Homily on Thanksgiving

1You have heard the words of the Apostle, in which he speaks to the Thessalonians, laying down law for all of life. His teaching was addressed to those who happened to be with him at the time, but the benefit from it extends to the whole of human life. “Rejoice always,” he says; “pray without ceasing; in everything give thanks” (1 Thessalonians 5:16-18). What rejoicing itself is, what benefit comes from it, how it is possible to achieve unceasing prayer, and how to render thanksgiving to God in all things—these we will explain a little later, as far as we can. But first we must deal with the objections that come against us from opponents, who slander the command as impossible. For what virtue is it, someone says, to pass night and day in a diffusion of soul, bright and beaming? And how can this be achieved, when countless unwanted evils surround us and force a necessary gloom upon the soul? Because of these, rejoicing and being in good spirits is no more possible than for a man being fried on a pan not to feel pain, or for a man being pierced through not to suffer. Perhaps someone here among us, sick with this weakness of reasoning, makes excuses in sins—one who, because he is sluggish about keeping the commands, tries to turn the blame onto the lawgiver, as if he were prescribing impossible things. And he says: How is it possible for me to rejoice always, when the causes of joy do not lie in my power? For the things that produce joy are external, not stored up within us: a friend's presence, prolonged time with parents, discoveries of money, honors from people, restoration to health from a severe illness, and the rest of life's prosperity—a house flourishing in every way, a table overflowing, close friends as partners in festivity, sounds and sights that bring pleasure, the health of those nearest to us, and the rest of their smooth course of life. For the things that grieve us are not only the painful events that fall on us, but also those that distress friends and relatives. So from all these things, the soul's overflowing joy and cheerfulness must necessarily be gathered. And in addition to these, when it is possible to see the downfall of enemies, the blows struck against plotters, requitals for one's benefactors—and, in a word, if nothing difficult is present or even expected to disturb our life at all—then joy can come into the soul. How then has a command been given to us that is not achieved by choice, but exists as a consequence of other things that come first? And how shall I pray without ceasing, when the needs of the body necessarily turn the mind's attention to themselves, since it is impossible for the understanding to be cut into two concerns at the same time? But I have also been ordered to give thanks in everything. Shall I give thanks while being tortured on the rack, while being abused, while stretched on the wheel, while having my eyes gouged out? Shall I give thanks while being struck with the dishonorable blow by one who hates me? While being frozen by cold, choked by hunger, bound to the stake, suddenly made childless, or deprived of my very wife? While suddenly cast out of prosperity by shipwreck? While falling in with pirates at sea or robbers on land? While having wounds, being falsely accused, wandering as a vagabond, living in prison? These things and still more they string together, accusing the lawgiver, thinking that they are preparing a defense for their own sins by slandering what has been commanded to us as impossible.

2What do we say, then? The Apostle is looking toward other things and trying to lift our souls from the ground to the height and transfer them to the heavenly citizenship. But those who do not reach the lawgiver's greatness of mind crawl around earth and flesh like worms in the mire, in the body's passions, and demand that the apostolic ordinances be possible on their own terms. Yet he summons to rejoice always not just anyone, but the kind of person he himself was: no longer living in the flesh, but having Christ living in himself, so that the union with the highest of goods in no way admits the sympathy that comes from the body's troubles. Even if the flesh is cut, the breaking of its continuity remains in the part of the body that suffered, because the spread of what grieves cannot reach through to the intellectual part of the soul. For if we have put to death the members that are on the earth, according to the Apostle's instructions, and we carry about the deadness of Jesus in the body (2 Corinthians 4:10), then necessarily the blow from the body that has been put to death will not reach to the soul that has been released from its connection to it. Dishonors and losses and the deaths of loved ones will not rise up to the mind, nor will they turn the soul's height down toward sympathy with things here. For if those who have fallen into difficulties think the same way as the earnest person, they will not cause grief to another, since they themselves do not bear what happens in a grieving way. But if they live according to the flesh, they will not cause grief even so; rather, they will be judged pitiable, not so much because of their circumstances as because they do not choose what is right. In general, a soul that has once been bound to the longing for its Creator and has become accustomed to being brightened by the beauties there will not have its exceeding gladness and cheerfulness changed by the varied shifting of the body's sufferings. Instead, it will make for itself an increase of gladness out of the things that grieve others. Such was the Apostle, taking pleasure in weaknesses, in afflictions, in persecutions, in necessities, making his wants his boasts: in hunger and thirst, in cold and nakedness, in persecutions and distresses—the very things at which others are indignant and give up on life, in these he was exulting. Those, then, who are untrained in the apostolic mind and do not understand that he is summoning us to the gospel life dare to accuse Paul of prescribing impossible things for us. But let them be taught how many reasonable grounds for rejoicing are set before us through God's great gift. We were brought into being when we did not exist. We were made according to the image of our Creator. We have mind and reason completing our nature, through which we have come to know God. And as we study with skill the beauties of creation, through them, as through certain letters, we read God's great providence and wisdom over all things. We are able to distinguish good from evil. We have been taught by nature itself to choose what is beneficial and turn away from what is harmful. Having been alienated from God through sin, we were called back again to kinship with him, rescued from dishonorable slavery by the blood of the Only-Begotten. There are hopes of resurrection, enjoyments of angelic goods, the kingdom in the heavens, the good things promised, surpassing the power of mind and reason.

3How can anyone fail to regard these as sufficient causes for unceasing joy and perpetual gladness, and instead suppose that the man who gorges his belly, has the flute played for him, lies stretched out on a soft bed, and snores—that this man lives in a manner worthy of joy? I would say that such people deserve to be mourned by those who have sense, while we should call blessed those who carry on their present life in hope of the age to come and exchange present things for eternal ones. Even if those joined to God pass their days in flame, like the three children in Babylon, even if they are shut up with lions, even if they are swallowed by a sea monster, we ought to call them blessed, and they themselves ought to pass their days in joy—not pained by present things, but gladdened by the hope of what is stored up for us hereafter.

For I think that the noble athlete, once he has stripped for the contest of godliness, must bear the blows of his opponents bravely through hope of the glory that comes from the crowns. In athletic contests, those who have trained their bodies in the wrestling schools are not cowed by the pain of a blow, but they go straight at their opponents out of desire for the proclamation, despising the immediate pains. In the same way, for the earnest man, even if something harsh is present, it will not overshadow his joy. For affliction produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not put us to shame (Romans 5:3-5). Therefore elsewhere we have been commanded by the same Apostle to endure in affliction and rejoice in hope. So it is hope that prepares joy to dwell in the soul of the earnest man.

But the same Apostle also commands us to weep with those who weep (Romans 12:15), and when writing to the Galatians he wept over the enemies of the cross of Christ (Philippians 3:18). And why speak of Jeremiah weeping, or Ezekiel writing laments for rulers at God's command, or many of the saints wailing? “Woe is me, my mother, what kind of person you have borne me” (Jeremiah 15:10). And, “Woe is me, for the godly has perished from the earth, and there is none upright among men” (Micah 7:2). And, “Woe is me, for I have become like one gathering stubble at harvest” (Micah 7:1). In short, search the voices of the righteous, and if you find one uttering a rather gloomy cry, you will be persuaded that all of them groan over this world and this wretched life within it. “Woe is me, that my sojourning is prolonged” (Psalm 119:5 LXX). For he has a desire to depart and be with Christ (Philippians 1:23). So he is distressed at the prolonging of this sojourning as an obstacle to joy.

David also left us in song a lament for his friend Jonathan, and in it he also mourned his own enemy. “I am grieved for you, my brother Jonathan” (2 Samuel 1:26). And, “Daughters of Israel, weep for Saul” (2 Samuel 1:24). For he laments Saul as having died in sin, but Jonathan as having shared life with him to the very end. And why speak of the rest? The Lord also wept over Lazarus (John 11:35), and he wept over Jerusalem (Luke 19:41). And he calls blessed those who mourn, and again those who weep (Matthew 5:4). “How are these things consistent,” they say, “with ‘Rejoice always’ (1 Thessalonians 5:16)?” For tears and joy do not have their origin from the same principles.

4Grief is naturally born when the assault of the unwanted strikes and contracts the soul, as if from a blow, while the spirit around the heart is pressed down. Joy, by contrast, is like a leaping of the soul exulting in things that go according to its will. That is why the bodily symptoms also differ. In those who grieve, the body is pale, livid, and chilled; in those who brighten, the body's condition blooms and grows reddish, since the soul all but leaps and is pushed outward by pleasure. To these objections we will say that the laments and tears of the saints came about because of their love for God. Always gazing, then, at the Beloved and increasing the gladness that came to them from there, they managed the affairs of their fellow-servants: mourning those who sinned and correcting them through their tears. Just as people standing on the shore share the suffering of those drowning in the sea but do not surrender their own safety in their concern for those in danger, so also those who grieve over the sins of their neighbors do not destroy their own gladness. On the contrary, they make it greater, since they are counted worthy of the Lord's joy on account of their tears for a brother. For this reason, blessed are those who weep, and blessed are those who mourn, because they will be comforted, and they will laugh (Matthew 5:4; Luke 6:21). By laughter he does not mean the sound that bursts from the cheeks when the blood boils up, but the cheerfulness that is unmixed and unmingled with anything gloomy. The Apostle therefore permits weeping with those who weep, since this tear becomes, as it were, a seed and a loan of eternal joy. Go up with me in thought and behold the angelic state: what other state befits them except to rejoice and be glad, because they have been counted worthy to stand before God and to enjoy the ineffable beauty of the glory of the One who created us? It is to that life, then, that the Apostle urges us on when he commands us to rejoice always. But as for the Lord's weeping over Lazarus and over the city, we have this to say: he also ate and drank, not because he himself needed these things, but to leave you measures and limits for the necessary sufferings of the soul. So too he wept, correcting the excessive passionate and lowly element of those given to wailing and fond of laments. For if anything needs the symmetry that comes from reason, weeping does: on what occasions it should occur, and to what extent, and when, and how. That the Lord's tears were not passionate but instructive is clear from this: 'Lazarus our friend has fallen asleep, but I am going to wake him' (John 11:11). Who among us mourns a sleeping friend whom he expects to wake a little later? 'Lazarus, come out' (John 11:43). And the dead man was made alive, and the bound man walked. A wonder within a wonder: his feet were bound with grave-cloths, yet he was not hindered from moving. For the power that strengthened him was greater than what impeded him. How then did the One who was about to work such things judge what had happened worthy of tears? Is it not clear that, supporting our weakness from every side, he enclosed the necessary sufferings within measures and limits, avoiding lack of sympathy as beastly, but rejecting the love of grief and much lamenting as ignoble?

5For this reason, when he wept over his friend, he both displayed his own sharing in human nature and freed us from the excesses on either side—not allowing us to be weakened by sufferings, nor to be without feeling in the face of griefs. So then, just as the Lord accepted hunger when the solid nourishment in him was consumed, and admitted thirst when the moisture in his body was used up, and grew weary when his muscles and sinews were stretched beyond measure by the journey—not because his divinity was subdued by the fatigue, but because his body received the symptoms that follow from nature—so also he admitted the tear, permitting the natural symptom to come upon the flesh. This happens when the hollows of the brain, filled with the exhalations from grief, discharge the weight of moisture through the passages around the eyes as through certain channels. From this come certain sounds, dizzy spells, and darkenings of sight at the unexpected reports of griefs, as the head is shaken all around by the vapors which the contraction of heat toward the depths sends upward. Then, I think, just as a cloud turns into drizzle, so the thickness of the vapors dissolves into tears. And for this reason there is a certain pleasure for those who grieve in their lament, since what weighs on them is secretly emptied out through weeping. Experience of what happens confirms the truth of this account. For we have known many who, in irremediable misfortunes, forced themselves to hold back and shed no tear; then some fell into irremediable sufferings—apoplexies or paralyses—and others died outright, their strength giving way under the weight of grief like a weak prop. For what we see happen with a flame—that it is choked by its own smoke when the smoke does not escape but swirls around it—this, they say, also happens with the power that governs the living creature: it is withered by pains and extinguished, since no exhalation to the outside occurs. Therefore let the lovers of grief not put forward the Lord's tears as an advocacy for their own suffering. For just as the food the Lord ate is not an occasion for self-indulgence for us—on the contrary, it is the highest standard of self-restraint and self-sufficiency—so also the tear is not a legislation for lamenting, but a most seemly measure set forth, and an exact rule, according to which it is fitting to bear griefs reverently and decorously while remaining within the boundaries of nature. Neither women nor men, then, are permitted love of grief and abundant tears, but only to frown somewhat at griefs and to shed a small tear—and this quietly, without bellowing or wailing, without tearing one's garment or pouring dust on oneself, or doing any other such disgraceful thing practiced by those who are uninstructed toward heavenly things. For the one purified by divine teaching must be fenced about by right reason as by a strong wall, and must bravely and steadfastly ward off the assaults of such sufferings; and not, as into some low-lying ground, receive the crowd of sufferings rushing in upon the low and yielding part of the soul. For it belongs to an unmanly soul, one that has no vigor from hope in God, to be violently torn apart and to collapse under griefs.

6For just as worms breed especially in the softer kinds of wood, so griefs implant themselves in the softer dispositions of human beings. Was Job's heart made of adamant? Were his inward parts fashioned from stone? Ten children fell to him in a brief moment of time, crushed by a single blow in the house of celebration, at the hour of enjoyment, when the devil brought the building down upon them. He saw a table mingled with blood; he saw children born at different times but reaching the end of life together. He did not wail, he did not tear his hair, he did not utter any ignoble sound, but he spoke that famous thanksgiving celebrated by all: "The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away; as it seemed good to the Lord, so it has happened; blessed be the name of the Lord" (Job 1:21). Was the man without fellow-feeling? How could that be, when he says of himself, "I wept for everyone who was afflicted" (Job 30:25)? But was he lying when he said this? Indeed, the truth bears witness for him that along with his other virtues he was also truthful. For it says, "A man blameless, righteous, God-fearing, truthful" (Job 1:1). But you lament with songs composed for gloom, and you practice melting away your own soul with mournful melodies. And just as the invention and costume with which they take the theaters is proper to tragic actors, so you think a fitting appearance also belongs to the mourner: a black garment, unkempt hair, darkness in the house, filth, dust, and a gloomy song, always keeping the wound of grief fresh in the soul. Leave these things to those who have no hope. But you have been taught about those who have fallen asleep in Christ, that "it is sown in corruption, it is raised in incorruption; it is sown in weakness, it is raised in power; it is sown a natural body, it is raised a spiritual body" (1 Corinthians 15:42-44). Why then do you weep for the one who has gone out to change his clothing? Do not mourn for yourself as one deprived of some helper for life. For it says, "It is good to hope in the Lord rather than to hope in man" (Psalm 117:8 LXX). Do not grieve for him as one who has suffered terribly. For a little later the trumpet from heaven will wake him, and you will see him standing before the judgment seat of Christ. Put away, then, these low and untaught cries: "Woe is me for these unexpected evils!" and "Who would have thought this would happen?" and "When would I have expected to hide in the earth the head dearest to me?" For even if we hear another person saying these things, we ought to blush—we who have been taught the necessary sufferings of nature both from the memory of the past and from the experience of the present. Neither untimely death, then, nor any other misfortunes falling upon us unexpectedly will ever shock us, who are being instructed by the word of piety. For example: I had a son, a young man, my only heir in life, the comfort of my old age, the ornament of my family, the flower of his contemporaries, the support of my household—he was at the very prime of his age. He has been snatched away and is gone; he has become earth and dust—he who a short while ago was a sweet sound to hear and a most delightful sight to the eyes of his father. What then shall I do? Shall I tear my clothing, and consent to roll on the ground, and cry aloud, and be indignant, and display myself to those present like some child screaming and convulsing under blows? Or shall I attend to the necessity of what happens—that the law of death is inescapable, passing through every age alike and dissolving all composite things in turn—and not be shocked by what has occurred? Shall I not have my mind overturned, as if struck down by an unexpected blow, since I was instructed long ago that, being mortal, I had a mortal son, and that nothing human is secure, nor is it natural for any possession to remain with its owners forever? But even great and famous cities, distinguished by the splendor of their buildings, the power of their inhabitants, and their other prosperity in land and marketplace, now bear the symbols of their ancient dignity only in ruins.

7And a ship that has often come safely through the sea, made swift voyages countless times, and carried a vast cargo for merchants, has been wiped out by a single blast of wind. Armies that had often defeated their enemies in battle, when their good fortune turned, became a pitiful sight and a pitiful story. Whole nations and islands that advanced to great power, raised many trophies on land and many on sea, and amassed great wealth from spoils, were either consumed by time or taken captive and exchanged freedom for slavery. In short, whatever you might name among the greatest and most unbearable evils, life has already anticipated you and holds the examples ready.

Just as we judge weights by the balance of the scale, and test the quality of gold by rubbing it against the stone, so if we bring our memory back to the measures set before us by the Lord, we will never fall outside the bounds of moderation. So whenever something unwelcome befalls you, first of all, because your mind has been prepared beforehand, do not suffer the disturbance; and then, by hope in the things to come, make the present things lighter. For just as those with weak eyes turn their gaze away from what is too bright and rest it on flowers and grass, so the soul must not continually look down upon what is grievous, nor cling to present distressing things, but must turn its eye around toward the contemplation of the things that are truly good.

In this way you will succeed in rejoicing always: if your life always looks toward God, and hope of the reward lightens the grievous things of life. Have you been dishonored? Then look toward the glory stored up for you in heaven through endurance. Have you suffered loss? Then fix your eyes on the heavenly wealth and the treasure you have laid up for yourself through good works. Have you been driven from your homeland? You have the heavenly Jerusalem as your homeland. Have you lost a child? You have angels, with whom you will dance around the throne of God, and you will rejoice with eternal rejoicing. By opposing the hoped-for good things to present distressing things in this way, you will keep your soul free from grief and untroubled—the very thing to which the Apostle's legislation summons us.

Do not let the bright things of human affairs produce immoderate exultation in your soul, nor let the grievous things humble its proud and lofty character with gloom and shrinking. For if you have not been educated beforehand about the things of life in this way, you will never live a waveless and untroubled life. But this will be easy for you to accomplish if you keep the command dwelling with you, the one that urges you to rejoice always: sending away the troublesome things of the flesh, gathering together the rejoicings of the soul, passing beyond the perception of present things, and stretching your mind toward the hope of eternal things—whose mere image is enough to fill the soul with rejoicing and to make the angelic exultation dwell in our hearts, in Christ Jesus our Lord, to whom be the glory and the power forever. Amen.