Homily 59 — Matthew 18, verses 7 to 14

“Woe to the world because of stumbling blocks! For it must be that stumbling blocks come; but woe to that man through whom the stumbling block comes.” [a]

Perhaps one of our opponents will say: “But if ‘it must be that stumbling blocks come,’ why does he lament over the world, when he ought rather to bring it help and stretch out his hand on its behalf? That is what a physician and a protector would do. The other, anyone at all could be expected to do.”

What could we possibly say in answer to so shameless a tongue? Or rather, what are you looking for that could equal this healing care of his? Being God, he became man for you. He took the form of a slave, went through the very worst of sufferings, and left undone nothing that it was his to do. But since ungrateful people were none the better for all this, he laments over them, because after so much nurturing care they stayed in their sickness.

It is as if someone were to lament over a sick man who had had the benefit of much attention and had refused to follow the physician’s rules, and say, “Woe to such a man because of his illness, which he has made worse by his own slackness.” In that case, of course, the lamenting does no good. But here even this is a kind of treatment: to foretell what would happen, and to lament it. For many people, time and again, have gained nothing from being advised, and yet have mended their ways when they were mourned over.

That is the chief reason he used the word “woe”: to rouse them thoroughly, to make them earnest, and to work on them to stay awake. At the same time he shows his goodwill toward those very people, and his own gentleness, in that he mourns for them even while they resist him. He does not simply turn away in disgust. He corrects them, both by the mourning and by the prediction, so as to win them over.

Someone may say: “But how is this possible? If ‘it must be that stumbling blocks come,’ how can anyone escape them?” Because while it must be that the stumbling blocks come, it is not at all necessary that people perish. It is as though a physician were to say (for nothing stops us from using the same illustration again), “This disease is bound to come on, but it does not follow that the patient who takes care will be destroyed by it.”

He said this, as I mentioned, to wake up his disciples along with the others. So that they would not grow drowsy, as though they had been sent out into peace and an untroubled life, he shows them many wars close at hand, from outside and from within. Paul made this plain when he said, “Fighting without, fears within,” and, “In dangers among false brothers.” In his address to the Milesians, too, he said, “From among your own selves men will arise, speaking perverse things.” And Christ himself said, “A man’s enemies will be the members of his own household.”

But when he said, “It must be,” he did not say it to take away their power to choose for themselves, or the freedom of their moral choice, or to place human life under some absolute compulsion of circumstances. He is foretelling what would surely happen. Luke has set this out in another form of words: “It is impossible that stumbling blocks should not come.”

But what are stumbling blocks? The obstacles on the right road. That is also the name those on the stage who are skilled in such things give to the performers who twist their bodies.

So it is not his prediction that brings the stumbling blocks — far from it. They do not happen because he foretold them; he foretold them because they were surely going to happen. If those who bring in the stumbling blocks had not chosen to do evil, the stumbling blocks would not have come; and if they were not going to come, they would not have been foretold. But because those men did evil and were incurably sick, the stumbling blocks came, and he foretells what is going to be.

Someone may say: “But if these men had stayed on the right path, and there had been no one to bring in a stumbling block, would this saying not have been proved false?” By no means, for then it would not have been spoken. If all were going to stay on the right path, he would not have said, “It must be that they come.” But because he knew beforehand that they would be incorrigible by their own doing, he said that the stumbling blocks would surely come.

Someone may say: “And why did he not take them out of the way?” Why should they have been taken out of the way? For the sake of those who are harmed? But the ruin of those who are harmed does not come from there; it comes from their own slackness. The virtuous prove it. Far from being injured by the stumbling blocks, they even profit from them in the highest degree. So it was with Job, so with Joseph, so with all the righteous, and with the apostles. If many perish, it is from their own drowsiness. If it were not so, and ruin were the effect of the stumbling blocks, everyone would have had to perish. And if there are some who escape, then let anyone who does not escape blame himself.

For stumbling blocks, as I have said, wake people up and make them more clear-sighted and sharper. This is true not only of the one who comes through safe, but even of the one who has fallen into them, if he gets up again quickly: they make him more secure and harder to overcome. So if we are watchful, we reap no small profit from them: we are kept continually awake. For if we sleep when we have enemies and so many dangers are pressing on us, what would we be like if we lived in security?

Look, if you like, at the first man. He lived in paradise only a short time, perhaps not even a whole day, and enjoyed its delights; and yet he drove on to such a pitch of wickedness that he imagined he could be equal with God, counted the deceiver his benefactor, and did not keep even one commandment. If he had lived the rest of his life, too, without hardship, what would he not have done?

But when we say these things, they raise further objections, asking: “And why did God make him like that?” God did not make him like that — far from it — for then he would not have punished him either. If we do not find fault with our servant in matters where we ourselves are the cause, much less will the God of all. [e]

Someone may say: “Then where did this come from?” From himself and his own slackness. “What do you mean, ‘from himself’?” Ask yourself. If it is not of their own doing that bad people are bad, then do not punish your servant, or scold your wife for whatever mistakes she makes. Do not beat your son, or blame your friend, or hate the enemy who does you harm. For all of these deserve to be pitied, not punished, unless they do wrong of their own accord.

Someone may say: “But I cannot control myself.” And yet when you see that the cause does not lie with them, but in some other necessity, you can control yourself. When a servant, at any rate, has been taken ill and does not do what he was told, far from blaming him you actually excuse him. So you are yourself a witness that one thing is a person’s own doing and another is not. Here too, then, if you knew that he was wicked because he was born that way, far from blaming him you would rather have shown him leniency. For since you make allowance for his illness, you could hardly have refused to make allowance for God’s act of creation, if he really had been made that way from the very first.

There is another way, too, in which it is easy to stop the mouths of such people, so great is the abounding power of the truth. Why do you never find fault with your servant for not having a handsome face, or a fine tall body, or for not being able to fly? Because these things belong to nature. So he is cleared of any blame for his nature, and no one disputes it. When you blame him, then, you show that the fault is not in his nature but in his choice. For if, in the things we do not blame, we bear witness that the whole is nature’s doing, then plainly, where we reprove, we are declaring that the wrong lies in the choice.

So do not bring forward twisted reasoning, I beg you, or clever tricks and webs flimsier than a spider’s. Answer me this instead. Did God make all people? That is surely plain to everyone. Then how is it that they are not all alike in virtue and in vice? Where do the good, the gentle and the meek come from? Where do the worthless and the wicked come from? If these things need no choice of the will, but come from nature, how is it that some are one thing and others another? If all were bad by nature, no one could be good; and if all were good by nature, no one could be bad. If all people had one nature, then in this respect they would all have to be one and the same, whichever of the two they were to be.

But suppose we say that by nature some are good and others bad — which would not be reasonable, as we have shown. Then these things would have to be unchangeable, for the things of nature are unchangeable. Look: all mortals are also subject to suffering, and no one is free from suffering, however endlessly he strives. But as it is, we see many good people becoming worthless, and worthless people becoming good — the one through slackness, the other through earnest effort. That, more than anything, shows that these things do not come from nature.

For the things of nature neither change nor need hard work to acquire. Just as we need no labor in order to see and hear, so we would need no toil for virtue either, if it had been handed out by nature.

He says: “But why did he make worthless people at all, when he could have made everyone good? Where, then, do evil things come from?” Ask yourself. My part is to show that they do not come from nature, or from God.

He says: “Then do they come into being of themselves?” By no means. “Then have they no beginning?” Speak reverently, man, and draw back from this madness, which gives God and the evil things one and the same honor, and that the highest honor of all! For if they have no beginning, they are mighty: they could not even be uprooted, or pass away into nothing. That what has no beginning cannot perish is surely plain to everyone.

And where do so many good people come from, when evil has such great power? How can things that had a beginning be stronger than what has none? [f]

He says: “But God destroys these things.” When? And how will he destroy what is equal to him in honor and equal in strength and, as one might say, as old as he is?

Oh, the malice of the devil! What a great evil he has invented! With what blasphemy he has persuaded people to surround God! Under what cloak of godliness he has devised yet another unholy teaching! For in wanting to show that evil does not come from God, they brought in another evil doctrine, saying that these things have no beginning.

Someone may say: “Where do evils come from, then?” From willing and not willing. “But this very willing and not willing — where does that come from?” From ourselves. But in asking this you do the same as if you had asked, “Where do seeing and not seeing come from?” and when I said, “From closing the eyes or not closing them,” you were to ask again, “And this very closing of the eyes or not — where does that come from?” and then, having heard that it was from ourselves and our own will, you were to go looking for yet another cause.

For evil is nothing other than disobedience to God. Someone may say: “Then where did man find this?” Why, was it hard work to find it, I ask you? “No, I am not saying that the thing is difficult. I am asking where his wish to disobey came from.” From slackness. He had the power to go either way, and he leaned rather toward this.

If you are still perplexed and dizzy at hearing this, I will ask you nothing difficult or tangled, but a simple, plain question. Have you at some time become bad, and have you at some time also become good? This is what I mean. Did you once get the better of passion, and were you then caught by passion again? Have you been overcome by drunkenness, and have you overcome drunkenness? Were you once moved to anger, and at another time not moved to anger? Did you pass by a poor man, and at another time not pass him by? Did you once commit sexual immorality, and then become chaste again? Where, then, do all these things come from? Tell me, where? If you will not say it yourself, I will. It is because at one time you held yourself in and strove, but after that you grew slack and careless.

To those who are past hope, who live continually in wickedness, who have lost their senses and are mad, and who are not willing even to hear what would set them right, I will not even speak of self-control. But to those who have been sometimes in the one state and sometimes in the other, I will gladly speak. Did you once take by force what did not belong to you, and afterward, won over by pity, give even from what was yours to someone in need? Where does this change come from? Is it not perfectly plain that it comes from the mind and from the choice of the will?

It is perfectly plain, and there is no one who would not say so. That is why I beg you to be in earnest and to hold fast to virtue, and you will have no need of these questions. For our evils are mere names, if we are willing. So do not ask where evils come from, and do not perplex yourself; but having found that they come from slackness alone, flee from evil deeds.

And if anyone says that these things do not come from us, then whenever you see him angry with his servants, irritated with his wife, blaming a child, and condemning those who wrong him, say to him: “How, then, did you say that evils do not come from us? If they are not from us, why do you find fault?” Say again: “Is it of your own accord that you abuse and insult people? If it is not of your own accord, let no one be angry with you. But if it is of your own accord, then your evil deeds come from yourself and from your own slackness.”

Well then, do you think there are any good people? If no one is good, where did you get this word? Where does praise come from? But if there are good people, it is perfectly plain that they will also reprove the bad. Yet if no one is wicked willingly or of his own accord, the good will be found to be reproving the bad unjustly, and in this way they themselves will turn out to be bad as well. For what could be worse than bringing accusations against the guiltless? But if in our estimation they remain good even while they reprove — and this, above all, is a proof of their goodness — then even to the utterly foolish it is plain from this that no one is ever bad by necessity.

But if after all this you still want to ask where evils come from, I would say: from slackness, from idleness, from keeping company with bad people, from contempt for virtue. From these come both the evils themselves and the fact that some people ask where evils come from. For certainly none of those who do right ask about these things, none of those who have set themselves to live fairly and soberly. It is those who dare to do wicked things, and want to invent some foolish comfort for themselves by these discussions, who weave spiders’ webs.

But let us tear these to pieces not only by our words but by our deeds as well. For these things do not happen by necessity. If they did, he would not have said, “Woe to the man through whom the stumbling block comes.” He mourns only for those who are wicked by their own choice. And do not be surprised that he says “through whom.” He does not say it as though someone else were bringing the stumbling block in through him, but because he regards the man as himself the cause of the whole. For Scripture often says “through whom” where it means “by whom,” naming not the second cause but the first. So it says, “I have gotten a man through God”; and again, “Does not their interpretation come through God?”; and, “God is faithful, through whom you were called into the fellowship of his Son.”

And so that you may learn that it is not by necessity, listen also to what follows. After mourning over them, he says, “If your hand or your foot causes you to stumble, cut it off and throw it away from you. It is better for you to enter into life lame or maimed than to have two hands or two feet and be thrown into the fire. And if your right eye causes you to stumble, pluck it out. It is better for you to enter into life with one eye than to have two eyes and be thrown into the furnace of fire.” He is not saying these things about limbs — far from it — but about friends and relatives, whom we count as limbs we cannot do without. He had said this earlier too, and now he says it again. For nothing is so harmful as bad company. What force cannot do, friendship often can, for harm as well as for good. That is why he commands us so earnestly to cut off those who harm us, meaning those who bring in the stumbling blocks. [h]

Do you see how he has headed off the harm that would come from the stumbling blocks? First, by foretelling that there will surely be stumbling blocks, so that they would find no one careless, but people would expect them and be watchful. Then, by showing that the evils are great: he would not have said “Woe to the world because of stumbling blocks” without reason, but to show that the harm from them is great. Then again, by lamenting in stronger terms over the one who brings them in. For the words “But woe to that man” were those of someone showing that the punishment is great. And not only this: by the comparison he added, he increased the fear.

Nor is he satisfied with these things. He also shows the way by which one can avoid the stumbling blocks.

What is this way? He says: “The wicked, even if they are very dear friends of yours, cut off from your friendship.”

And he gives a reason that cannot be contradicted. If they remain your friends, you will not win them over, and you will lose yourself besides; but if you cut them off, at least you will win your own salvation. So if anyone’s friendship harms you, cut it away from you. We often cut off many of our own limbs when they are beyond cure and are ruining the rest; much more ought we to do this with friends.

But if evils came by nature, all this warning and advice would be pointless, and pointless too the precautions taken by the means he has named. But if it is not pointless — and surely it is not — then it is perfectly clear that wickedness lies in the will.

“See that you do not despise one of these little ones; for I tell you that their angels always see the face of my Father who is in heaven.”

By little ones he does not mean those who really are little, but those whom the many regard as such: the poor, the despised, the unknown. For how could someone be little who is worth as much as the whole world? How could someone be little who is dear to God? He means those who are thought little in the imagination of the crowd.

And he speaks not of many only, but even of one, warding off by this too the harm of the many stumbling blocks. For just as fleeing from the wicked brings very great gain, so does honoring the good; and it gives a twofold security to anyone who pays attention: the one by rooting out friendships with those who cause stumbling, the other by treating these saints with respect and honor.

Then he makes them worthy of reverence in yet another way, saying, “For their angels always see the face of my Father who is in heaven.”

From this it is clear that the saints have angels — or rather, that all people do. For the apostle too says of the woman that “she ought to have authority on her head because of the angels.” And Moses says, “He set the boundaries of the nations according to the number of the angels of God.”

Here, though, he is speaking not simply of angels, but of angels who are greater than others. And when he says, “the face of my Father,” he means nothing other than their greater freedom to approach him, and their great honor.

“For the Son of Man has come to save what was lost.”

Again he adds another reason, stronger than the first, and joins a parable to it, in which he brings in the Father as also wanting these things. “What do you think?” he says. “If a man has a hundred sheep, and one of them has gone astray, does he not leave the ninety-nine and go into the mountains and look for the one that has gone astray? And if he finds it, he rejoices over it more than over the ninety-nine that did not go astray. In the same way it is not the will of your Father that one of these little ones should perish.”

Do you see by how many means he urges us to care for our lowly brothers? So do not say, “So-and-so is a blacksmith, a shoemaker, a plowman, a fool,” and despise him. So that you would not feel this way, see by how many motives he persuades you to think modestly of yourself, and presses you into caring for them.

He set a little child among them and said, “Become like little children,” and, “Whoever receives one such little child receives me,” and that whoever causes one of them to stumble will suffer the utmost penalty. And he was not even satisfied with the comparison of the millstone, but added his “woe” as well, and commanded us to cut off such people, even if they are to us in the place of hands and eyes. Again, by the angels entrusted with these same lowly brothers, he makes them objects of reverence. He does it by his own will and suffering too: for when he said, “The Son of Man has come to save what was lost,” he points even to the cross, just as Paul says, speaking of a brother, “for whom Christ died.” He does it by the Father, since to him too it does not seem good that one should perish. And he does it by common practice, because the shepherd leaves those that are safe and looks for the one that is lost, and when he has found the stray he is overjoyed at finding it and bringing it safely home.

If God rejoices like this over the little one who is found, how can you despise those whom God cares for so earnestly, when one ought to give up even one’s very life for one of these little ones? Is he weak and of no account? Then for that very reason above all, one ought to do everything to keep him safe. For he himself left the ninety-nine sheep and went after this one, and the safety of so many was not enough to put the loss of one in the shade. Luke says that he even carried it home on his shoulders, and that “there is more joy over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous people.” By leaving those who were safe for its sake, and by taking more pleasure in this one, he showed how great his concern for it was. [l]

So let us not be careless about souls like these, for all these things are said with this aim. By threatening that whoever has not become a little child will not so much as set foot in heaven, and by speaking of “the millstone,” he brought down the haughtiness of the boastful — for nothing is so hostile to love as pride. By saying, “It must be that stumbling blocks come,” he made them watchful. By adding, “Woe to the man through whom the stumbling block comes,” he made each one strive that it should not come through him. By commanding them to cut off those who cause others to stumble, he made salvation easy. And by charging them not to despise these little ones — and not merely charging them, but with earnestness, for “Take care,” he says, “that you do not despise one of these little ones” — and by saying, “Their angels see the face of my Father,” and, “This is why I have come,” and, “My Father wills this,” he made those who were to care for them more diligent.

Do you see what a wall he has built around them, and how earnestly he cares for those who are despised and perishing? He threatens incurable evils to those who make them fall; he promises great blessings to those who wait on them and look after them; and once more he brings an example from himself and from the Father.

Let us imitate him too, and for our brothers’ sake refuse none of the tasks that seem lowly and troublesome. Even if we have to wait on him, even if the one we do it for is small and of no account, even if the work is hard, even if we must cross mountains and cliffs, let everything be counted bearable for the salvation of our brother. For a soul matters so much to God that “he did not spare his own Son.” So I beg you: as soon as morning comes and we step out of our houses, let us have this one aim in view, this concern above all others — to rescue the one who is in danger. I do not mean only the danger the senses perceive, for that is no danger at all, but the danger of the soul, the danger the devil brings on people.

The merchant crosses the sea to increase his wealth, and the craftsman does everything he can to add to his property. So let us not be satisfied with our own salvation only; otherwise we lose even that. In war, too, in the thick of battle, the soldier who looks only to how he can save himself by running away destroys the rest along with himself, while the brave man, who stands armed in defense of the others, saves himself along with them.

Our life, too, is a war — the bitterest of all wars — a clash and a battle. So let us take our places in the battle line as our King has commanded us, ready for slaughter and blood and killing, looking to the salvation of all, cheering on those who are still standing and raising up those who have fallen. For many of our brothers lie fallen in this conflict, wounded and rolling in their own blood, and there is no one to heal them — not one of the laypeople, not a priest, no one else. There is no one to stand by them, no friend, no brother; each of us looks only to his own interests.

That is why we cripple our own interests as well. For the greatest ground of confidence, and the surest way to be approved, is not to look to our own interests. That, I say, is why we are weak and easily overcome, both by people and by the devil: because we pursue the opposite. We do not lock our shields together, and we are not fortified by the love that godliness brings. Instead we look for other grounds of friendship — some from kinship, some from long acquaintance, some from shared business, some from living near each other. We become friends for every reason rather than for godliness, when our friendships ought to be built on that alone. But as things are, the opposite happens: sometimes we become friends with Jews and with Greeks rather than with the children of the church.

“Yes, because the one is worthless, and the other is kind and gentle.” What are you saying? You call your brother worthless — you, who are commanded not even to call him “Raca”? Are you not ashamed? Do you not blush to expose your brother, your fellow member, the one who shared the same birth with you and has eaten at the same table? [p]

If you have a brother by blood and he commits ten thousand evil deeds, you work hard to cover for him, and when he is disgraced you count yourself a sharer in the shame. But your spiritual brother, whom you ought to clear of slander — him you surround instead with ten thousand charges?

“But he is worthless and unbearable.” Then for that very reason become his friend, so that you may stop him being like that, so that you may turn him around and lead him back to virtue. “But he does not listen, and he will not take advice.” How do you know? Have you admonished him and tried to set him right? “I have admonished him often.” How many times? “Often — once, and then a second time.” Oh! Is that often? Why, even if you had been doing it all your life, ought you to grow weary and give up?

Do you not see how God is always admonishing us — by the prophets, by the apostles, by the evangelists? What then? Have we done everything? Have we obeyed in all things? Not at all. Did he stop admonishing us, then? Did he fall silent? Does he not say every day, “You cannot serve God and mammon”? And yet in many people the excess and the tyranny of wealth keep growing. Does he not cry out every day, “Forgive, and you will be forgiven”? And we become more and more like wild beasts. Does he not constantly urge us to restrain desire and to keep the mastery over wicked lust? And many wallow in this sin worse than pigs. Yet for all that, he does not stop speaking.

Why, then, do we not think these things over and tell ourselves that God reasons with us too, and does not give it up, though we disobey him in many things?

That is why he said, “Few are those who are saved.” For if our own virtue is not enough for our salvation, but we must take others with us when we depart, then when we have saved neither ourselves nor others, what will we suffer? Where will we find any hope of salvation left?

But why do I blame us for these things, when we take no account even of those who live with us — wife, children, servants? Like drunken men, we care for one thing in place of another. We want our servants to be more in number and to wait on us with great diligence; we want our children to receive a large inheritance from us, and our wife to have gold jewelry and expensive clothes and wealth. We do not care at all for the people themselves, but for what belongs to them. We do not care for our wife herself or provide for her, but for the things that belong to her; not for our child, but for the child’s things.

We act like someone who sees a house in bad repair, with its walls giving way, and neglects to shore them up, but builds great fences around it on the outside. Or like someone whose body is sick, who does not care for it but weaves gold-embroidered clothes for it. Or like someone who, when the mistress of the house is ill, attends to the maids and the looms and the household vessels and minds everything else, leaving her to lie there and moan.

This is exactly what is being done now. Our soul is in a bad and wretched state: angry, abusive, full of wrong desires and empty glory, quarrelsome, dragged down to the earth, and torn by so many wild beasts. Yet we neglect to drive the passions away from her, and busy ourselves with house and servants. If a bear has slipped out, we lock up our houses and hurry along the narrow back lanes so as not to run into the beast. But now, when not one wild beast but many such thoughts are tearing the soul to pieces, we do not even feel it.

In the city we take such care that we shut the wild beasts up in remote places and in cages. We keep them chained far off somewhere — not by the council house, not by the law courts, not by the king’s palace. But in the soul, where the council house is, where the king’s palace is, where the court of justice is, the wild beasts are let loose, roaring and raising an uproar around the mind itself and the royal throne.

That is why everything is turned upside down and everything is full of turmoil, within and without. We are no different from a city thrown into chaos because barbarians have overrun it. What goes on in us is as though a snake were attacking a nest of sparrows, and the sparrows, with their feeble cries, were flying about in every direction, terrified and in distress, with nowhere to go to put an end to their panic.

So I beg you: let us kill the snake, let us shut up the wild beasts, let us strangle them, let us slay them, and let us hand these wicked thoughts over to the sword of the Spirit, so that the prophet will not threaten us too with what he threatened Judea: “The wild donkeys will dance there, and porcupines, and snakes.” [t]

For there are — there really are — people worse than wild donkeys, living as though in the wilderness and kicking. Indeed, most of the young people among us are like this. With their wild desires they leap and kick, running about unbridled, and they spend their energy on nothing worthy.

And the fathers are to blame. They make the horse trainers break in their horses with great care, and do not let the colt run untamed for long while it is young, but put a bridle on it from the start, and all the rest of the harness. But their own young sons they neglect, and let them run around for a long time unbridled and without self-control, disgracing themselves with sexual immorality, with gambling, and with the hours they spend at the wicked theaters. Before he falls into immorality, they ought to give him a wife — a chaste wife, and a very sensible one. She will draw her husband away from his utterly disorderly way of life, and she will serve as a bridle for the colt.

For sexual immorality and adultery come from no other cause than young men being left unrestrained. If he has a sensible wife, he will take care of his house, his good name, and his reputation. “But he is young.” I know that too. But if Isaac was forty years old when he took his bride, and spent all that time of his life as a virgin, how much more ought young men who live under grace to practice this self-control!

But what a sorrow it is! You cannot bring yourselves to look after their chastity. You look the other way while they disgrace themselves, defile themselves, and become accursed — as though you did not know that the benefit of marriage is to keep the body pure, and that if it does not do this, marriage is of no use. But you do the opposite: when they are covered with countless stains, then you bring them to marriage, to no purpose and with no fruit.

“Why, I must wait until he has proved himself and made a name for himself in public life.” But you give no thought to his soul; you neglect it as though it were something thrown away. That is why everything is full of confusion and disorder and trouble: because this is treated as a secondary matter. The necessary things are neglected, while the unimportant ones receive great forethought.

Do you not know that you can do the young man no kindness as great as keeping him pure from the filth of prostitutes? For nothing is equal to the soul. “What does a man gain,” he says, “if he gains the whole world but loses his own soul?” But the love of money has overturned and thrown down everything. It has pushed aside the strict fear of God and seized on people’s souls like a rebel chief seizing a citadel. That is why we are careless both of our children’s salvation and of our own. We look to one aim only: to grow richer, so that we may leave our riches to others, and they to others after them, and those who follow them to their descendants. We become mere carriers who pass our property and our money along, not its owners.

Hence our great folly; hence the free-born are held in less regard than slaves. Our slaves we correct, if not for their sake, then for our own; but the free-born do not get the benefit even of this care, and they count for less with us than those slaves. And why do I say, less than our slaves? Our children count for less than our cattle; we take more care of horses and donkeys than of our children. If a man owns a mule, he takes great pains to find the best groom — not one who is harsh, or dishonest, or a drunkard, or ignorant of his trade. But if we are setting a tutor over a child’s soul, we take whoever comes our way, at once and at random. And yet there is no art greater than this one. For what is equal to training a soul and shaping the mind of someone young? The man who has this art ought to work with more care and exactness than any painter or any sculptor.

But we take no account of this. We look to one thing only: that he be trained in speaking. And even this we have set our efforts on for money’s sake. He learns to speak not so that he can speak well, but so that he can make money; if it were possible to grow rich without it, we would not care even for this.

Do you see how great the tyranny of riches is? How it has seized on everything, bound it like slaves or cattle, and drags it wherever it likes?

But what do we gain by accusing it like this? We shoot at it with words, but it overpowers us with deeds. Even so, we will not stop shooting at it with the words of our tongue. If any progress is made, we gain and so do you; and if you stay as you are, at least we have done our part.

May God free you from this disease and give us cause to boast of you. For to him be glory and dominion forever and ever. Amen.