Homily 28 — Second Corinthians 12, verses 16 to 21

“But granted that I myself did not burden you; yet, being crafty, I caught you by trickery. Did I take advantage of you through any of those I sent to you? I urged Titus to go, and I sent the brother with him. Did Titus take any advantage of you? Did we not walk by the same Spirit? Did we not walk in the same steps?” [a]

Paul has spoken these words very obscurely, but not without meaning or purpose. Since he was speaking about money, and about his defense on that score, it is only reasonable that what he says should be wrapped in obscurity. What, then, does he mean? He had said, “I did not take anything from you; no, I am ready even to give besides, and to spend,” and a great deal is said on this subject both in the former letter and in this one. Now he says something else. He brings the subject in as an objection and meets it in advance. What he says is something like this: “I, for my part, have not made any gain from you. But perhaps someone may say, ‘He did not take anything from you himself, that is true; but being crafty, he arranged for the men he sent to ask you for something as if for themselves, and through them he took it himself, while keeping clear of seeming to take anything, since he took it through others.’ But no one can say this either, and you are witnesses.”

That is why he goes on by asking questions: “I urged Titus to go, and I sent the brother with him. Did Titus make any gain from you?” Did he not walk just as I walked? In other words, he did not take anything either. Do you see how intense the strictness is here? He not only keeps himself clear of taking anything, but he trains those he sends in the same way, so as not to give even the slightest pretext to those who were eager to attack him. This goes far beyond what the patriarch did (Genesis 14, verse 24). When he returned from his victory, and the king would have given him the spoil, he refused to accept anything except what the men had eaten. But this man neither took even his necessary food from them himself, nor allowed his companions to share in any such thing, and so he stopped the mouths of the shameless completely.

That is why he makes no assertion. He does not say, “They did not take anything either.” He does what was far stronger: he calls the Corinthians themselves as witnesses that the men had taken nothing, so that he would not seem to be testifying on his own behalf, but by their verdict. This is the course we usually take in matters that are fully admitted and that we are confident about. “For tell me,” he says, “did any of those we sent make an unfair gain from you?” He did not say, “Did anyone take anything from you?” He calls the thing “unfair gain,” attacking them and shaming them severely, and showing that to take from someone who gives unwillingly is “unfair gain.” And he did not say, “Did Titus?” but “Did any?” “For you cannot say this either, that such a one certainly did not take anything, but someone else did. Not a single one of those who came did so.”

“I urged Titus.” This too is said with a sting. He did not say, “I sent Titus,” but “I urged” him, showing that even if Titus had taken something, he would have done so with every right; and yet even so he stayed clean. That is why he asks them again, “Did Titus take any advantage of you? Did we not walk by the same Spirit?” What does “by the same Spirit” mean? He credits the whole thing to grace, and shows that all this praise is the fruit not of our labors but of the gift of the Spirit and of grace. For it was a very great sign of grace that, though they were in need and hungry, they would take nothing, for the sake of building up the disciples. “Did we not walk in the same steps?” That is, they did not depart in the least from this strictness, but kept the same rule entire.

Verse 19: “Again, do you think that we are excusing ourselves to you?” Do you see how he is continually afraid of falling under suspicion of flattery? Do you see an apostle’s good sense, how constantly he mentions this? He said earlier, “We are not commending ourselves to you again, but giving you an occasion to boast” (Second Corinthians 5, verse 12), and at the beginning of the letter, “Do we need letters of commendation?” (Second Corinthians 3, verse 1). [e]

“But everything is for your building up.” Again he is soothing them. And here too he does not say plainly, “The reason we take nothing is your weakness,” but “so that we may build you up.” He speaks more plainly than he did before, and brings to light what he had been laboring to bring forth, yet without harshness. For he did not say, “because of your weakness,” but “so that you may be built up.”

Verse 20: “For I fear that perhaps, when I come, I may not find you as I would wish, and that I may be found by you as you would not wish.”

He is about to say something weighty and likely to offend. So he puts in this excuse for it beforehand, both by saying, “Everything is for your building up,” and by adding, “I fear,” to soften the harshness of what he was about to say. For he was not speaking here out of arrogance, or with a teacher’s authority, but out of a father’s tender concern, since he is more afraid and trembling than the sinners themselves over what is likely to correct them. Even so, he does not run them down or make a flat assertion. He speaks with doubt: “that perhaps, when I come, I may not find you as I would wish.” He did not say, “not virtuous,” but “not as I would wish,” using the language of affection everywhere.

The words “I may find” are those of someone describing what happens against his natural expectation, and so are the words “I may be found by you.” For the thing does not come from his deliberate choice, but from a necessity that starts with you. That is why he says, “I may be found as you would not wish.” Here he did not say, “as I would not wish,” but, more severely, “as you would not wish.” For in that case it would become his own will — not what he would have wished first, but his will all the same. He could indeed have said again, “as I would not wish,” and so shown his love; but he does not want to let his hearers grow slack. Or rather, in that case his words would have been harsher still. As it is, he has at once dealt them a sharper blow and shown himself gentler. This is the mark of his wisdom: to cut more deeply while striking more gently. Then, because he had spoken obscurely, he unveils his meaning, saying, “that perhaps there may be quarreling, jealousy, fits of anger, slander, gossip, puffed-up pride.”

And what he might well have put first, he puts last, for they were very proud toward him. So that he would not seem to be seeking his own interests above all, he first mentions what they all shared. For all these things were born of envy: their slanders, their accusations, their quarrels. Like some evil root, envy produced anger, accusation, pride and all the other evils, and was increased still further by them. [g]

Verse 21: “And that when I come again, my God may humble me among you.” The word “again” also strikes at them. He means, “What happened before is enough,” as he also said at the beginning of the letter, “To spare you I have not yet come to Corinth” (Second Corinthians 1, verse 23). Do you see how he shows both indignation and tender affection?

But what does “will humble me” mean? Surely this is a glorious thing, rather: to accuse, to punish, to call to account, to sit in the judge’s seat. And yet he calls it a humbling. He was so far from being ashamed of that other humbling — that “his bodily presence was weak, and his speech of no account” — that he wished to remain in that state forever, and prayed against the opposite. He says this more clearly as he goes on; and he counts it a special humbling to be caught in a necessity like the present one, of punishing and taking vengeance. And why did he not say, “that when I come I may be humbled,” but “that when I come my God may humble me”? “Because if it were not for his sake, I would have paid no attention and felt no anxiety. It is not as one who holds authority, or for my own pleasure, that I demand a reckoning, but because of his command.”

Above, indeed, he expressed himself this way: “I may be found.” Here, however, he relaxes and uses milder and gentler language, saying, “I may mourn over many of those who have sinned.” Not simply “who have sinned,” but “who have not repented.” And he did not say “all,” but “many,” nor did he make it clear who these were, so making the way back to repentance easy for them. And to make it plain that repentance can set wrongdoing right, he laments those who do not repent, those who are sick beyond cure, those who stay in their wounds. Notice, then, an apostle’s virtue: conscious of no evil in himself, he laments over the evils of others and is humbled for other people’s wrongdoing. For this is the special mark of a teacher: to share so deeply in the misfortunes of his disciples, and to mourn over the wounds of those under his care. Then he names the particular sin as well.

“Of the sensuality and uncleanness they practiced.” In these words he is pointing to sexual immorality; but if you look into the matter carefully, every kind of sin can be called by this name. The sexually immoral man and the adulterer are called unclean above all, yet the other sins also produce uncleanness in the soul. That is why Christ also calls the Jews unclean, charging them not with sexual immorality only, but with wickedness of other kinds as well. That is why he says that they made the outside clean, and that “it is not what goes into a man that defiles him, but what comes out of him” (Matthew 15, verse 11). And it is said in another place, “Everyone who is proud in heart is unclean before the Lord” (Proverbs 16, verse 5, in the Greek Old Testament). [i]

For nothing is purer than virtue, and nothing more unclean than vice. The one is brighter than the sun; the other stinks worse than mud. Those who are wallowing in that mud and living in that darkness will bear witness to this themselves — at least when someone helps them a little to see clearly. As long as they are by themselves and drunk with their passion, they lie there indecently, as if living in darkness, to their great disgrace, aware even then of where they are, though not fully. But once they see someone who lives in virtue rebuking them, or even just showing his face, they understand their own wretchedness more clearly. As though a sunbeam had flashed on them, they cover up their shame and blush before those who know what they have done — yes, even if the one is a slave and the other free, even if one is a king and the other a subject.

So when Ahab saw Elijah, he was ashamed, even though Elijah had not yet said anything. He stood convicted by the mere sight of him, and while his accuser was silent he passed sentence on himself, speaking the language of a man caught in the act: “You have found me, O my enemy!” (First Kings 21, verse 20). So Elijah himself spoke to that tyrant then with great boldness. So Herod, unable to bear the shame of those rebukes — a shame that the prophet’s voice, ringing out with mighty and transparent clearness, laid bare all the more — threw John into prison. He was like a man who is naked and tries to put out the light so as to be in the dark again. Or rather, he did not dare to put it out himself, but put it, so to speak, under a basket in the house; and it was that wretched and miserable woman who forced the deed to be done.

But not even so could they cover up the rebuke; no, they lit it up all the more. Those who asked, “Why is John in prison?” learned the reason; and all who have lived since on land or sea — those who lived then, those who live now, and those who will come after — have known and will know clearly these wicked tragedies, both their debauchery and their bloodguilt. No length of time will be able to wipe out the memory of them.

So great a thing is virtue! Its memory is so undying, and even by words alone it strikes down its enemies so completely. For why did Herod throw him into prison? Why did he not ignore him? Was John going to drag him before the court? Did he demand punishment for his adultery? Was what he said then not simply a rebuke? Why then does Herod fear and tremble? Was it not just words and talk? But the words stung him more than deeds. John did not bring him before any court; but he dragged him before that other tribunal, the tribunal of conscience, and set over him as judges all who freely gave their verdicts in their own minds. That is why the tyrant trembled: he could not bear the brilliance of virtue. [m]

Do you see how great a thing philosophy is? It made a prisoner more brilliant than a king, and the king is afraid and trembles before him. Herod, indeed, only put him in chains; but that polluted woman rushed on to his murder as well, even though the rebuke was aimed at him rather than at her. For John did not go to her then and say, “Why are you living with the king?” Not that she was innocent — how could she be? — but he wanted to set everything right by the other means. So he blamed the king, and not even him with violent manners. He did not say, “You polluted, utterly polluted, lawless and profane man! You have trampled on the law of God, you have despised the commandments, you have made your power the law.” None of these things. Even in his rebukes the man’s mildness was great, and great his gentleness. “It is not lawful for you,” he says, “to have your brother Philip’s wife.” These are the words of someone who teaches rather than reproves, who instructs rather than punishes, who puts things in order rather than exposes, who corrects rather than tramples.

But as I said, the light is hateful to the thief, and the mere sight of the righteous man is hateful to sinners: “For he is a burden to us even to look at” (Wisdom 2, verse 15). They cannot bear his brightness, just as diseased eyes cannot bear the sun’s. But to many of the wicked he is a burden not only to look at, but even to hear about. That is why that polluted, utterly polluted woman — who pandered her own girl, or rather murdered her — rushed on to his murder, though she had never seen him or heard his voice. And she got the girl she had raised in sensuality ready to go on to murder as well, so wildly did she fear him.

And what does she say? “Give me here on a platter the head of John the Baptist” (Matthew 14, verse 8). Where are you rushing, over the cliffs, wretched and miserable woman? What? Is your accuser standing before you? Is he in sight and troubling you? Others said, “He is a burden to us even to look at”; but for her, as I said, he was a burden even to hear about. That is why she says, “Give me here on a platter the head of John.” And yet because of you he lives in a prison and is loaded with chains, and you are free to revel in your love and to say: “I have so completely mastered the king that, though he was publicly rebuked, he did not give way, or stop his passion, or break off his adulterous union with me. He even put the man who rebuked him in chains.” [p]

Why are you raging like a mad dog, when even after that rebuke of his sin you keep your lover? Why do you look for a table of the Furies, and lay out a banquet for avenging demons? Do you see how worthless vice is, how cowardly, how unmanly — how, just when it is most successful, it grows weaker? This woman was not so troubled before she had thrown John into prison as she is troubled after he is bound, and she presses, saying, “Give me here on a platter the head of John.” And why is that? “I am afraid,” she says, “that the matter of his death may be quietly dropped, that someone may rescue him from his danger.” And why do you not ask for the whole body, but only the head? “The tongue,” she says, “that hurt me — that is what I long to see silent.”

But the opposite will happen, as indeed it has happened, you wretched and miserable woman! It will cry out louder afterward, once it is cut out. Then it cried out in Judea only; but now it will reach to the ends of the world. Wherever you enter a church — whether among the Moors, or among the Persians, or even in the British Isles themselves — you hear John crying out, “It is not lawful for you to have your brother Philip’s wife.” But she, knowing nothing of reasoning this way, urges and presses and pushes the senseless tyrant on to the murder, afraid that he might change his mind. But learn from this too, once again, the power of virtue: even when he was shut up, bound and silent, she cannot bear the righteous man. Do you see how weak a thing vice is? How unclean? For in place of food it brings in a human head on a platter.

What is more polluted, what more accursed, what more shameless than that girl? What a voice she let out in that theater of the devil, at that banquet of demons! Do you see this tongue and that one? The one brought healing medicines; the other had poison on it, and was made the caterer of a devilish banquet. But why did she not order him to be killed in there, at the feast, where her pleasure would have been greater? She was afraid that if he were brought in there and seen, he would change them all by his look and by his boldness. That, surely, is why she demands his head: she wanted to set up a brilliant trophy of sexual immorality, and give it to her mother. [r]

Do you see the wages of dancing? Do you see the spoils of that devilish plot? I do not mean the head of John, but her lover himself. For if you examine it carefully, it was against the king that the trophy was set up. The woman who had won was defeated, and the one beheaded was crowned and proclaimed the victor, and even after his death he shook the hearts of the guilty more violently still. And if you want proof that what I have said is no empty boast, ask Herod himself. When he heard of the miracles of Christ, he said, “This is John; he has risen from the dead, and that is why these powers are at work in him” (Matthew 14, verse 2). So vivid was his fear, so lasting the agony he kept; and no one could throw off the terror of his conscience. That judge who cannot be bribed kept seizing him by the throat and demanding, day after day, that he pay for the murder.

Knowing these things, then, let us not be afraid of suffering evil, but of doing evil. The first is victory; the second, defeat.

That is why Paul too said, “Why not rather suffer wrong? Why not rather be defrauded? But you yourselves do wrong and defraud, and your own brothers and sisters at that.” For it is through suffering evil that the crowns come, the prizes, the herald’s proclamation of victory. And this can be seen in all the saints. Since, then, they were all crowned this way and proclaimed this way, let us too travel this road. Let us pray, indeed, that we may not enter into trial; but if it comes, let us take our stand with great courage and show the readiness of mind that fits it, so that we may obtain the good things to come, by the grace and love for humankind of our Lord Jesus Christ, with whom be glory, might and honor to the Father, together with the Holy Spirit, now and always, and forever and ever. Amen. [s]