Chrysostom's six-book dialogue, written around 386 AD, defending his evasion of episcopal ordination and developing a full theology of Christian priesthood, preaching, and pastoral care.
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On the Priesthood is a six-book dialogue Chrysostom composed in Antioch around 386 AD, shortly before he was ordained presbyter. The frame is autobiographical: Chrysostom and his friend Basil had been jointly considered for the episcopate, and Chrysostom evaded ordination by convincing the bishops he would accept it, then going into hiding while Basil was taken. The dialogue is his apology to Basil — first defending the trick, then explaining at length why the office of priest is too weighty for a young man to take on without resistance.
Books 1 and 2 defend the deception, drawing on examples of physicians who lie to feverish patients, generals who win by stratagem, and Paul circumcising Timothy after writing to the Galatians against circumcision. Books 3 and 4 develop the dignity of the office: the priest at the altar handles a sacrifice greater than any in the Old Testament, his prayers stand between heaven and the people, and his pastoral duties demand the skill of a physician treating chronic illness. Book 5 turns to preaching — the labor of writing sermons for a city audience trained on professional rhetoricians who applaud a clever phrase and walk out on a dull one. Book 6 closes on the priest's accountability to God for every soul he was given to keep.
The treatise became the standard handbook on pastoral theology in both East and West. Gregory the Great drew on it for his Pastoral Rule, the medieval ordination liturgies absorbed its language about the dignity of the altar, and the Reformers cited it on the proper calling of ministers. It is also a primary source for late-fourth-century episcopal politics in Antioch — the rivalries between candidates, the influence of leading families, and the social pressure that pushed reluctant young men into sees they did not want.
Book 1: Friendship and the Pious Ruse
1. Basil excels all Chrysostom's friends.
2. The harmony of Basil and Chrysostom. Their studies in all things similar.
3. Their zeal unequal in the pursuit of the monastic life.
4. The project of both dwelling together.
5. The blandishments of his mother.
6. The ruse of Chrysostom regarding the ordination.
7. Basil's modest and plain accusation.
8. Chrysostom's defence and attack.
9. The great advantage of a well-timed ruse. General topic.
1. I had many true and sincere friends who understood the laws of friendship well and observed them faithfully. Among them was one who far surpassed the others in his affection for me, striving to outstrip the rest as much as they already exceeded my ordinary well-wishers. He was constantly at my side, for we pursued the same studies under the same teachers; our dedication to our literary work was equal, and our ambitions were alike, driven by the same goals. This harmony lasted not only while we attended school together, but remained evident even after we had left and were deliberating on what course of life to pursue.
2. Other circumstances, too, kept our bond constant and strong. Neither of us could claim superiority over the other on account of his hometown's importance; my means were not excessively great, nor was he living in serious poverty. Our resources matched our shared outlook. Our families were of equal standing, and everything favored what we both desired.
3. But when that remarkable man was about to embrace the monastic life and the pursuit of true wisdom, the balance between us was no longer equal. His side rose lightly into the air, while I, still tangled in worldly desires, weighed mine down with the fantasies of youth and kept it firmly on the ground. Through all of this, our friendship remained as strong as ever in every other respect, though our daily companionship was broken off. Since our pursuits had diverged so sharply, living together was simply no longer possible. But as soon as I too managed to lift my head above the waves of this present life, he welcomed me with open arms. Even so, we could not recover our former equality, for he had gone before me in time and had shown far greater zeal, and so he stood at a height I could not reach.
4. Yet because he was generous by nature and valued my friendship deeply, he withdrew from everyone else and kept close to my side, as he had always wished to do but had been prevented from doing by my own carelessness. It was simply not possible for a man who haunted the law courts and spent his evenings at the theatre to keep regular company with someone who lived among his books and never showed his face in public. Once those obstacles were removed, he welcomed me into his way of life and immediately put forward a plan he had been quietly nursing for a long time. He would not allow himself to be separated from me even for the smallest part of the day, and he pressed me constantly to leave our separate homes and live together. In the end he won me over, and the plan was set in motion.
5. But my mother's constant affection prevented me from doing him that favor, or rather from receiving that benefit myself. When she realized I was seriously considering this plan, she took me by the hand and led me into her own room. She sat me down beside the bed where she had given birth to me, and then burst into tears, adding words even more affecting than her weeping. Her lament went something like this:
My dear son, God did not see fit to let me enjoy your father's company for long. He died not long after you were born, leaving you an orphan and me a widow far too soon, with all the burdens that widowhood brings, burdens that only those who have lived through them can truly understand. No words can capture the torrent of grief that overwhelms a young woman who has only recently left her father's house, who has no experience managing affairs, and who is suddenly crushed by sorrow while being forced to take on responsibilities beyond her years and station. She must discipline servants for their carelessness, stay vigilant against their dishonesty, fend off scheming relatives, and stand firm against the demands and cruelty of tax collectors. If the husband who died left behind a daughter, that child brings the mother much worry, though at least not great expense or danger. But a son brings with him endless fears and anxieties every single day, to say nothing of the cost of giving him a proper education. Yet none of this drove me to remarry or to bring another man into your father's house. I stayed in the storm and the noise; I did not flee the burning trial of widowhood. I was sustained, above all, by strength from above. And it was no small comfort to me, in those hard years, to look often at your face and see in you a true and living image of the man I had lost. Even as an infant, when you could not yet speak, at the very age when children bring their parents the most joy, you were a great consolation to me. Nor can you accuse me of bearing my grief bravely on one hand while squandering your inheritance on the other, which I know has been the fate of many children left fatherless. I have kept it intact, even while sparing no expense on your education, drawing on my own resources and on the dowry I brought from my father's house. I say this not to reproach you. For all of it, I ask only one thing: do not make me a widow again, and do not reawaken a grief that has finally been laid to rest. Wait for my death. Perhaps it will not be long; the young may hope for many years ahead, but we who are old have nothing left to look forward to but the end. When you have laid me in the earth beside your father's bones, then go wherever you wish, sail whatever sea you please. No one will stand in your way. But while I live, be patient enough to live with me, and do not carelessly and rashly offend God by plunging into so much sorrow someone who has done you no wrong. If you can accuse me of pushing you into worldly responsibilities or forcing you to manage your own affairs, then disregard every bond of nature, of upbringing, of family life, and everything else, and flee from me as you would from a traitor and an enemy. But if I have done everything in my power to give you a life of peace and freedom, then let that bond at least hold you here with me. For however many friends you may have, none of them will give you the freedom I can, because none of them cares for your good name as deeply as I do.
6. My mother said all this and more, and I repeated it to that excellent man. But far from being moved by her words, he only pressed his original request more insistently.
While this continued, with him urging me and me refusing to agree, a sudden rumor threw us both into alarm. The rumor was that we were to be appointed to the office of bishop. The moment I heard this, fear and confusion came over me: fear that I might be taken against my will, and confusion as I asked myself again and again how these men had ever come to consider us for such a position. When I looked honestly at myself, I could find nothing that qualified me for it. But that excellent man came to me privately and told me about the rumor, as though I hadn't yet heard it, and asked that here, as on previous occasions, we should act together with one mind and purpose. He said he was ready to follow whatever course I chose, whether that meant declining or accepting.
Recognizing his intentions, and believing I would harm the Church's broader interests if I allowed my own inadequacy to deprive Christ's flock of such a capable and virtuous young man, I kept my resolution entirely to myself, though I had never before hidden any of my plans from him. Instead, I told him we should put off any decision on the matter, since there was no immediate need, and I quickly persuaded him not to worry about it any further. I also gave him to understand that, as far as I was concerned, I would feel the same way he did if such a situation ever arose. Not long after, the man who was to ordain us arrived. I went into hiding, and my friend, knowing nothing of this, was brought forward on some other pretext and received the yoke of ordination, fully expecting, based on my promises, that I would certainly follow, or rather believing that he was simply following in my footsteps. Some of those present, seeing how upset he was at being taken, tried to calm him with a deception: they exclaimed that it was remarkable how the person who had seemed most resistant (meaning me) had submitted quite willingly to the decision of the Fathers, while he, who was far more gentle and reasonable, was now being stubborn and seeking empty glory by protesting, pulling back, and raising objections. He gave way to these reproaches, and when he later learned that I had escaped, he came to me in great distress. He sat down beside me and tried to speak, but his agitation made it impossible; every time he opened his mouth, grief choked off his words. Seeing him in tears and visibly shaken, and knowing full well what had happened, I burst out laughing from sheer relief. I took his hand and kissed it, and I thanked God that my scheme had worked out exactly as I had always hoped. When he saw how happy and lighthearted I was, he realized he had been deceived by me all along, and his hurt and frustration only deepened.
7. Then, recovering somewhat from his distress, he said: Even if you have no concern for my interests and think nothing of me (and I still don't understand why), you should at least have thought about your own reputation. You've set everyone talking, and the universal verdict is that you declined this ministry out of empty pride. Not one person has stepped forward to defend you against that charge. As for me, I can barely show my face in public anymore, so many people stop me every day to voice their complaints. Whenever our friends run into me anywhere in the city, they pull me aside and lay most of the blame squarely on me.
Since you knew his purpose, they say, for nothing that concerns him could have been unknown to you, you should have told us rather than kept it secret, and we would have found a way to stop him. I feel ashamed to admit to them that I had no idea you had long been planning this, for fear they might conclude our friendship was never real. Because if that is the truth, as it plainly is, and you yourself cannot deny it after what you have done, it would at least have been fitting to hide our troubles from outsiders who think well of us. I am reluctant, then, to tell them how things actually stand between us. Beyond that, I can only stay silent, keep my eyes down, avoid running into people, and stay out of sight. Even if I were cleared of the first charge, I would still be convicted of dishonesty, since no one will ever believe you kept your plans from Basil. But I care little about that, since it seems to be what you wanted. What I cannot bear is the disgrace in every other respect. Some accuse you of arrogance, others of vanity, and those who are harshest accuse us of both, adding to that a charge of contempt toward those who appointed us to this office. They say those men got what they deserved, for they passed over so many worthy candidates and immediately elevated to a dignity they could never have imagined obtaining mere young men who, until recently, had been absorbed in worldly affairs, simply because they had adopted a serious expression, dressed plainly, and put on an air of studied gravity. Meanwhile, those who from their earliest youth to extreme old age had practiced a life of self-denial remain in the rank of ordinary people, while their children, who do not even know the basic rules of this ministry, are set over them. This is what people keep saying to me, and more besides. I have no idea how to answer them, and I am asking you to tell me. I do not believe you acted foolishly or without reason in fleeing as you did, nor that you bore any ill will toward men of such standing. I think you acted with deliberation and careful thought, which leads me to conclude you have something to say in your defense. Tell me, then, if you have any real answer for your accusers. As for the wrong you have done to me, I ask for no explanation, whether for deceiving me and leaving me exposed, or for the trust I extended to you in the past. I placed my soul, so to speak, in your hands, yet you dealt with me as craftily as if you were guarding against an enemy.
If you thought this decision was beneficial, you should not have avoided its benefits yourself; but if you thought it harmful, you should have protected me from harm, since you always claimed to value me more than anyone else. Instead, you did everything possible to make me fall into the trap, resorting to deceit and insincerity in your dealings with someone who has always acted and spoken plainly and without guile. But as I said, I am not raising this as a charge against you now, nor am I reproaching you for the isolation you have forced on me by cutting off our relationship, from which we so often drew genuine pleasure and real benefit. All of this I set aside and bear in silence, with a spirit of meekness, not because your offense against me was small, but because from the day our friendship began, I resolved never to demand explanations from you for any pain you caused me. That you have done me no small injury, you will recognize yourself if you simply recall what used to be said about us, both by others and by ourselves: that our bond and mutual friendship would be a great source of strength and protection for us both. Everyone used to say that our harmony would benefit many others as well. For my own part, I never thought I would be of much service to anyone; but I did believe we would gain considerable advantage from our friendship, since together we would be invincible against any attack. I never stopped reminding you of this. The times are dangerous, I said; enemies are many; genuine charity has died out; destructive envy has taken its place. "We walk in the midst of snares, and tread on the battlements of cities." Many stand ready on every side to celebrate any misfortune that befalls us. There are none, or very few, who will grieve with us. Be careful, I warned, that if we part ways, we bring on ourselves the ridicule of the public, and worse than ridicule, real loss. "A brother helped by a brother is like a strong city, and like a kingdom strengthened by bars." Do not destroy this friendship, or break this bond. I kept saying this, and more, never suspecting anything was wrong, fully convinced your feelings toward me were solid and true. But while I was busy trying to strengthen someone I thought was already strong, I was, without realizing it, offering medicine to someone who was already sick.
But here I am, wretched as ever, and all that excessive caution gained me nothing. You swept aside every consideration without a second thought and launched me like an unballasted ship onto an open sea, with no regard for the storms I would have to face. And if I am ever attacked by accusation, ridicule, insolence, or insult (and such things will come often enough), where will I turn? To whom will I bring my distress? Who will take up my defense, push back against those who harass me, and make them stop? Who will comfort me and help me endure the rudeness of others? No one, since you have withdrawn from this terrible conflict and cannot even hear my cries. Do you understand the harm you have done? Now that the blow has fallen, do you see how deep a wound you have inflicted? But let us move past this, since what has been done cannot be undone, and there is no escape where none exists. What will I say to strangers? What answer will I give to their charges?
8. CHRYSOSTOM. "Take heart," I said, "for I am prepared to give an account not only on that point, but I will do my best to justify myself even on the matter you say requires no explanation. And if you will allow me, I will begin my defense there. My dearest friend treats me with such consideration that he doesn't even wish to ask for an explanation of the wrong he says I did him; setting aside his own concerns, he thinks only of me. It would be strange and inexplicable, then, for me to worry about what strangers think, to leave nothing undone to silence their criticisms, and yet fail to convince him that I did him no wrong, appearing to treat him with less care than he showed me. So what injury have I ever done you? That is where my defense must begin. Did I deceive you and hide my intentions? Yes, but the deception was for your own good, and for the good of those to whom I gave you up through my scheming. Now if deception is always wrong, never justified by necessity, I am ready to accept whatever penalty you choose. Or rather, since you would never consent to punish me, I will impose on myself as severe a penalty as judges typically hand down to the guilty when the charges against them have been proven. But if deception is not always wrong, if it is good or bad depending on the intentions of the one who uses it, then stop charging me with having deceived you and show instead that I did it with malicious intent. Until you can do that, reasonable people should praise a man for resorting to a well-timed deception rather than blame and accuse him. The benefit of a timely and well-meant deception can be enormous; indeed, many have been punished precisely for failing to use it when they should have. Look at the most celebrated commanders in history and you will find that their greatest victories came through deception, and that those who conquered by this means are praised more highly than those who won in open battle. The latter defeated their enemies at great cost in lives and treasure, so that even in victory they were scarcely better off than the vanquished, worn down by the loss of men and the drain on their resources. What's more, the defeated refuse to concede them the full glory of the victory, since no small share of it belongs to the conquered: they were victorious in spirit and defeated only in body, so that had they been able, even wounded, to keep from falling, and had death not cut short their efforts, they would never have stopped fighting. The man who conquers by deception, on the other hand, not only brings disaster on his enemies but covers them with ridicule. Nor do both sides receive equal credit for wisdom in such a case, as both might receive equal credit for courage in a pitched battle; the entire glory of victory belongs to the conquerors, and what is by no means the least of it, they secure for their country a joy in victory that is completely untainted. Wisdom is not like great wealth or a large army, which tend to be used up in war and eventually fail their owners; the more wisdom is exercised, the more it grows. And it is not only in war that deception proves necessary, but in peacetime as well, and not only in public affairs but in the household too: a husband must sometimes use it with his wife, and a wife with her husband; a father with his children, a friend with his friends, and even children with their parents. Saul's daughter, for instance, could never have saved her husband from her father's hands without deceiving him. And her brother had to use the same means to rescue him when he was again in danger, just as his wife had done before."
BASIL. Basil replied: None of this applies to me. I am not your personal enemy, nor a public adversary, nor a wrongdoer. Quite the opposite, in fact. I always entrusted all my affairs to your judgment and followed whatever course you recommended.
9. CHRYSOSTOM. But, my dearest and best of friends, that is precisely why I got ahead of you and said that it is legitimate to use deception, not only in war and against enemies, but also in peacetime, and even toward those we love most. Now, so that you can see how useful deception can be, not only to those who practice it but also to those on whom it is practiced, go and ask any physician how doctors cure their patients. He will tell you that they don't rely on medical skill alone; they also call on deception, and through it they restore their patients to health. When a patient's temperament or the nature of the disease works against their plans, doctors put on a mask of deception to conceal, as actors do on stage, what they are actually doing. If you'll allow me, I'll give you an example of the kind of ruse that, as I've heard, physicians employ. A certain man fell gravely ill with a violent fever. The fever kept climbing, and the patient refused everything that might have brought it down. Instead, he begged and pleaded with everyone who came to visit him to give him undiluted wine, so he could satisfy his dangerous craving. Had that desire been indulged, not only would the fever have worsened, but the poor man would have been driven into delirium. When skill had failed and every strategy had been tried without success, deception stepped in and proved effective in the following way. The doctor went and obtained an earthenware vessel, fresh from the kiln, and filled it with wine. He then poured the wine out and refilled the vessel with water. He ordered the sick man's room to be darkened with curtains so the light could not expose the trick, and then he handed the patient the vessel to drink from, as though it were full of pure wine. Deceived by the smell, the patient took the vessel in his hands without stopping to examine what he'd been given. Misled by the darkness and driven by his thirst, he drank eagerly from it, and once satisfied, the fever broke and he escaped the danger that had been closing in on him. Do you see, then, the value of deception? If I were to recount every ruse physicians employ, I would never finish. And it's not only those who heal the body who resort to this remedy; those who cure the ailments of the soul do so as well. This is how the blessed Paul won the attention of many thousands of Jews. For the same reason, the man who warned the Galatians that if they were circumcised Christ would be of no benefit to them went ahead and circumcised Timothy. For the same motive, he submitted to the law, even though he counted the righteousness of the law as loss compared to faith in Christ. The power of deception is great, provided it is not used with dishonest intent. In fact, it should not even be called deception; it is better described as a kind of tact and wisdom, an art capable of finding many ways out of difficulty and of correcting the faults of the soul. I would never call Phinehas a murderer, though he killed two people with a single blow; nor would I condemn Elijah on account of the hundred men and their captain, or for the torrent of blood shed in the slaughter of those who sacrificed to demons. If we were to accept such judgments and evaluate the bare acts apart from the intentions behind them, we would have to pronounce Abraham guilty of murdering his son, and accuse his grandson and his descendant of malice and fraud, since the former obtained the birthright through cunning and the latter transferred the wealth of the Egyptians to the army of the Israelites. But that is certainly not the case. Away with such recklessness! We not only acquit them of blame; we honor them for what they did, since God Himself has praised them for it. The man who truly deserves to be called a deceiver is the one who uses cunning for an unjust end, not the one who acts from an upright motive. Yet it is often necessary to practice deception and to gain great benefit from it, while the man who acts with blunt simplicity has often done serious harm to the very person he refused to deceive.
Book 2: Why I Fled Ordination
1. The priesthood is the greatest proof of love for Christ.
2. This ministry excels others.
3. It requires a great and noble soul.
4. The office is full of difficulty and danger.
5. I shrank from it for love of Christ.
6. Proof of Basil's virtue and of his ardent charity.
7. It was not to insult the electors that I fled from ordination.
8. By flight I saved them from blame.
That it is lawful, for a good end, to make use of a kind of artful maneuvering, or rather that such maneuvering should not even be called artifice but a commendable form of tact, I could have argued at much greater length. But since what I have already said is sufficient for my purpose, it would be tedious and unpleasant to drag the subject out any further. At this point, it would be your place to show that I have not, in fact, acted for your benefit.
BASIL. What advantage have I actually gained from your tact or wisdom, or whatever else you care to call it? Tell me that, and perhaps you can convince me that you have not done me harm.
1. CHRYSOSTOM. What greater advantage could there be, I asked, than to be engaged in the very things that are the greatest proof of love for Christ, as He Himself declared? For when He addressed the chief of the apostles, He said: "Peter, lovest thou Me?" (John 21:15) When Peter replied in the affirmative, He added: "If thou lovest Me, feed My sheep." (John 21:17) The Master asks the disciple whether he loves Him, not to learn the answer from him (for how could He need to, since He searches the hearts of all?), but to teach us how deeply He cares about the governance of His flock. Since this is clear, it must also be clear how great and indescribable a reward awaits the one who labors in the things Christ prizes so highly. When we ourselves see someone caring for our servants or our livestock, we take that care as a sign of their love for us, even though we purchased those servants and animals with money. What reward, then, will He give to those who feed His flock, since He purchased it not with money or anything like it, but with His death, paying for His flock with His own blood? So when the disciple said, "Thou knowest, Lord, that I love Thee," (John 21:15) and when Christ took the one He loved as a witness to His love, the Savior did not stop there but added the mark of His love. His purpose was not to prove to us how much Peter loved Him (we already had many proofs of that), but to show Peter and all of us how much He loves His Church, so that we too might pursue it with great zeal. Why did God not spare His only-begotten Son, but delivered Him up? To reconcile to Himself those who were His enemies and make them His own people. Why did He shed His blood? To purchase those sheep which He entrusted to Peter and his successors. Christ was therefore entirely right to say, "Who, thinkest thou, is a faithful and wise servant, whom his Lord hath appointed over His family?" (Matt 24:45) These words again seem to express uncertainty, but the one who spoke them had no uncertainty at all. Just as when He asked Peter whether he loved Him, He put the question not to learn about His disciple's love but to reveal the magnitude of His own love, so now, when He says, "Who is a faithful and wise servant?" He speaks not as though He does not know who is faithful and wise, but to show how rare such qualities are and how great this office truly is. Consider, then, how great the reward as well: "He shall place him over all His goods." (Matt 24:47)
2. Do you still doubt that my deception worked in your favor, given that you are now set over everything that belongs to God and charged with an office so significant that the Lord declared its faithful fulfillment would distinguish Peter above all the other apostles? "Peter," He said, "do you love Me more than these?" (John 21:15) He could have said instead: "If you love Me, fast, sleep on the bare ground, keep watch, protect the oppressed, be a father to the orphan and a husband to their mother." But He passed over all of that. What did He say instead? "Feed My sheep." (John 21:17) Many of the faithful, both men and women, can readily perform the works just mentioned. But when the question is who should be set as pastor over the Church and entrusted with the care of so many souls, the entire female sex and the majority of men should step back from so great a task. Only those who surpass all others should be brought forward, those who exceed their peers in spiritual excellence by as much as Saul exceeded the whole Hebrew nation in physical stature, or more. And here I am not asking for someone who is taller from the shoulders up; rather, the gap between the pastor and his flock should be as wide as the gap between irrational animals and a human being endowed with reason, if not wider, for the stakes are higher. A shepherd who loses sheep to ravening wolves, robbers, disease, or some other misfortune may perhaps be pardoned by the owner of the flock, and if compensation is required, the penalty is only money. But the man entrusted with the rational flock of Jesus Christ faces, first of all, a penalty not merely in money but in his own soul if the sheep are lost. Beyond that, the struggle he must endure is far greater and more demanding, for his contest is not against wolves, and his fear is not of robbers, and his concern is not simply to keep disease away from the flock. Against whom, then, is the contest? Listen to the blessed Paul: "Our wrestling is not against flesh and blood, but against principalities and powers, and the rulers of the darkness of this world, against the spirits of wickedness in high places" (Eph 6:12). Do you see the terrifying number of enemies and their fierce formation, armed not with steel but by a nature fitted to serve as every kind of armor? Do you wish to see another savage and cruel army lying in ambush to attack the flock? You will perceive this from the same vantage point, for the one who described those enemies also identifies these in the following terms: "The works of the flesh are manifest, which are fornication, adultery, uncleanness, immodesty, idolatry, witchcraft, enmities, contentions, emulations, wraths, quarrels, detractions, tale-bearing, indignations, dissensions, and many more" (Gal 5:19-20), for he did not list them all but gave us enough to infer the rest. When those who seek to destroy a herd of ordinary animals see the shepherd flee, they stop pursuing him and are satisfied with carrying off the sheep. In our case, however, even after they have captured the entire flock, they do not let up on the shepherd; they grow bolder and never stop until they have either overcome him or been defeated themselves. Furthermore, the ailments of animals are visible, whether hunger, contagion, wounds, or any other condition, and this visibility contributes considerably to the healing of those who suffer. There is another factor of great importance that also speeds recovery. What is it? Shepherds have the power to compel their sheep to undergo treatment even when the animals resist. It is easy to bind them if the cautery or the knife must be applied, to shut them in the fold if that is advisable, to move them to a different pasture, to keep them from water, and everything else the shepherd judges beneficial to the animals' health can be carried out with the greatest ease.
3. But when it comes to people, perceiving their inner weaknesses is no easy task. "For no man knoweth the things of a man, but the spirit of man which is in him." (1 Cor 2:11) How, then, can anyone apply a remedy to a condition they don't understand, especially when they often can't even tell whether the person is sick at all? And even when the problem is obvious, it presents enormous difficulty. You cannot treat people with the same ease that a shepherd handles a sheep. A shepherd can bind an animal, keep it from certain pastures, and apply the cautery and the knife; but whether a person accepts treatment depends not on the one administering it, but on the patient himself. Knowing this, that admirable man said to the Corinthians: "We do not exercise dominion over your faith, but are helpers of your joy." (2 Cor 1:24)
Christians, above all others, are not permitted to correct sinners by force. Secular judges certainly exercise considerable authority over lawbreakers: when they find people subject to the law, they can restrain them from their usual conduct even against their will. But our task is to correct such people not by compulsion, but by persuasion. The law grants us no such coercive power over sinners; and even if it did, we could not use it, since God crowns not those who avoid evil out of necessity, but those who avoid it by their own free choice. It therefore takes great skill to persuade those who are spiritually ill to submit to treatment at the hands of priests, and not merely to submit, but to be genuinely grateful for the care they receive. For if the patient struggles against being bound (and he can do so whenever he chooses), the condition only worsens. If he dismisses words of admonition, which cut like steel, with contempt, he inflicts an additional wound on himself, and the very treatment becomes the occasion of a more dangerous illness. No one can be healed against his will.
4. So what can be done? If you treat a patient who needs serious surgery too gently, and fail to cut deeply enough when the situation demands it, you remove only part of the wound and leave the rest behind. But if you make the necessary incision without holding back, the patient, overwhelmed by pain, will often throw aside both the remedy and the bandages at once, and hurl himself headlong, breaking free of every restraint. I could point to many cases of people who were driven to despair because a penance proportionate to their sins was demanded of them. You must not impose penance in proportion to the sins without careful judgment; you must also take into account the disposition of the sinner, so that in trying to mend what is torn, you don't widen the tear, and in trying to lift the fallen, you don't deepen the fall. The weak and listless, those entangled in worldly pleasures or proud of their birth and rank, can be delivered at least in part from the passions that hold them captive, if they are turned away from their sins quietly and gradually. But apply a harsh correction, and you rob them even of that smaller improvement. Once the soul has been shamed into abandoning all shame, it grows callous: it no longer responds to exhortation, is unmoved by threats, and is untouched by kindness. It becomes far worse than the city the prophet rebuked, saying: "Thou hast a harlot's forehead; towards all thou hast acted unblushingly." (Jer 3:3) The pastor, therefore, needs great wisdom and careful discernment to examine the state of the soul from every angle. Just as many people are driven to arrogance and fall into despair of salvation because they cannot endure harsh remedies, so there are others who, having made insufficient satisfaction for their sins, grow careless, become much worse, and are led into still greater sins. The priest should leave none of these things unexamined; he should look into everything carefully and carry out his duty with consistency, so that his zeal is not wasted. And this is not his only burden. He also faces the considerable difficulty of restoring to the Church those who have been cut off from it. A shepherd is followed by his flock wherever he goes, and if one of them wanders from the straight path and grazes on barren, rocky ground, a slightly louder call is enough to bring the stray back and reunite it with the herd. But when a person strays from the true faith, the pastor needs great diligence, patience, and perseverance. There is no bringing him back by force or compelling him by fear; he must be led back by persuasion to the truth he has abandoned. One must therefore have the generosity of spirit not to lose heart or despair of the salvation of those who have gone astray, and to call often to mind these words: "If perchance God may give them repentance to know the truth, that they may recover themselves from the snares of the devil." (2 Tim 2:25-26) For this reason the Lord said to His disciples, "Who is the faithful and wise servant?" The person who attends only to his own spiritual growth benefits himself alone, but the benefit of the pastoral office extends to all the people. The one who gives to the poor, or who defends the wronged in some other way, does benefit his neighbor to a degree, but far less than the priest does, just as the body is inferior to the soul. Our Lord was right, then, to say that zeal for His flock was the proof of love for Himself.
BASIL. But do you not love Christ?
CHRYSOSTOM. I do love Him, and I will never stop loving Him. But I am afraid of offending the One I love.
BASIL. What riddle could be more obscure than this? Christ commanded the one who loves Him to feed His sheep, yet you say you refuse to feed them precisely because you love the One who gave that command.
CHRYSOSTOM. There is no riddle in what I say; it is perfectly clear. If I were declining the office while actually being capable of fulfilling it as Christ desires, I would have no good answer for what I am saying. But since my own spiritual weakness makes me unfit for that ministry, how can my position be faulted? I am afraid that after receiving Christ's flock in a healthy and sound condition, I might harm it through my negligence and bring down on myself the anger of the One who loves it so deeply that He gave Himself as the price of its salvation.
You're joking. If you were serious, I can't imagine how you could more clearly prove that my pain is justified than by what you've just said in an attempt to comfort me. I already knew you had deceived and betrayed me, but now that you've tried to refute the charge, I understand it far better, and I can see plainly what a position you've put me in. If you withdrew from so great a ministry because you knew your mind wasn't equal to the task, you should have rescued me from it first, even if I was eagerly pursuing it myself, to say nothing of the fact that I had left the entire decision in your hands. Instead, you looked only to your own interests and neglected mine. And I wish you had simply neglected mine and left it at that. That, at least, would have been bearable. But instead you arranged things so that I would be easily caught by those who were looking for me. Nor can you excuse yourself by claiming you were misled by public opinion and genuinely believed I possessed some great and extraordinary merit. I am neither distinguished nor remarkable, and even if I were, public opinion should never take precedence over truth. If our time together had never given you any real sense of who I am, you might have had some reasonable excuse for casting your vote according to what others thought. But no one knows me as well as you do. You understand my character better than the parents who raised me. What plausible explanation can you offer that would convince anyone you didn't deliberately throw me into this danger? But let's set all of that aside for now. I'm not asking you to stand trial on that count. Just tell me: what defense can we possibly make against those who accuse us?
CHRYSOSTOM. Not at all, I said. I will not move on to that until I have cleared myself on the matter concerning you, even if you press me repeatedly to answer the other charges. You say that ignorance would have earned me pardon and freed me from all blame, if I had brought you to this position without knowing you well; but that since I acted not out of ignorance but with full knowledge, I am therefore stripped of every reasonable excuse and valid defense. I maintain exactly the opposite. Why? Because a matter of such importance demands careful consideration, and because whoever puts a man forward as qualified for the priestly office should not be content with public opinion alone. Above all and before everything else, he should personally examine the candidate's qualities. When the blessed Paul says, "Moreover he must have a good testimony of those that are without," (1 Tim 3:7) he is not dismissing the need for a thorough and searching examination, nor is he setting that public testimony up as the primary test in evaluating something so significant. Paul spoke first of many other tests and placed this one last, showing that public opinion alone should not be the deciding factor; rather, it should be weighed alongside everything else. Public opinion is often mistaken, but when a careful investigation has been conducted, there is no danger to fear from it. That is precisely why Paul places the clause about testimony from outsiders after all the rest. He does not simply say, "He must have a good testimony," but adds "moreover from those without," signaling that before any outside testimony is considered, a thorough examination of the candidate should already have taken place. Since I knew your qualities better than your own parents did, as you yourself admit, it is therefore right that I should be cleared of all blame.
BASIL. For that very reason, said he, you would not be acquitted if anyone accused you. Don't you remember how often you heard me say, and must also have seen from my conduct, how deficient I am in strength of character? How many times did you laugh at me for my timidity and my lack of courage in ordinary difficulties and troubles?
5. CHRYSOSTOM. I can't deny, said I, that I remember hearing you say so many times. But if I ever laughed at you, I did it in jest, not in earnest. I won't dispute that point with you now, but I do ask you to extend me the same courtesy while I mention some of your good qualities. And if you try to prove that what I say is false, I won't spare you: I will show that you are understating rather than telling the truth, and I will bring forward no other witness than your own words and deeds to prove my case. Do you understand, then, the value of charity? Christ, passing over all the other miracles the apostles were to perform, says: "By this shall all men know that you are My disciples, if you have love one for another" (John 13:35). Paul declares that it is the fulfilling of the law, and that without it, all the gifts count for nothing (Rom 13:10; 1 Cor 13:1-3). Now I saw that this excellent virtue, the mark of Christ's disciples and greater than all the gifts, was deeply rooted in your soul and gave promise of much fruit.
BASIL. That I always paid great attention to that point and made every effort to fulfill that commandment, I freely admit; but that I have not come close to fulfilling it, you yourself could testify, if you would stop speaking out of affection and give your honest verdict.
6. CHRYSOSTOM. Very well, I said, let me offer some proof. As I promised, I will show that you are understating things rather than telling the full truth. And I will cite something that happened recently, so no one can accuse me of hiding behind the distance of old events. Truth doesn't allow us to exaggerate even when we're trying to say something flattering. When one of our friends was in serious danger because of an accusation of insolence and arrogance, you rushed headlong into that danger without anyone asking you to, without even the man at risk requesting your help. That was what you did. And to convince you with your own words, let me remind you of what you said. Some people disapproved of your conduct while others praised and admired it, and you said to those who criticized you: "What was I supposed to do? I don't know how to love in any other way than by giving my very life to save a friend from danger." Different words, but the same meaning as what Christ said to His disciples when He defined the limits of perfect love: "Greater love than this no man hath, that a man lay down his life for his friends" (John 15:13). If no love can surpass that, then you have already reached its perfection. Through your actions and your words, you have already arrived at its summit. That is why I handed you over; that is why I devised that plan. Tell me, have I convinced you that I acted not out of malice, nor out of any desire to put you in danger, but out of the firm belief that it would be for your good?
BASIL. Do you really think that the power of love is enough to correct one's neighbor?
CHRYSOSTOM. Certainly, I said, it contributes a great deal to that end. But if you want me to offer proof of your wisdom as well, I will go on to show that you are as wise as you are loving.
BASIL. At this he blushed deeply and said: Leave aside what concerns me for now. From the very beginning I didn't ask you for an explanation on that point. But if you have a valid defence to offer against the objections of others, I would like to hear it. So stop fighting with shadows and tell me what justification you can give to the public, to those who intended to promote you, and to those who sympathize with them and feel insulted on their behalf.
7. CHRYSOSTOM. I too, I said, am coming to that point, for having finished my explanation regarding yourself, I am glad to turn to that part of my defence. So what is their accusation? What are the charges?
They claim we insulted them and treated them badly by refusing the position they wanted to give us. First, I would argue that no one should worry about insulting others when honoring them would mean offending God. I don't think their displeasure is harmless to themselves; on the contrary, I believe it does them real damage. In my view, those who serve God and look to Him alone should be so grounded in their faith that they don't feel insulted even if this happens to them repeatedly. That I never deliberately intended to insult them can be demonstrated as follows: if I had acted as I did out of pride or vanity, treating excellent and good men with contempt, men who were also my benefactors, as my accusers claim, then they would be right to hold me guilty of the gravest injustice. For if harming those who have done you no wrong deserves punishment, how much more should we honor those who freely chose to show you kindness? No one can claim that these men received any benefit from me, great or small, and are now simply returning the favor. What punishment would I not deserve if I repaid their generosity so poorly? But since I never had any intention of insulting them, and declined the heavy burden for an entirely different reason, why, if they refuse to approve of my decision, won't they at least pardon me rather than accuse me of having looked out for their souls? As far as I'm concerned, I was so far from insulting those men that I would go so far as to say I actually honored them by declining. Don't be surprised by that claim, as though it were a contradiction, because I will explain what I mean shortly.
8. Had I accepted ordination, it would have been possible, if not for everyone, at least for those who love to find fault, to harbor suspicions and talk about me and about the electors. They might have said, for instance, that the electors looked to wealth and admired distinguished birth, that they promoted me because I flattered them; and I'm not sure they wouldn't also have said that I bribed them. Or they might have said: Christ chose fishermen, tent-makers, and tax collectors for this office, but these electors despise those who live by daily toil; yet if anyone has a smattering of secular learning and lives an idle life, they select and admire him. Why did they pass over so many who had undergone countless labors in the service of the Church, and immediately thrust into such a high office a man who had never had the slightest experience of such toils, but had spent his whole life in empty, worldly learning? People might have said this and much more had I accepted the office. But now they cannot, because every pretext for accusation has been removed. They cannot accuse me of flattery, nor the electors of corruption, unless they have completely lost their senses. Is it even plausible that someone who resorted to flattery and bribery to obtain a position would then hand it over to others when the moment came to receive it? That would be like a man who spent enormous effort working his land in order to reap an abundant harvest and fill his wine-presses to overflowing, only to leave the gathering of the fruits to others when the harvest and vintage finally arrived, after all his toil and expense. Do you see, then, that even if what might have been said was far from true, those eager to find fault would still have had a pretext for claiming that the electors made their choice without discernment? But I have made it impossible for them to say a word, or even open their mouths. All of this and more would have been said at first. But even after I had entered the office, I would never have been able to refute their accusations, even if I had discharged every duty flawlessly; and far less so, since I would inevitably have made many mistakes through inexperience and youth. By acting as I have, I have spared the electors from such criticism, whereas had I acted otherwise, I would have exposed them to endless reproach. For what would people not have said? "They have entrusted things so sacred and so great to foolish boys. They have ruined the flock of God. The interests of Christians have become a toy and a game." "But now all iniquity shall stop her mouth." (Ps 107:42) If they do speak of you in this way, you will soon show them by your works that one must not judge wisdom by age, nor value an old man for his gray hair, nor reject a young man from so great a ministry, but only a new convert. And between the two there is a vast difference.
John Chrysostom (c. 349-407 AD) was Archbishop of Constantinople and one of the most celebrated preachers in Christian history. His surname "Chrysostom" means "golden-mouthed" in Greek, a tribute to his exceptional eloquence. Born in Antioch, he was trained in rhetoric before embracing an ascetic Christian life. His biblical commentaries and homilies are renowned for their clarity and practical application. Chrysostom fearlessly criticized the wealthy and powerful, including the imperial family, which eventually led to his exile. He died in exile in 407 AD. His liturgical reforms continue to influence Eastern Orthodox worship, and his extensive writings on Scripture, ethics, and Christian living remain widely read across Christian traditions.
Very easy to read as an non native speaker , when reading the dialoge its clear to see who is talking .
