tearing his clothes and shaving off his hair. And she did not say, “Your children are dead,” but, very movingly, “Your memorial has perished from the earth” — the very thing for which children were desired. For if even now, after the resurrection has been made known, children are longed for because they keep alive the memory of the departed, much more was that so then. That is why her curse becomes more bitter from that consideration. For there too, the one who pronounced a curse did not say, “Let his children be utterly rooted out,” but, “his memorial from the earth.” Then: “Your sons and your daughters.” So, having said “the memorial,” she again names each sex precisely.

“But if you do not care about these,” she says, “at least consider what is mine: ‘the pains of my womb, and the labors I have endured in vain with sorrow.’” What she means is this: “I, who endured the more, am wronged because of you; I went through the toil, and I am robbed of the fruits.”

And see how she neither mentions his loss of property outright, nor passes over it in silence and hurries by; she hints at it covertly, from the angle from which it too could be told most movingly. For when she says, “I too am a wanderer and a slave, going about from place to place, from house to house,” she both hints at the loss and shows her own great distress. These words are such as even to heighten that misfortune. “For I come to other people’s doors,” she says, “and I do not only beg, but I am a wanderer too, and I serve a strange and unheard-of slavery, going around everywhere, carrying about with me the marks of my disaster, and teaching everyone about my troubles.” And this is the most pitiful thing of all: to go from house to house. Nor did she stop even at these laments, but went on to say, “Waiting for the sun, when it will set, so that I may rest from my miseries and the pains that surround me, which now press hard on me.” “So that which is sweet to others,” she says, “to look at the light, is painful to me; but the night and the darkness are something to be longed for. For this alone gives me rest from my toils; this becomes a comfort in my miseries. But say some word against the Lord, and die.”

Do you see her crafty wickedness here too? Even in giving her advice she did not bring in the deadly counsel at once. First she told her misfortunes pitifully and drew out the tragedy at length; then she wraps up in a few words what she wanted to recommend. She does not even state it plainly, but, casting a shadow over it, she holds out to him the release he greatly longed for, and promises him death, the thing he then desired most of all.

Notice from this also the malice of the devil. Because he knew how Job longed for God, he does not let his wife accuse God, in case Job should at once turn away from her as from an enemy. That is why she nowhere mentions God, but keeps harping continually on the calamities themselves.

And besides what has been said, add this: it was a woman who gave this counsel, a wonderful speaker for leading the careless astray. Many, at least, have been cast down by a woman’s counsel alone, even without any misfortune from outside.

What, then, did the blessed holy man do, he who was firmer than diamond? Looking at her sternly, he drove back her schemes with his face even before he spoke. She had no doubt expected to set fountains of tears flowing; but he became fiercer than a lion, full of anger and indignation — not because of his sufferings, but because of her devilish suggestions. And having shown his anger by his looks, he delivers his rebuke in a restrained tone, for even in misfortune he kept his mastery of himself. And what does he say? “Why do you speak like one of the foolish women?” “I did not teach you this way,” he says; “I did not bring you up like this. That is why I do not now recognize even my own wife. For these words are the counsel of a ‘foolish woman,’ and of one out of her mind.” Do you see here an example of wounding in measure, of striking a blow just strong enough to cure the disease? [n]

Then, after the blow, he brings in advice that is enough, on the other side, to comfort her, and very reasonable, speaking like this: “If we have received our good things at the hand of the Lord, shall we not endure our evils?” “Remember,” he says, “those former things, and take account of the one who gave them, and you will bear even these nobly.” Do you see how modestly the man thinks of himself? He does not credit his endurance to his own courage at all, but says it was part of the natural outcome of what had happened. “For in return for what did God give us those former things? What payment was he making? None; he gave them out of mere goodness. They were a gift, not a payment; grace, not a reward. Very well, then, let us bear these too nobly.”

Let us all, men and women, keep this speech on record, and engrave these words in our minds, both these and the ones before them. And by sketching on our minds, as in a picture, the story of his sufferings — I mean the loss of his wealth, the loss of his children, the disease of his body, the insults, the mockery, his wife’s schemes, the devil’s snare; in a word, all the calamities of that righteous man, and in exact detail — let us provide ourselves with a most spacious harbor of refuge. In this way, bearing everything nobly and with thanksgiving, we may both throw off all dejection in the present life and receive the rewards that belong to this good way of taking things, by the grace and mercy of our Lord Jesus Christ, with whom, to the Father, together with the Holy Spirit, be glory, power and honor, now and always, and forever and ever. Amen.