Homily 48 — Matthew 13, verse 53, to 14, verse 12

“And it came to pass that when Jesus had finished these parables, he went away from there.” [a]

Why did he say “these”? Because he was going to speak others as well. And why, again, does he go away? Because he wanted to sow the word everywhere.

“And when he had come into his own country, he taught them in their synagogue.”

And what does he now call his own country? Nazareth, it seems to me. “For he did not do many mighty works there,” we are told, but in Capernaum he did work miracles. That is why he also said, “And you, Capernaum, who are lifted up to heaven, will be brought down to hell; for if the mighty works that have been done in you had been done in Sodom, it would have remained until this day.”

But when he came there, he eased off somewhat in his miracles, so as not to inflame them to more envy, nor to condemn them more heavily by making their unbelief worse. Yet he puts forward a teaching that holds no less wonder than the miracles. These utterly senseless people ought to have marveled and been amazed at the power of his words. Instead they do the opposite: they think little of him because of the man who seemed to be his father. And yet, as we know, they had many examples of this from former times; they had seen fathers of no note with illustrious children. David, for instance, was the son of a certain humble farmer, Jesse. Amos was the child of a goatherd and a goatherd himself. And Moses too, the lawgiver, had a father far beneath him. So they ought to have worshiped him and been amazed for this very reason above all: that coming from such parents, he spoke as he did. For it was quite plain that this came not from human effort but from God’s grace. Yet the very things they should have admired him for are the things they despise him for.

He also goes to the synagogues continually, so that if he always stayed in the wilderness, they would not accuse him all the more of splitting away from them and making war on their way of life.

So in their amazement and perplexity they said, “Where did this man get this wisdom and these powers?” By “powers” they mean either the miracles or else the wisdom itself. “Isn’t this the carpenter’s son?” All the greater, then, was the marvel, and all the more reason to be amazed. “Isn’t his mother called Mary, and his brothers James and Joses and Simon and Judas? And his sisters, aren’t they all with us? Where, then, did this man get all these things? And they took offense at him.” [c]

Do you see that it was in Nazareth that he was teaching? “Aren’t his brothers,” they say, “so-and-so and so-and-so?” And what of it? Why, this above all should have led you on to faith. But envy, you see, is a wretched, base thing, and it often trips itself up. The very things that were strange and marvelous, and enough to have won them over — these are what offended them.

What, then, does Christ say to them? “A prophet,” he says, “is not without honor except in his own country and in his own house.” And “he did not do many mighty works there,” we are told, “because of their unbelief.” But Luke says, “And he did not do many miracles there.” And yet one would have expected him to do them. For if their wonder at him was growing — and even there he was marveled at — why did he not do them? Because he looked not to showing himself off but to their good. So when that did not succeed, he disregarded what concerned himself, so as not to make their punishment heavier.

And yet see how long it was before he came to them, and after how great a display of miracles. Even so they could not bear it; they were inflamed with envy all over again. [d]

Why, then, did he still do a few miracles? So that they could not say, “Physician, heal yourself.” So that they could not say, “He is our foe and our enemy, and he neglects his own people.” So that they could not say, “If miracles had been done, we too would have believed.” So he both did them and held back: the one so as to do his own part, the other so as not to condemn them the more.

And consider the power of his words, at least in this: possessed by envy as they were, they still admired him. With his works, they find no fault with what is done, but invent causes that do not exist, saying, “He casts out the demons by Beelzebub.” In the same way here, they find no fault with the teaching, but take refuge in the lowliness of his family.

But notice, I beg you, the Master’s gentleness. He does not abuse them, but says with great mildness, “A prophet is not without honor except in his own country.” Nor did he stop there, but added, “and in his own house.” It seems to me that he added this with a veiled reference to his own brothers. [e]

In Luke he also gives examples of this. He says that Elijah did not go to his own people but to the foreign widow, and that Elisha healed no other leper but Naaman the foreigner. The Israelites neither received kindness nor showed it; the foreigners did. He says these things to show their bad disposition in every instance, and that nothing new is happening in his own case.

“At that time Herod the tetrarch heard of the fame of Jesus.” For King Herod, this man’s father, the one who killed the children, was dead. The evangelist does not mark the time without a purpose. He wants you to notice the tyrant’s arrogance and carelessness as well, since he did not inform himself about Christ at the beginning, but only after a very long time. That is what people in places of power are like, surrounded as they are by great pomp: they learn of such things late, because they do not think much of them.

But notice, I beg you, what a great thing virtue is. Herod was afraid of John even when he was dead, and out of his fear he speaks wisely even about a resurrection. [g]

“For he said to his servants,” we are told, “‘This is John, whom I killed; he has risen from the dead, and that is why these mighty powers are at work in him.’” Do you see how intense his fear was? Even then he did not dare to publish it abroad; he still speaks only to his own servants.

Even so, this opinion had a soldier’s crudeness about it, and it was absurd. Many others had risen from the dead, and none of them had done anything of this kind. His words seem to me to be the language of both boastfulness and fear. For that is the nature of unreasoning souls: they often take in a mixture of opposite passions.

Luke, however, says that the crowds were saying, “This is Elijah, or Jeremiah, or one of the old prophets.” But Herod, as though of course he were saying something wiser than the rest, made this claim.

It is likely, though, that before this, when people said that Jesus was John — and many had said this too — Herod denied it and said, “I killed him,” priding himself and boasting of it. For both Mark and Luke report that he said, “John I beheaded.” But when the rumor won out, then he too says the same as the people. [h]

Then the evangelist also tells us the story. And what might his reason be for not bringing it in as a subject of its own? It is because the whole of their labor was to tell what concerned Christ. They took on no side task beyond this, except where it served that same end. So they would not have mentioned the story now either, were it not for Christ’s sake, and because Herod said, “John has risen.”

Mark says that Herod held the man in high honor, and that after being rebuked by him. Such a great thing is virtue.

Then his account goes on like this: “For Herod had seized John, bound him, and put him in prison because of Herodias, his brother Philip’s wife. For John had said to him, ‘It is not lawful for you to have her.’ And though he wanted to put him to death, he feared the people, because they regarded him as a prophet.”

And why does John not address his words to her at all, but to the man? Because the matter depended more on him. [j]

But see how inoffensively he frames the accusation, as though he were telling a story rather than bringing a charge.

“But when Herod’s birthday was kept,” he says, “the daughter of Herodias danced before them and pleased Herod.” What a devilish revel! What a satanic show! What lawless dancing, and what a more lawless reward for the dancing! For a murder more wicked than any murder was committed. The man who deserved to be crowned and honored in public was slain in the middle of them, and the demons’ trophy was set on the table.

And the means of the victory were worthy of what was done. “The daughter of Herodias,” we are told, “danced in the middle and pleased Herod. So he promised with an oath to give her whatever she would ask. And she, having been coached beforehand by her mother, said, ‘Give me here, on a platter, the head of John the Baptist.’”

The charge against her is double: first, that she danced; then, that she pleased him, and pleased him so much that she won even a murder as her reward.

Do you see how savage he was? How senseless? How foolish? He put himself under the obligation of an oath, while giving her full power over what she would ask. [k]

But when he saw the evil actually coming about, “he was sorry,” we are told. And yet he was the one who had put John in chains in the first place. Why, then, is he sorry? That is the nature of virtue: even among the wicked, admiration and praise are its due. But alas for her madness! She too ought to have admired him — yes, and bowed down to him — for trying to set right her wrong. Instead she does the opposite: she even helps to arrange the plot, sets a trap, and asks for a devilish favor.

But he was afraid, we are told, “because of the oath, and of those who sat at the table with him.” And how did you not fear what was far more serious? If you were afraid to have witnesses of your perjury, you surely ought to have feared far more to have so many witnesses of so lawless a murder.

But since I think many do not know the grievance itself from which the murder arose, I must explain this too, so that you may learn the wisdom of the Lawgiver. What, then, was the ancient law that Herod trampled on and John defended? The wife of a man who died childless was to be given to his brother. Death was an incurable evil, and everything was arranged for the sake of life. So he makes a law that the living brother should marry her and call the child that is born by the dead man’s name, so that his house would not perish completely. For if the dead man were not even to leave children — which is the greatest comfort against death — the grief would be past all remedy. That is why, you see, the Lawgiver devised this relief for those whom nature had left childless, and commanded that the offspring be counted as belonging to the dead man.

But when there was a child, this marriage was no longer permitted. Someone may say: “And why not? If it was lawful for another man, how much more for the brother!” By no means. For he wants people’s kinship spread wider, and the sources of our care for one another multiplied. [l]

Why, then, when a man died without children, did some other man not marry her? Because then the child would not be counted as the dead man’s. But when his brother fathered it, the fiction was believable. Besides, no other man was under any pressing obligation to build up the dead man’s house; the brother had taken on that claim through kinship.

Since, then, Herod had married his brother’s wife when she had a child, John rebukes him — and rebukes him with restraint, showing his consideration along with his boldness.

But notice, I beg you, how devilish the whole spectacle was. First, it was made up of drunkenness and luxury, from which nothing wholesome could come. Second, the spectators in it were depraved, and the man who gave the banquet was the worst lawbreaker of all. Third, there was the senseless pleasure. Fourth, there was the girl. She was the very reason the marriage was unlawful, and she ought even to have hidden herself, since her mother was disgraced through her. Instead she comes out and makes a show of herself, outdoing every prostitute, virgin though she was.

And the timing, too, adds not a little to the charge against this outrage. When he ought to have been thanking God for bringing him into the light on that day, that is when he ventures on those lawless acts. When a man in chains ought to have been set free by him, that is when he adds slaughter to chains. [m]

Listen, you virgins — or rather, you wives too — all of you who take part in such indecency at other people’s weddings, leaping and bounding and disgracing our common nature. Listen, you men too, all of you who chase after those banquets full of expense and drunkenness, and fear the pit of the evil one. For he seized that wretched man so powerfully at that moment that Herod swore to give away even half his kingdom. This is what Mark says: “He swore to her, ‘Whatever you ask of me, I will give it to you, up to half of my kingdom.’”

That was how much he valued his royal power; that was how completely he had been taken captive by his passion, to give up his kingdom for a dance. And why be surprised that such things happened then, when even now, after so lofty a wisdom has come among us, many of these effeminate young men give up their very souls for the sake of a dance — and that without the pressure of any oath? Taken captive by pleasure, they are led like sheep wherever the wolf may drag them. That was the case then with that frenzied man. He committed two utter acts of madness: first, he made the matter depend on her, a girl so crazed, so drunk with her passion, and shrinking from nothing; and next, he fastened the deed down with the compulsion of an oath.

But wicked as he was, that vile woman was more wicked than all of them, both the girl and the tyrant. She was the first contriver of all the harm and the designer of the whole plot — she who more than anyone ought to have been grateful to the prophet. It was in obedience to her that her daughter disgraced herself, danced, and asked for the murder; and it was by her that Herod was trapped. [n]

Do you see how rightly Christ said, “Whoever loves father or mother more than me is not worthy of me”? If the girl had kept this law, she would not have broken so many laws; she would not have committed this foul murder.

For what could be worse than this brutal ferocity: to ask for a murder as a favor — a lawless murder, a murder in the middle of a banquet, a murder in public and without shame? She did not go to him privately to speak of these things, but in public, with her mask thrown off, barefaced, with the devil as her advocate; and in that guise she says what she says. Yes, and he was the one who made her dancing win favor at all, and let her catch Herod at that moment. For where there is dancing, there is the evil one. God did not give us feet for this, but so that we may walk in an orderly way — not so that we may behave indecently, not so that we may jump about like camels (for even they are unpleasant to watch when they dance, and women much more so), but so that we may join the choirs of angels.

For if the body is disgraced when it makes itself unseemly like this, the soul is disgraced much more. Such is the dancing of the demons; such is the joking of those who are the demons’ servants.

And notice the very way she asks: “Give me here, on a platter, the head of John the Baptist.” Do you see how lost she is to all shame, how completely she has become the devil’s? She names even his office, and even so she does not hide her face. As if she were speaking of some dish of food, she asks for that sacred and blessed head to be brought in on a platter.

She does not even give a reason, for she had none to give. She simply claims another man’s disaster as a present for herself. And she did not say, “Bring him in here and kill him,” for she could not have endured his outspokenness even as he was about to die. Yes, she dreaded hearing his fearsome voice even while he was being slaughtered, for he would not have kept silent even at the very moment of being beheaded. That is why she says, “Give me here, on a platter,” as though to say: “I long to see that tongue silent.” Her aim was not simply to be rid of his rebukes, but also to trample on him and mock him once he had fallen.

Yet God endured it. He did not hurl his thunderbolt from above to scorch her shameless face, nor command the earth to open and swallow that wicked revel. In this way he both crowned the righteous man more gloriously and left great comfort to those who would afterward suffer anything unjustly. [o]

So let all of us listen who live virtuously and suffer wrong at the hands of wicked people. For then too God allowed even that man to be murdered: the man of the wilderness, the man of the leather belt and the garment of hair, the prophet, the man greater than all the prophets, who had no superior among those born of women. He was murdered by a shameless girl and a corrupt prostitute, and all for defending the laws of God. Let us think on these things, then, and bear nobly whatever we may suffer.

For then too this bloodthirsty, lawless woman had her way as far as she wished in taking revenge on the man who had grieved her. She glutted all her anger, and God allowed it. And yet John had said nothing to her, nor accused her; he found fault with the man only. But her conscience was a bitter accuser. That is why she was driven on in frenzy to greater evils, grieved and stung as she was. At one stroke she disgraced them all — herself, her daughter, her departed husband, her living lover — and tried to outdo her former deeds. She says: “If you are vexed at his committing adultery, I will make him a murderer as well, and make him the killer of the man who rebuked him.”

Listen, all of you who are wildly excited over women.

Listen, all of you who offer oaths about uncertain things, give others power to destroy you, and dig a pit for yourselves.

For that is how this man’s ruin came about. I mean, he surely expected her to ask for something suited to the feast. Since she was a girl, asking a favor at a banquet, a revel, a festive gathering, he expected she would ask for something cheerful and pleasant — surely not a head. And he was deceived.

Still, none of these things will serve as a defense for him. What if she had the spirit of the men who fight wild beasts? Even so, he ought not to have been deceived, nor to have carried out such tyrannical orders.

For in the first place, who would not have shuddered to see that sacred head, dripping blood, set out at the feast? But not so the lawless Herod, nor the woman more accursed than he. For that is what unchaste women are like: none are so reckless and so savage as they.

For if we shudder at hearing these things, what must we suppose the effect of that sight was at the time? What did those who sat at the table with him feel, seeing blood dripping from a freshly severed head in the middle of the revel? But that bloodthirsty woman, fiercer than the Furies, felt nothing at that sight; she even took delight in it. And yet, if nothing else, surely the sight alone, one would expect, would have chilled her through. But she had no such feeling, murderess that she was, full of thirst for the blood of prophets. [p]

For such is the nature of sexual immorality. It makes people not only lustful but murderous too. Women who want to commit adultery are ready even to kill the husbands they have wronged — and not one murder, or two, but ten thousand they are ready to risk. There are many witnesses to tragic plots of this kind.

That is what she did then, hoping to be concealed after this and to hide her crime. The very opposite happened: John’s cry was heard more loudly after these things. But wickedness looks only to the present, like people with a fever who ask for cold water at the wrong time. In fact, if she had not killed her accuser, her crime would not have been so fully exposed. His disciples, at any rate, said nothing of the kind when she had thrown him into prison. But once she had killed him, they were compelled to state the cause as well. They were willing to conceal the adulteress, and not inclined to expose their neighbor’s misfortunes; but when they found themselves compelled to give an account of it, then they told the whole crime. So that no one would suspect his death came about for some discreditable cause, as in the case of Theudas and Judas, they were compelled to tell the occasion of the murder too. So the more you try to cover up a sin in this way, the more you expose it. For sin is not hidden by adding sin to it, but by repentance and confession.

But look at the evangelist: how he tells it all without ill will, and as far as he can, even makes excuses for them. First, on Herod’s behalf he says, “because of the oath, and of those who sat at the table with him,” and that “he was sorry.” Then of the girl, “having been coached beforehand by her mother,” and that “she brought the head to her mother” — as if to say that it was her mother’s command she was carrying out. For all righteous people grieve not for those who suffer wrong but for those who do it, since they are the ones who, strictly speaking, suffer harm. John was not the one injured; it was these, the contrivers of such doings. [q]

Let us imitate the righteous too, and not trample on our neighbors’ sins, but cover them over as far as is right. Let us take to ourselves a soul that is strict in goodness. For the evangelist himself, speaking of a prostitute and a woman stained with blood, avoided harshness as far as he could. He did not say, “by the bloodstained, accursed woman,” but “having been coached beforehand by her mother,” using words that sound rather harmless.

But you go further: you insult and abuse your neighbor. You could never bring yourself to speak of a brother who had hurt you in terms like those the evangelist used of the prostitute. No, you speak with great, brutal fierceness and with reproaches, calling him the wicked one, the criminal, the schemer, the fool, and many other names worse than these. That is how we make ourselves more and more like wild beasts, speaking of him as though he were some kind of monster, running him down, abusing him, insulting him. But the saints are not like that. On the contrary, they mourn for those who sin rather than curse them. [r]

So let us do this too. Let us weep for Herodias, and for those who imitate her. For many revels like that one take place even now, and though John is not killed, the members of Christ are, and in a far more terrible way. The dancers of our day do not ask for a head on a platter, but for the souls of those who sit at the feast. By making them slaves, leading them on to unlawful loves and surrounding them with prostitutes, they do not cut off the head, but they kill the soul, making them adulterers, effeminate, and frequenters of prostitutes.

For surely you will not tell me that when you are full of wine and drunk, and watching a woman who is dancing and saying shameful things, you feel nothing toward her, and are not swept along into debauchery, overcome by your lust. No, that dreadful thing happens to you: you “make the members of Christ members of a prostitute.” [s]

For even if the daughter of Herodias is not there, the devil, who danced in her then, leads his dances in these women now too, and goes off with the souls of those guests as his captives.

But even if you are able to keep clear of drunkenness, you still share in another very serious sin, for revels like these are also full of much robbery. Do not look, I beg you, at the food set before the guests, or at the cakes. Consider where they were gathered from, and you will see that it was from harassment, greed, violence and robbery.

Someone may say: “But ours do not come from sources like that.” God forbid that they should! I do not want that either. Yet even if they are clear of these things, our costly feasts are not free from blame even so. Listen, at any rate, to how the prophet finds fault with them even apart from these things, when he says: “Woe to those who drink strained wine and anoint themselves with the finest perfumes.” Do you see how he condemns luxury too? It is not greed he charges them with here, but only extravagance.

You eat to excess, and Christ does not have even what he needs. You eat all kinds of cakes, and he does not have so much as dry bread. You drink Thasian wine, but on him, when he was thirsty, you have not bestowed even a cup of cold water. You lie on a soft, embroidered bed, but he is perishing with cold. So even if your banquets are clear of greed, they are cursed all the same, because while you do everything to excess yourself, to him you do not give even what he needs — and that while you live in luxury on things that belong to him. Why, if you were the guardian of a child, and after taking possession of his property you abandoned him in his direst need, you would have ten thousand accusers and would suffer the punishment the laws lay down. And now that you have taken possession of the goods of Christ and are using them up like this for no purpose, do you not think you will have to give an account? [u]

I am not saying these things of those who bring prostitutes to their tables — I have nothing to say to them, any more than I have to the dogs. Nor am I saying them of those who cheat some people and pamper others — I have nothing to do with them either, any more than with pigs and wolves. I am speaking of those who do enjoy their own property, but share none of it with others; of those who spend what they inherited at random. For these are not free from reproach either. Tell me, how will you escape reproach and blame when your hanger-on is pampered, and the dog that stands beside you, but Christ seems to you not worth even as much as they are? When the one receives so much for the sake of a laugh, and the other, in return for the kingdom of heaven, does not receive even the smallest fraction of it? When the hanger-on says something witty and goes away full, is he who has taught us the things without which we would be no better than dogs counted unworthy even of the same treatment as a fellow like that?

Do you shudder to hear this? Then shudder at the realities. Throw out the hangers-on, and make Christ sit down to eat with you. If he shares your salt and your table, he will be gentle when he judges you. He knows how to respect a man’s table. Yes, if robbers know this, much more does the Lord. Think, for example, of that prostitute: how at a table he declared her in the right and reproached Simon, saying, “You gave me no kiss.” If he feeds you when you do none of these things, how much more will he reward you when you do them! Do not look at the poor man coming to you dirty and unkempt. Consider instead that through him Christ is setting foot in your house. Stop your fierceness and your harsh words, with which you even slander those who come to you, calling them impostors, idlers, and other names worse than these. [v]

And when you talk like this, think of the hangers-on. What kind of work do they do? In what way are they any use to your household? Do they really make your dinner pleasant for you — pleasant, by being beaten and saying foul things? No, what could be more unpleasant than this: that you strike one who is made in God’s likeness, and gather enjoyment for yourself from the insults you heap on him, turning your house into a theater and filling your banquet with actors — you, well born and free, imitating the actors with their shaved heads? For among them too there is laughter, and rough blows.

Is this what you call pleasure, I ask you — things that deserve many tears, much mourning and lament? When you ought to be urging them toward a good life and giving them timely advice, do you lead them on to perjury and disorderly talk, and call it a delight? Do you count as entertainment what brings people to hell? Yes, and when they run out of witty sayings, they pay the whole bill with oaths and false swearing. Are these things, then, worth laughing at, and not worth grief and tears? Who with any understanding would say so?

I say this not to forbid you to feed them, but to forbid feeding them for such a purpose. No, let your support of them come from kindness, not cruelty; let it be compassion, not insult. Feed him because he is poor; feed him because Christ is fed; not so that he will bring out sayings of Satan and disgrace his own life. Do not look at him laughing on the outside, but examine his conscience, and you will see him calling down ten thousand curses on himself, groaning and wailing. And if he does not show it, that too is your doing.

Let the companions of your meals, then, be men who are poor and free, not perjurers or actors. And if you must ask something of them in return for their food, tell them that if they see anything done wrong, they are to rebuke, to warn, to help you in your care over your household and in managing your servants. Do you have children? Let these men be fathers to them alongside you; let them share the task with you; let them bring you the kind of profit God loves. Engage them in a spiritual trade. And if you see someone who needs protection, tell them to come to his aid; order them to serve. Through them seek out strangers; through them clothe the naked; through them send to those in prison, and put an end to other people’s distress.

Let this be the return they give you for their food, one that profits both you and them and brings no condemnation with it.

This way, too, the friendship is bound more tightly. As it is now, even though they seem to be loved, they are still ashamed, since they live in your house with no purpose. But if they carry out these tasks, they will be in a pleasanter position, and you will have more satisfaction in supporting them, since you are not spending your money without fruit. They in turn will live with you with confidence and proper freedom, and your house, instead of a theater, will become a church to you. The devil will be put to flight, and Christ will come in, and the choir of the angels. For where Christ is, the angels are too, and where Christ and the angels are, there is heaven, there is a light more cheering than the light of this sun.

And if you want to gain yet another comfort through them, tell them, when you have free time, to take their books and read the divine law. They will find more pleasure in serving you this way than in the other. For these things bring respect to both you and them, while the others bring disgrace on everyone together: on you as a man who insults others and a drunkard, and on them as wretches and gluttons. If you feed them in order to insult them, it is worse than if you had put them to death. But if you feed them for their good and benefit, it does them more good than if you had brought them back from the road to their execution. As things are, you treat them with more disgrace than your servants, and your servants have more freedom to speak their minds, and a freer conscience, than they do. But then you will make them equal to the angels.

So set both them and yourself free. Do away with the name “hanger-on,” and call them companions of your meals. Throw away the title “flatterers,” and give them the name of friends. This is the very purpose for which God made our friendships: not for the harm of those who love and are loved, but for their good and benefit.

But friendships like these are worse than any hostility. By our enemies we are even helped, if we are willing; but by these we cannot help being harmed, beyond any question. So do not keep friends who teach you harm. Do not keep friends who are more in love with your table than with your friendship. For all such people, if you cut back your good living, cut back their friendship too. But those who keep company with you for the sake of virtue stay with you always, through every change. [w]

And besides, the tribe of hangers-on often takes revenge on you and gives you a bad name. At any rate, I know many respectable people who have gained a bad reputation this way: some have been accused of sorcery, some of adultery and of corrupting youths. For since these men have no work to do, but spend their lives uselessly, most people suspect that the service they render is the same as that of corrupted youths.

So, freeing ourselves from a bad name, and above all from the hell to come, and doing what pleases God, let us put an end to this devilish custom, so that “whether we eat or drink, we may do everything to the glory of God,” and may enjoy the glory that comes from him. May we all attain it, by the grace and love for humankind of our Lord Jesus Christ, to whom be glory and power, now and always, and forever and ever. Amen.