A Grief Too Hard to Bear
Basil, one of the greatest saints, had left this life to be with God. All the churches shared in mourning for him. But his sister, the Teacher, was still alive, so I traveled to see her, longing to share our grief over losing her brother. My soul was crushed by this terrible blow, and I needed someone who felt it just as deeply, someone to cry with.
But when we finally met, seeing the Teacher only intensified my pain. She too was lying prostrate, close to death herself. Still, she indulged me for a little while, like a skilled charioteer, letting my uncontrollable grief run its course. Then she tried to rein me in with her words, using the bridle of her reasoning to bring order to my disordered soul. She quoted the Apostle's words about not "grieving for those who sleep," since only "people without hope" feel that way. My heart still churning with pain, I asked:
How could anyone actually live this way? Everyone has such a deep, instinctive horror of death! Those who watch someone dying can barely stand to look, and those facing death themselves fight it with everything they have. Even our legal system places death at the top of both crime categories and punishment scales. So how could we possibly train ourselves to feel nothing when someone dies, even a stranger, let alone a family member? We can see that the entire course of human life aims at one thing: staying alive. That's why we invented houses, so our bodies won't be destroyed by extreme cold or heat. What is agriculture but a way to keep ourselves fed? All our planning about how to keep living comes from our fear of dying. Why do we honor medicine so much? Because we think it can fight death to some degree through its techniques. Why do we have breastplates, shields, leg armor, helmets, and all our defensive gear, along with fortified walls and iron-barred gates? Because we're afraid to die. If death is naturally so terrifying to us, how can it be easy for survivors to obey this command and remain unmoved when friends die?
"But what exactly hurts you about the simple fact that death must happen? This kind of thoughtless common talk isn't a real argument."
What! Is there no reason to grieve, I replied to her, when we see someone who was just recently alive and speaking suddenly become lifeless and motionless, with every bodily sense extinguished, with no sight or hearing working, or any other faculty of perception that the senses possess? And if you apply fire or steel to him, even if you were to drive a sword into the body, or throw it to wild beasts, or bury it under a mound, that dead man remains equally unmoved by any treatment. Seeing, then, that this change happens in all these ways, and that principle of life, whatever it might be, disappears all at once from sight, like the flame of an extinguished lamp which burned on it just a moment before, neither remaining on the wick nor passing to some other place, but completely disappearing, how can such a change be endured without emotion by someone who has no clear ground to stand on? We hear about the departure of the spirit, we see the shell that is left behind, but of the part that has been separated we are ignorant, both as to its nature and as to the place where it has gone. For neither earth, nor air, nor water, nor any other element can show this force that has left the body residing within itself, at whose withdrawal only a corpse remains, ready for dissolution.
While I was going on like this about the subject, the Teacher gestured to me with her hand, and said: Surely what alarms and disturbs your mind isn't the thought that the soul, instead of lasting forever, ceases with the body's dissolution!
I answered rather recklessly, without really thinking through what I was saying. My overwhelming grief hadn't yet allowed me to think clearly. What I said was that the divine words seemed to me like mere commands forcing us to believe the soul lives forever, but they didn't actually lead us to this belief through any reasoning. Our minds seem to accept this imposed opinion like slaves, not embracing it with any genuine conviction. That's why our grief over the dead is so much more painful. We don't really know whether this life-giving principle is anything in itself, where it is, or how it exists, or whether it exists anywhere at all. This uncertainty about what's actually true leaves the question balanced between opposing views. Many people adopt one position, many the other. In fact, certain Greek philosophers of considerable reputation have held and defended exactly what I just said.
"Enough of that pagan nonsense!" she exclaimed. "The father of lies invents false theories only to undermine the truth. Understand this and nothing else: such a view of the soul amounts to nothing less than abandoning virtue and seeking only momentary pleasure. Anyone who holds this view must give up hope in eternal life, which is the only thing that gives virtue its advantage."
"But how," I asked, "are we supposed to gain a firm and unshakable belief in the soul's survival? I'm well aware that human life will lose its most beautiful quality, virtue itself, unless we establish an unwavering confidence about this within ourselves. What foundation does virtue have for people who think this present life is the limit of their existence and hope for nothing beyond?"
"Well," the Teacher replied, "we need to find a starting point for our discussion on this issue. If you're willing, why don't you take on the role of defending the opposing views? I can see your mind is somewhat drawn to that position. Once we've heard the conflicting belief stated, we'll be better able to search for the truth."
When she made this request, I quickly clarified that I wasn't raising these objections because I actually believed them. I simply wanted to establish a firm foundation for our belief about the soul by first examining the arguments against this view. Then I began:
Would the defenders of the opposite view say this: that the body, being composite, must necessarily break down into its constituent parts? And when the combination of elements in the body ceases, each of those elements naturally gravitates toward its kindred element with the irresistible pull of like to like. The heat in us will thus unite with heat, the earthy with the solid, and each of the other elements will also pass toward its like. Where, then, will the soul be after that? If someone claims that it is in those elements, they will be forced to admit that it is identical with them, for this fusion could not possibly take place between two things of different natures. But if we grant this, the soul must necessarily be viewed as a complex thing, fused as it is with qualities so opposite. But the complex is not simple; it must be classed with the composite, and the composite is necessarily dissoluble. And dissolution means the destruction of the compound, and the destructible is not immortal. Otherwise the flesh itself, resolvable as it is into its constituent elements, might be called immortal. If, on the other hand, the soul is something other than these elements, where can our reason suggest a place for it to be? When it is, by virtue of its alien nature, not to be discovered in those elements, and there is no other place in the world, either, where it may continue to exist in harmony with its own peculiar character. But if a thing can be found nowhere, plainly it has no existence.
