Letter 291

291. To Timothy, country-bishop

To write all that I think I see to be neither suited to the measure of a letter nor otherwise befitting the kind of address I owe you; and yet to pass over it in silence is for me well-nigh impossible, since my heart is inflamed with a just anger against you. I shall therefore take a middle course, writing some things and leaving others out. For I wish to take you to task, if it be permitted, with the frankness of a friend speaking to an equal.

If you are that Timothy whom from childhood we knew to apply himself with such intensity to uprightness and the disciplined life that he was even charged with going to excess in these things—are you now standing aside from considering by every means what one must do to be made near to God, and looking instead to what So-and-so thinks of you? Have you made your life hang upon the opinion of others, and are you taking thought how not to be useless to friends nor a laughing-stock to enemies, fearing the shame that comes from the many as though it were some dreadful thing—and do you not perceive that, all the while you wear yourself out over these matters, you are unawares neglecting the life that ought to come first? For that it is not possible to prevail in both at once—the affairs of this world and the manner of life according to God—the divine Scriptures are full of what they have taught us; and nature herself, too, is full of such examples. For in the working of the mind it is wholly impossible to think two thoughts at the same moment; and in the perceptions of the senses it is impossible to receive and to distinguish at the same time two voices falling together upon the ears, even though two passages of hearing are open to us. And the eyes, unless both are directed toward some one of the visible things, cannot perform their office accurately. So much for what comes from nature; but to set forth for you the lessons from the Scriptures is no less absurd than, as the saying goes, to carry an owl to Athens.

Why, then, do we mix things that will not mix—the tumults of civic life and the practice of godliness—instead of withdrawing from the tumults, and from having troubles and giving them to others, and becoming our own masters, and confirming by our deeds the aim of godliness which we long ago set before ourselves, and showing those who wish to harass us that it does not lie with them to grieve us whenever they please? And this will come to pass once we have shown ourselves free of every handhold. So much, then, for this. May it be granted us one day to come together in the same place and to take more careful counsel about what is profitable to our souls, that we may not be caught up in care for vain things when the necessary departure comes upon us.

I was greatly delighted with the things your love sent, which were of their own nature most pleasant; but the addition of the sender made the pleasure many times greater. As for the wax and the lozenges from Pontus, accept them gladly when we send them; for at present we had none to hand.