Homily 4 — Matthew 1, verses 17 to 21

“So all the generations from Abraham to David are fourteen generations, and from David to the carrying away into Babylon are fourteen generations, and from the carrying away into Babylon to Christ are fourteen generations.” [a]

He has divided all the generations into three parts to show that not even when their form of government changed did they become any better. Under an aristocracy, under a king, and under an oligarchy alike, they kept to the same evil ways; and whether popular leaders, or priests, or kings had charge of them, it did them no good at all where virtue was concerned.

But why, in the middle part, has he passed over three kings? And why, in the last part, after setting down twelve generations, does he say there are fourteen? The first question I leave for you to look into, for there is no need for me to explain everything to you, or you would grow lazy. The second we will explain. It seems to me that here he counts as a generation both the time of the captivity and Christ himself, joining him to us by every means. And he does very well to remind us of that captivity, making it plain that not even when they were carried down there did they come to their senses. In this way it is shown from everything that his coming was necessary.

“Why, then,” someone may say, “does Mark not do this? Why does he not trace Christ’s genealogy, but tell everything briefly?” It seems to me that Matthew took up the subject before the others. That is why he both sets down the genealogy exactly and dwells on the points that call for it. Mark came after him, and that is why he took a short route: he was setting his hand to what had already been told and made plain.

How is it, then, that Luke not only traces the genealogy but does it through a larger number of names? Naturally enough: since Matthew had led the way, Luke wants to teach us something more than had been said before. And each of them, too, imitated his teacher in the same way: the one imitated Paul, who flows more fully than any river; the other, Peter, who aims at brevity.

And what may be the reason that Matthew did not begin the way the prophets did, with “The vision which I saw,” and “The word which came to me”? Because he was writing to people who were well disposed toward him and listened to him very closely. The miracles that had been done cried aloud, and those who received the word were deeply faithful. With the prophets it was different. There were not so many miracles to proclaim them, and besides, the tribe of false prophets, and no small tribe, was breaking in on them riotously, and the Jewish people paid even more attention to those men. So in their case this kind of opening was necessary. [c]

And if miracles were ever done, they were done for the sake of foreigners, to add to the number of converts, and to show God’s power whenever their enemies had taken them captive and imagined they had won because their own gods were mighty. So it was in Egypt, from which no small “mixed multitude” went up with them; and after that in Babylon, in what happened with the furnace and the dreams. Miracles were done also when they were on their own in the wilderness. And it has been so with us as well: among us too, when we had only just come out of error, many wonderful works were shown; but afterward they stopped, once true religion had taken root in every country.

What happened in later times was rare and at intervals: for example, when the sun stood still in its course, and when it turned back in the opposite direction. And one can see this happening in our case too.

For even in our own generation, in the case of the man who outdid everyone in ungodliness, I mean Julian, many strange things happened. When the Jews were trying to raise up the temple at Jerusalem again, fire burst out of the foundations and stopped them all completely. And when both his treasurer and his uncle, who bore his name, made the sacred vessels the object of their open insolence, the one was “eaten by worms, and breathed his last,” and the other “burst open in the middle.” Besides this, the springs failed when sacrifices were offered there, and famine came into the cities together with the emperor himself, and that was a very great sign. For this is God’s way: when evils multiply, and he sees his own people afflicted and their enemies drunk with their power over them, then he displays his own power. He did this also in Persia, for the Jews.

So it is plain from what has been said that he was not acting without a purpose, or at random, when he divided Christ’s forefathers into three parts. And notice, too, where he begins and where he ends: from Abraham to David; from David to the captivity of Babylon; from that to Christ himself. At the beginning he put the two side by side, David and Abraham, and in summing up he mentions both in the same way. And this is because, as I have already said, it was to them that the promises were made. [g]

But why is it that, having mentioned the captivity of Babylon, he did not also mention the going down into Egypt? Because they were no longer afraid of the Egyptians, but they still dreaded the Babylonians. Besides, the one was ancient, while the other was fresh and had happened recently. And they were carried down into Egypt for no sins, whereas it was their transgressions that caused them to be carried off to Babylon.

And as for the names themselves, if anyone tried to translate their meanings, he would find even there a great deal of matter for reflecting on divine things, and matter of great importance for the New Testament: from Abraham’s name, for instance, from Jacob’s, from Solomon’s, from Zerubbabel’s. For it was not without purpose that these names were given them. But so that we do not seem tiresome by running on at great length, let us pass these things by and go on to what is pressing.

Having named all his forefathers and ended with Joseph, he did not stop there, but added, “Joseph the husband of Mary,” hinting that it was for her sake that he had traced Joseph’s genealogy too. Then, so that when you hear of “the husband of Mary” you would not suppose Christ was born by the ordinary law of nature, notice how he sets it right by what follows. “You have heard of a husband,” he says, “you have heard of a mother, you have heard the name given to the child; so now hear how the birth took place as well: ‘The birth of Jesus Christ was like this.’” “What kind of birth are you telling me about, please, when you have already named his ancestors?” “I still want to tell you how he was born as well.” Do you see how he wakes up the hearer? He promises to tell how it happened as though he were about to speak of something out of the ordinary. [h]

And notice what a wonderful order there is in the things he has told. He did not go straight to the birth. First he reminds us how many generations Christ was from Abraham, how many from David, and how many from the captivity of Babylon. In this way he sets the careful hearer to thinking about the times, to show that this is the Christ who was proclaimed by the prophets. For once you have counted the generations and learned from the timing that this is he, you will readily accept the miracle that took place in his birth as well. So, being about to tell of something great, his birth from a virgin, he first veils the statement by speaking of “the husband of Mary,” until he has counted the generations. Or rather, he even tells the story of the birth itself in brief, and then goes on to count the years as well, reminding the hearer that this is the one of whom the patriarch Jacob had said that he would come at last when the Jewish rulers had come to an end; the one of whom the prophet Daniel had announced beforehand that he would come after those many weeks. And if anyone takes the years the angel spoke of to Daniel in a number of weeks, and traces the time down from the building of the city to Christ’s birth, he will find by reckoning that the one agrees with the other.

How, then, was he born, tell me? “When his mother Mary was engaged.” He does not say “virgin,” but simply “mother,” so that his account would be easy to accept. So, having first prepared the hearer to expect some ordinary piece of news, and having caught hold of him by this, he then amazes him by adding the wonderful fact: “Before they came together, she was found to be with child by the Holy Spirit.” [i]

He does not say, “before she was brought to the bridegroom’s house,” for in fact she was already in it. It was the custom of the ancients, for the most part, to keep their engaged brides in their own house, at least in those parts where you can see the same thing done even now. So Lot’s sons-in-law, too, were in his house with him. Mary herself, then, was likewise in the house with Joseph.

And why did she not conceive before her engagement? It was, as I said at first, so that what had been done might stay hidden for a while, and so that the Virgin might escape every evil suspicion. For when the man who had the most right of all to be jealous, far from exposing her or disgracing her, is found actually receiving her and caring for her after she conceived, it was perfectly clear that unless he had become fully convinced that what had happened was the working of the Holy Spirit, he would not have kept her with him and looked after her in everything else. And he has put it very fittingly in saying that she was “found” with child: that is the kind of expression people use of strange things, things that happen beyond all expectation and that no one looked for.

So go no further, and ask for nothing more than what has been said. Do not say, “But how did the Spirit do this from a virgin?” If it is impossible to explain how a body is formed when nature is at work, how will we be able to put into words what the Spirit does when he works miracles? And so that you would not wear out the evangelist, or trouble him by asking these things over and over, he has told you who it was that worked the miracle, and then stepped back. “For I know nothing more,” he says, “except that what was done was the work of the Holy Spirit.”

Let those be ashamed, then, who busy themselves prying into the birth on high. [j]

For if this birth, which has witnesses without number, which was proclaimed so long beforehand, and which was seen and touched with hands, cannot be explained by anyone, what depth of madness do they stop short of, those who busy themselves and pry into that birth which is beyond words? Neither Gabriel nor Matthew was able to say anything more than that it was from the Spirit. But how it was from the Spirit, or in what way, neither of them has explained, for it was not possible.

And do not think you have learned everything by hearing “from the Spirit.” No, even when we have learned this, we are ignorant of many things: for instance, how the Infinite is in a womb; how he who holds all things is carried by a woman as one not yet born; how the Virgin gives birth and remains a virgin. How, tell me, did the Spirit build that temple? How did he take not all the flesh from the womb, but a part of it, and made it grow, and shaped it? For that he did come forth from the Virgin’s flesh, he has declared by speaking of “that which is conceived in her”; and Paul has declared it by saying “made from a woman.” By this Paul stops the mouths of those who say that Christ came among us as though through some pipe. For if this were so, what need was there of the womb? If this were so, he has nothing in common with us; that flesh is of some other kind, and not from the same lump as ours.

How then was he from the root of Jesse? How was he a rod? How was he the Son of Man? How was Mary his mother? How was he of David’s seed? How did he “take the form of a servant”? How was “the Word made flesh”? And how does Paul say to the Romans, “From whom, as concerning the flesh, Christ came, who is God over all”? So it is plain from these passages, and from others besides, that he was from us, of our substance, and from the Virgin’s womb; but how, is not also plain. So you, too, must not inquire. Accept what has been revealed, and do not pry into what has been kept secret.

“And Joseph her husband,” he says, “being a righteous man, and not wanting to make her a public example, had in mind to send her away secretly.” [m]

Having said that it was by the Holy Spirit and without intercourse, he confirms what he has said in yet another way. Someone might say, “Where does this come from? Who has ever heard of such a thing, or seen it happen?” Or you might suspect the disciple of inventing these things to favor his Master. So, to keep anyone from saying this, he brings in Joseph, who by what he went through helps to prove the things that have been told. By his account the evangelist all but says, “If you doubt me, and if you suspect my testimony, believe her husband.” For he says, “Joseph her husband, being a righteous man.” By “a righteous man” here he means one who is virtuous in everything. For freedom from greed is righteousness, and virtue as a whole is righteousness too; and it is mostly in this second sense that Scripture uses the word, as when it says, “a man who was righteous and true,” and again, “they were both righteous.” Being “righteous,” then, that is, good and considerate, “he had in mind to send her away secretly.” The evangelist tells what took place before Joseph was fully informed for this purpose: so that you would not distrust what was done after he knew.

And yet a woman in her position was not only liable to be made a public example; the law also commanded that she be punished. But Joseph let go not only that greater penalty but the lesser one too, the disgrace. Far from punishing her, he did not even want to make an example of her. Do you see a man of self-control, set free from the most tyrannical of passions? You know what a terrible thing jealousy is. That is why the one who knows these things clearly said, “For the rage of a husband is full of jealousy; he will not spare in the day of vengeance,” and, “Jealousy is cruel as the grave.” We too know of many who have chosen to give up their lives rather than fall under jealous suspicion. But in this case it was not a mere suspicion, since the burden of her womb convicted her outright. And nevertheless he was so free from passion that he did not want to grieve the Virgin even in the smallest thing. To keep her in his house seemed like breaking the law; to expose her and bring her to trial would force him to hand her over to die. He does none of these things, but now conducts himself by a rule higher than the law. For now that grace had come, there had to be from then on many signs of that exalted way of life.

Just as the sun, before it even shows its rays, lights up more than half the world from far off with its light, so Christ too, when he was about to rise from that womb, shone over the whole world even before he came forth.

That is why, even before she gave birth, prophets danced for joy, women foretold what was to come, and John, before he had come out of the belly, leaped in the very womb. And that is also why this man showed great self-command: he neither accused nor reproached her, but only set about sending her away.

So matters stood, and everyone was at a loss, when the angel came to resolve all their difficulties. But it is worth asking why the angel did not speak sooner, before the husband had such thoughts. He came only “when he thought on it,” and not before, for it says, “While he thought on these things, the angel” comes. And yet to her he announces the good news even before she conceived. This in turn raises another difficulty. Even if the angel had not spoken, why was the Virgin silent, when the angel had told her? When she saw the man she was engaged to in trouble, why did she not put an end to his perplexity? [o]

Why, then, did the angel not speak before Joseph was troubled? We must explain that first difficulty first. For what reason, then, did he not speak? So that Joseph would not disbelieve, and the same thing happen to him as to Zechariah. Once the thing could be seen, believing was easy from then on; but while it had not yet begun, it was not so easy to accept what the angel said. That is why the angel did not speak at first, and for the same reason the Virgin too kept silent. She did not expect to be believed by the man she was engaged to if she told him of a thing unheard of; she expected rather to provoke him further, as though she were covering up a sin she had committed. For if she herself, who was to receive so great a favor, reacts somewhat as any human being would, and says, “How will this be, since I do not know a man?” he would have doubted far more, especially hearing it from the woman who was under suspicion. So the Virgin says nothing to him, but the angel appears to him when the time calls for it.

“Why, then,” someone may ask, “did he not do the same in the Virgin’s case too, and bring her the good news after she conceived?” So that she would not be thrown into agitation and great distress. It was likely that, not knowing the truth for certain, she might even have planned something terrible against herself, and gone on to hang or stab herself, unable to bear the disgrace. For that Virgin was truly wonderful, and Luke shows her excellence when he says that on hearing the greeting she did not at once pour herself out, nor did she accept the words, but “was troubled,” wondering “what kind of greeting this might be.” A woman of such perfect modesty would have been driven out of her mind with dismay at the thought of her shame, since she could not expect that anything she said would convince anyone who heard of it that what had happened was anything but adultery. So, to prevent these things, the angel came before the conception. Besides, it was fitting that the womb which the Maker of all things entered should be free from turmoil, and that the soul counted worthy to serve such mysteries should be rid of all agitation. For these reasons he speaks to the Virgin before the conception, but to Joseph when she was already with child. [p]

Many of the simpler sort, not understanding this, have said there is a contradiction, because Luke says it was Mary to whom the angel brought the good news, while Matthew says it was Joseph. They do not know that both took place. This is something we need to keep in mind throughout the whole history, for in this way we will resolve many apparent contradictions.

So the angel comes when Joseph is troubled. For besides the reasons already given, he also delays his coming so that Joseph’s self-control might be shown. But when the thing was on the point of taking place, then at last he appears: “While he thought on these things, an angel appears to Joseph in a dream.” [q]

Do you see the husband’s mildness? Far from punishing her, he did not even tell anyone, not even the woman he suspected, but was thinking it over by himself, as though he meant to keep the reason hidden even from the Virgin herself. For it does not say that he had in mind to “throw her out,” but to “send her away,” so very mild and gentle was the man. “But while he is thinking on these things, the angel appears in a dream.”

And why not openly, as to the shepherds, and to Zechariah, and to the Virgin? The man was exceedingly full of faith and did not need that kind of vision. The Virgin, on the other hand, being told news that was exceedingly good, greater than what Zechariah heard, and told it before the event, needed a wonderful vision as well; and the shepherds needed one because they were rather dull and rustic by disposition. But this man, after the conception, when his soul was actually gripped by that evil suspicion and was ready to exchange it for good hopes if anyone appeared to lead him that way, readily receives the revelation. That is why the good news is announced to him after his suspicion: so that this very thing might be a convincing proof to him of what was said. I mean this: he had spoken of it to no one, and yet he heard the angel say the very things he was thinking in his mind, and this gave him an unquestionable sign that the one who said it had come from God. For it belongs to God alone to know the secrets of the heart.

Just notice how many results there are here. The man’s self-control is fully shown; the word spoken at the right moment helps his faith; and the history is freed from suspicion, since it shows him feeling what a husband would be likely to feel.

How, then, does the angel reassure him? Listen, and marvel at the wisdom of his words. When he comes, he says, “Joseph, son of David, do not be afraid to take Mary your wife to you.” At once he reminds him of David, from whom the Christ was to spring. By naming his forefather he keeps him from being deeply troubled, reminding him of the promise made to the whole line. Otherwise, why does he call him “son of David”? [r]

“Do not be afraid.” Yet in another case God does not act like this. When a certain man was planning what he should not about a certain woman, God spoke to him more in the way of rebuke, and with a threat. And yet there, too, the act was done in ignorance, for that man did not take Sarah knowingly; even so, God rebuked him. But here he speaks gently. For the mysteries he was carrying out were exceedingly great, and the distance between the two men was wide, so there was no need of rebuke.

But by saying “do not be afraid,” he shows that Joseph had been afraid — afraid of offending God by keeping an adulteress, since if it had not been for this, he would not even have thought of casting her out. So in every way he makes it plain that the angel came from God, by bringing out and setting before him everything: both what he meant to do and what he felt in his mind.

Now, having named her, he did not stop there, but added “your wife” — and he would not have called her that if she had been defiled. Here he calls the woman who is only engaged “a wife,” just as Scripture regularly calls men who are only engaged “sons-in-law” even before the marriage.

But what does “to take her to you” mean? To keep her in his house, for in his intention he had already sent her away. He says: “She has been sent away; keep her, as one entrusted to you by God, not by her parents. And he entrusts her to you not for marriage, but to live with you; and he entrusts her by my voice.” Much as Christ himself afterward entrusted her to his disciple, so now he entrusts her to Joseph.

Then, having hinted at the matter in hand, he did not mention the evil suspicion. Instead, in a more reverent and fitting way, he removed that too, by telling the cause of her pregnancy. He implied that the very thing that had made Joseph afraid, and for which he would have cast her out — this very thing, I say — was a just reason for taking her and keeping her in his house. So he did more than simply take away his distress. He says: “She is not only free of any unlawful union; her conception is even above all nature. So do not only put away your fear, but rejoice all the more, ‘for what is conceived in her is of the Holy Spirit.’” [v]

What he spoke of was strange, surpassing human reason and above all the laws of nature. How, then, is Joseph to believe, when such news is completely new to him? “By what is past,” he says, “by what has been revealed.” For this was why the angel laid open everything that was in his mind — what he felt, what he feared, what he had decided to do — so that by these things Joseph might be assured on this point too.

Or rather, he wins him over not by things past only, but also by things to come. “And she will bear a son,” he says, “and you will call his name Jesus.” “Do not imagine, because he is of the Holy Spirit, that you are a stranger to the service of this plan of salvation. Although you have no part in the birth, and the Virgin remained untouched, still I give you what belongs to a father, without harming the honor of her virginity: to give a name to the one who is born. For ‘you will call him.’ Though the child is not yours, you will show him a father’s care. That is why, beginning with the giving of the name, I join you at once to the one who is born.”

Then, so that no one on the other hand would suspect from this that Joseph was the father, listen to what follows, and how carefully he puts it. “She will bear a son,” he says. He does not say, “bear to you,” but only “she will bear,” leaving it open; for it was not to him that she bore a son, but to the whole world.

This is also why the angel came bringing his name from heaven, showing once more that this is a wonderful birth. For it is God himself who sends the name from above, by the angel, to Joseph. This too was not without purpose; the name was a treasure of ten thousand blessings. That is why the angel also interprets it and holds out good hopes, in this way again leading him to faith. For we are usually more drawn to such things, and so we are readier to believe them. [w]

So, having established his faith by everything — by the past, by the future, by the present, by the honor given to Joseph himself — he brings in the prophet too, at just the right moment, to cast his vote in support of all this. But before bringing him in, he announces beforehand the good things that were to come to the world through Christ. And what are these? Sins removed and done away with. “For he will save his people from their sins.”

Here again the thing is shown to be beyond all expectation. For he announces the good news of deliverance not from visible wars, nor from barbarians, but from something far greater than these: from sins — a work that had never been possible for anyone before.

But someone may ask: “Why did he say ‘his people,’ and not add the Gentiles too?” So as not to startle the hearer just yet. To one who listens with understanding, he hinted at the Gentiles as well. For “his people” are not the Jews only, but also all who draw near and receive the knowledge that comes from him.

And notice how, in passing, he has also revealed his dignity to us, by calling the Jewish nation “his people.” These are the words of someone who means nothing other than this: that the child being born is the Son of God, and that the one he is speaking of is the King of those on high. In the same way, forgiving sins belongs to no other power, but only to that single essence.

So since we have shared in so great a gift, let us do everything we can not to dishonor such a kindness. For if what was done even before this honor deserved punishment, how much more now, after this kindness beyond words! I do not say this now without reason. I say it because I see many, after their baptism, living more carelessly than those not yet initiated, with nothing distinctive in their way of life. [y]

That, you see, is why neither in the marketplace nor in church can one quickly tell who is a believer and who is an unbeliever — unless one is present at the time of the mysteries and sees the one group sent out and the other staying inside. Yet they ought to be told apart not by their place, but by their way of life. People’s outward ranks are naturally recognized by the outward marks they wear; in the same way, ours ought to be recognizable by the soul. That is, the believer ought to be known not only by the gift, but also by the new life. The believer ought to be the light and the salt of the world.

But when you do not give light even to yourself, or bind up your own gangrene, what is left for us to know you by? That you have gone into the holy waters? No — for you this becomes a store of punishment. For to those who do not choose to live worthy of the honor, the greatness of the honor is an increase of punishment. Yes, the believer ought to shine not only by what he has received from God, but also by what he has contributed himself. He should be recognizable by everything: by his walk, by his look, by his dress, by his voice. And I have said this not so that we will make a show, but so that the good of those who see us may be the rule by which we shape ourselves.

But as it is, whatever I try to recognize you by, I find you marked out in every point by the very opposite. If I want to know you by your place, I see you spending your day at the horse races and the theaters and scenes of lawlessness, in the wicked gatherings in the marketplaces, and in the company of depraved men. If by the look of your face, I see you forever laughing to excess, as loose as a grinning, shameless prostitute. If by your clothes, I see you dressed no better than the people on the stage. If by those who follow you, you are leading around hangers-on and flatterers. If by your words, I hear you say nothing wholesome, nothing needful, nothing that matters for our life. If by your table — from there the charge against you will look heavier still. [z]

Then tell me, by what am I to recognize the believer in you, when everything I have mentioned gives the opposite verdict? And why do I say “the believer”? I cannot even make out clearly whether you are a human being. When you kick like a donkey, and run riot like a bull, and neigh after women like a horse; when you gorge like a bear, and fatten your flesh like a mule, and hold a grudge like a camel; when you prey like a wolf, rage like a snake, sting like a scorpion, and are as crafty as a fox; when you store up the poison of wickedness like an asp or a viper, and make war on your brothers like that evil demon — how will I be able to count you among human beings, when I do not see in you the marks of human nature?

Why, while I am looking for the difference between a catechumen and a believer, I come close to not finding even the difference between a human being and a wild beast. For what am I to call you? A wild beast? But the wild beasts are each held by one of these faults, while you heap them all together and far outdo their brutishness. Shall I call you a demon, then? But a demon is not a slave to the rule of the belly, and he does not set his love on riches. So when you have more faults than either wild beasts or demons, how, I ask you, are we to call you a human being? And if you are not to be called a human being, how are we to address you as a believer?

And what is more grievous still is this: though we are in such a bad state, we have no idea at all of the ugliness of our own soul, and do not see how hideous it is. Yet when you sit at the barber’s having your hair cut, you take the mirror and carefully examine how your locks are arranged. You ask the people standing by, and the barber himself, whether he has arranged the hair over your forehead well. And though you are old — for this often happens — you are not ashamed to run wild with the fancies of youth. But of our own soul, which is not only ugly but has been turned into a wild beast and made into a kind of Scylla or Chimaera, as the pagan myths tell, we have not even the slightest awareness. [aa]

And yet here too there is a mirror — a spiritual one, far better and far more useful than that other. It not only shows our own ugliness, but also, if we are willing, transforms it into surpassing beauty. This mirror is the memory of good men and the story of their blessed lives; the reading of the Scriptures; the laws given by God. If you are willing to look just once at the portraits of those holy men, you will see the filth of your own mind; and having seen it, you will need nothing else to be set free from that ugliness. For the mirror is useful for this as well, and makes the change easy.

So let no one remain in the shape of the creatures without reason. For if the slave does not enter the father’s house, how will you, having become even a wild beast, be able to set foot in those entrance halls?

And why do I say a wild beast? Such a person is harder to manage than any wild beast. For the beasts, though savage by nature, often grow tame once they have had the benefit of human skill. But you, who have changed their natural wildness into a gentleness beyond their nature — what defense will you have, when you have trained your own natural gentleness into a savagery contrary to nature? When you bring out what is wild by nature in a gentle mood, but present yourself, gentle by nature, as unnaturally savage? You tame the lion and make him manageable, but your own anger you make wilder than any lion. And yet in the lion’s case there are two obstacles: first, the beast has no reason; and second, it is the most wrathful of all creatures. Still, by the excellence of the wisdom God has given you, you overcome even nature. Then how is it that you, who win victories over nature itself in wild beasts, in your own case give up, along with your nature, your admirable gift of free choice as well?

Again, if I were telling you to make another person gentle, even then I ought not to seem to be ordering something impossible; still, you might then object that you do not control someone else’s temper, and that it does not rest wholly with you. But as it is, it is your own wild beast, and a thing that depends entirely on you. What defense do you have, then? What decent excuse will you be able to put forward, when you turn a lion into a man and pay no attention to the fact that you yourself are turning from a man into a lion — giving the beast what is above its nature, while for yourself you do not even keep what is natural? Yes, while the wild beasts are raised by your hard work to our noble rank, you by your own doing are thrown down from the royal throne and cast out into their madness. So picture your anger, if you like, as a kind of wild beast. As much zeal as others have shown about lions, show that much about yourself, and make that temper of yours gentle and mild.

For this beast too has cruel teeth and claws, and if you do not tame it, it will lay everything waste. Not even a lion or a snake has such power to tear the inner parts as anger has, forever doing it with its iron claws. It damages not the body only, as we see; the very health of the soul is ruined by it too, as it devours, rends, and tears to pieces all its strength, and makes it useless for everything. If a man who feeds worms in his bowels cannot even breathe, with his insides all wasting away, how will we, with so great a serpent eating up everything within us — anger, I mean — how, I say, will we be able to produce anything noble?

How, then, are we to be freed from this plague? If we drink a potion that is able to kill the worms and the serpents within us. “And what kind of potion is this,” someone will ask, “that has such power?” The precious blood of Christ, if it is received with full confidence — for this will have power to put out every disease — and together with it, the divine Scriptures listened to carefully, and giving to the poor added to our hearing. By means of all these things we will be able to put to death the passions that ruin our soul. And only then will we live; for as it is, we are surely in no better state than the dead. It cannot be that we live while those passions live; we must necessarily perish. And unless we kill them here first, they will certainly kill us in the other life — or rather, even before that death, they will exact the utmost penalty from us here. [ab]

Yes, for every such passion is cruel and tyrannical and insatiable, and never stops devouring us, day after day. For “their teeth are the teeth of a lion,” or rather far fiercer. The lion, once he has had his fill, usually leaves the carcass that has fallen in his way; but these passions are never satisfied, and they do not leave the man they have seized until they have brought him close to the devil. So great is their power that the very service Paul showed to Christ — despising both hell and the kingdom for his sake — this same service they demand from those they have seized. Whether someone is entangled in the love of women, or of riches, or of glory, from then on he laughs at hell and despises the kingdom, so that he may do the will of these passions.

So let us not doubt Paul when he says that he loved Christ so much. For when some are found serving their passions like this, how can that other love seem beyond belief? Yes, and this is the reason our longing for Christ is weaker: all our strength is used up on this love, and we rob, and swindle, and are slaves to empty glory. What could be more worthless than that?

For even if you became famous beyond measure, you would be no better than the lowliest; rather, for this very reason you would be lower still. When the very people who are willing to give you glory and make you famous ridicule you for this very thing — that you want the glory that comes from them — how can this fail to turn against you? For this is one of the things that draw blame. Think of a man who wants to commit adultery or sexual immorality: if anyone praises or flatters him, by that very act he becomes his accuser rather than the one who commends him for indulging such desires. So it is with the man who is eager for glory: when we all praise him, it is accusation rather than praise that we give to those who want to be made glorious.

Why, then, bring on yourself the very thing that usually brings you the opposite of what you want? If you want to be glorified, despise glory; that way you will be more illustrious than anyone. Why feel the way Nebuchadnezzar felt? He too set up an image, thinking to win himself more fame from wood and a senseless figure: the living man wanted to look more glorious with the help of something that has no life. Do you see how far his madness went? Thinking to honor himself, he insulted himself instead. When it is plain that he relies more on a lifeless thing than on himself and the living soul within him, and for that reason raises a block of wood to such a high place, how can he be anything but ridiculous, trying as he does to adorn himself not by the way he lives but with planks of wood? It is as if a man thought fit to give himself airs because of the pavement of his house and his beautiful staircase, rather than because he is a man. [ad]

Many among us imitate him now. Just as he looked to his image, so some people expect to be admired for their clothes, others for their house, or for their mules and carriages, and for the columns in their house. Having lost what it is to be human, they go about gathering to themselves from elsewhere a glory that is utterly ridiculous.

But the noble and great servants of God did not shine by such means; they shone by the means that best became them. Captives as they were, and slaves, and young, and foreigners, stripped of every resource of their own, they proved at that time far more awe-inspiring than the man who was clothed with all these things. Nebuchadnezzar found nothing enough to satisfy his desire and show him great — not an image so huge, nor satraps, nor army commanders, nor legions without number, nor masses of gold, nor any other pomp. But for these young men, stripped of all this, their great self-restraint alone was enough. It showed the man who wore the diadem and the purple to be as far beneath them in glory, though they had no such things, as the sun is more glorious than a pearl.

They were led out in the sight of the whole world, young men, captives and slaves all at once. The moment they appeared, the king darted fire from his eyes. Commanders, deputies and governors — the devil’s whole amphitheater — stood around them. The sound of pipes from every side, and of trumpets, and of every kind of music, rising up to heaven, was ringing in their ears. The furnace blazed up to a boundless height, the flame reached the very clouds, and everything was full of terror and dread.

But none of these things dismayed them. They laughed it all to scorn, as though it were children mocking them, and showed their courage and their gentleness. Raising a voice clearer than those trumpets, they said, “Let it be known to you, O king.” They did not wish to insult the king, not even by a word, but only to declare their religion. That is why they did not stretch their speech to any great length, but set out everything briefly. “For there is,” they say, “a God in heaven who is able to deliver us.” “Why show me the crowd? Why the furnace? Why the sharpened swords? Why the terrible guards? Our Lord is higher and mightier than all these.”

Then they considered that God might possibly be willing even to let them be burned. So that they would not seem to have spoken falsely if this happened, they add this as well: “But if not, let it be known to you, O king, that we do not serve your gods.” For if they had said, “If he does not deliver us, our sins are the reason,” they would not have been believed. That is why they are silent on that subject here, though in the furnace they speak of it, pleading their sins again and again. But before the king they say nothing of the kind — only that even if they were to be burned, they would not give up their religion.

For they did what they did not for rewards and recompense, but out of love alone. And yet they were captives, and slaves, and had enjoyed nothing good. They had lost their country, their freedom, and all their possessions. Do not tell me about their honors in the king’s court. Holy and righteous as they were, they would ten thousand times rather have been beggars at home and shared in the blessings of the temple. “For I would rather,” Scripture says, “be an outcast in the house of my God than live in the tents of sinners.” And, “One day in your courts is better than thousands.”

They would ten thousand times rather have been outcasts at home than kings in Babylon. This is plain from what they say even in the furnace, where they grieve over their long stay in that country. Though they themselves enjoyed great honors, they were deeply distressed to see the misfortunes of the rest. And this above all is the mark of saints: that no glory, no honor, nothing else at all is more precious to them than their neighbor’s welfare. See, for instance, how even in a furnace they made their prayer for the whole people. But we do not keep our brothers in mind even when we are free.

Again, when they were asking about the dreams, they were looking “not to their own good, but to the common good”; for they showed by many things afterward that they despised death. Yet everywhere they put themselves forward, as people who wished to prevail with God by persistent asking. Then, not counting themselves sufficient either, they take refuge in the fathers; and of themselves they say that they offer nothing more than “a contrite spirit.”

Let us imitate these men too. For now also a golden image has been set up: the tyranny of Mammon. But let us pay no attention to the tambourines, or the flutes, or the harps, or the rest of the pomp of riches. Even if we must fall into a furnace of poverty, let us choose that rather than worship this idol, and there will be “in the midst a moist, whistling wind.” So let us not shudder when we hear of “a furnace of poverty.” For at that time too, those who fell into the furnace were shown to be the more glorious, while those who worshiped were destroyed. The only difference is that then everything took place at once, while in this case part will be fulfilled here, part there, and part both here and on the day to come. Those who have chosen poverty so as not to worship Mammon will be more glorious both here and then; but those who have grown rich unjustly here will pay the utmost penalty then. [am]

Lazarus too came out of this furnace, no less glorious than those young men; but the rich man, who stood in the place of those who worshiped the image, was condemned to hell. For what I have just described was a type of this. So just as in that case those who fell into the furnace suffered no harm, while those who sat outside were seized with great fury, so it will be then too. The saints, walking through the river of fire, will feel no pain; no, they will even look joyful. But those who have worshiped the image will see the fire fall on them fiercer than any wild beast and drag them in.

So if anyone disbelieves in hell, let him look at this furnace and believe the things to come from the things present, and let him fear not the furnace of poverty but the furnace of sin. For the furnace of sin is flame and torment, and the other is dew and refreshment. Beside the one stands the devil; beside the other, angels fanning the flame away.

Let the rich hear this, those who are kindling the furnace of poverty. Though they will not harm those others, since “the dew” comes to their aid, they will make themselves easy prey for the flame they have kindled with their own hands. [ao]

Then an angel went down with those young men. Now let us go down to those who are in the furnace of poverty. By giving alms let us make “a dewy air” and fan the flame quite away, so that we may share their crowns too, and so that the flames of hell may likewise be scattered by the voice of Christ saying, “You saw me hungry, and you fed me.” For that voice will then be with us in place of a “moist wind whistling” through the midst of the flame.

So let us go down with almsgiving into the furnace of poverty. Let us look at those who walk in it with self-restraint and trample on the burning coals. Let us see the marvel, strange and beyond thought: a man singing praise in a furnace, a man giving thanks in the fire, chained to extreme poverty and yet offering much praise to Christ. For those who bear poverty with thankfulness really do become equal to those young men. No flame is so terrible as poverty, nor so quick to set us on fire.

But those young men were not set on fire. Rather, as they gave thanks to the Lord, their bonds too were loosed at once. So it is now as well. If you are thankful when you have fallen into poverty, the bonds are loosed and the flame is put out. Or even if it is not put out — which is far more marvelous — it becomes a fountain instead of a flame. That is what happened then too: in the middle of a furnace they enjoyed pure dew. The dew did not quench the fire, but it wholly kept it from burning those who had been thrown in. You can see the same in those who live by the rules of wisdom: even in poverty they feel more secure than the rich.

So let us not sit outside the furnace, feeling no pity for the poor, or the same thing may happen to us that happened then to those executioners. If you go down to them and take your stand with the young men, the fire will no longer do you any harm. But if you sit up above and neglect them in the flame of their poverty, the flame will burn you up. So go down into the fire, so that you will not be burned up by the fire. Do not sit outside the fire, or the flame will catch hold of you. If it finds you among the poor, it will leave you; but if it finds you estranged from them, it will rush at you quickly and seize you.

So do not stand apart from those who are thrown in. When the devil gives the command to throw those who have not worshiped gold into the furnace of poverty, do not be one of those who throw others in, but one of those who are thrown in, so that you may be counted among the saved and not among the burned. For this is the most powerful dew of all: to be in no way enslaved to the desire for wealth, and to keep company with the poor. Those who have trampled underfoot the desire for riches are wealthier than anyone. For those young men too, by despising the king at that time, became more glorious than the king.

And you too, if you despise the things of the world, will become more honorable than the whole world, like those holy men “of whom the world was not worthy.”

So, to become worthy of the things in heaven, I urge you to laugh the things of the present to scorn. That way you will be more glorious here, and you will enjoy the good things to come, by the grace and love for humankind of our Lord Jesus Christ, to whom be glory and power forever and ever. Amen.