Hexameron 3.30–3.54

Today you may see a strong young man, blooming in the freshness of youth, of pleasing appearance and sweet complexion; tomorrow he meets you changed in face and features, and he who the day before seemed to you most splendid in the grace of a comely form appears another day pitiable, undone by the weakness of some illness. Many are broken by toil, or wasted by want, or troubled by indigestion, or ruined by wine, or weakened by old age, or made effeminate by luxuries, or discoloured by excess. Is it not true that “the grass has withered and the flower has fallen”? Another, noble in grandfather and great-grandfather, honoured with the insignia of his ancestors, famous for the distinctions of an ancient line, abounding in friends, surrounded by clients and guarded on both sides, leading out and leading back a very large household, suddenly thrown into confusion by some weight of mishap, is abandoned by all, deserted by his companions, attacked by those nearest him. See, it is true that the life of man, like grass, withers before it is plucked up. There is also one who until lately abounded in wealth, whose fame for generosity flew from mouth to mouth, famous for honours, eminent in power, lofty on the tribunal, exalted on the seat, thought happy by the people while he is escorted by the cry of heralds; by a sudden turn of things he is dragged into the prison into which he himself had thrust others, and among those he had accused he weeps over the misery of the punishment that threatens. How many has a crowd of applauders and the envied procession of a great throng escorted home the day before; and one night has wiped out the splendour of that glorious escort, and a sudden pain in the side has mixed the heavy succession of grief with the outpoured joys. Such, then, is the glory of man, like the flower of grass, which even when it is bestowed adds nothing to one's works, in which no fruit is gained, and which, when it is lost, vanishes, abandoning the whole stage of a man …

And would that we imitated this herb, of which the Lord says: “Let the earth bring forth the green herb, sowing seed after its kind and after its likeness.” Let us sow seed, then, after our kind. Hear what our kind is from him who says that we ought to seek the divine, if in any way we might feel after it or find it, though it is not far from each one of us. For in him we live and are and move, as some of your own have said: “For we are also his offspring.” According to this kind let us sow seed, not in the flesh but in the spirit. For we who wish to come to eternal life ought to sow not carnal but spiritual seeds. And what the likeness is you do not know, you who were made after the image and likeness of God? The herb answers to its kind; you do not answer to your kind. A grain of wheat sown in the earth returns the grace of its kind; and you degenerate. The crops do not adulterate the purity of their seed; you adulterate the purity of your soul, the vigour of your mind, the chastity of your body.

Do you not recognize that you are the work of Christ? He formed you with his own hands, as we read; and you, Manichee, adopt another author for yourself. God the Father says to the Son: “Let us make man after our image and likeness”; and you, Photinian, say that Christ did not yet exist at the founding of the world; and you, Eunomian, say that the Son is unlike the Father. For if he is the image, he is certainly not unlike, but expresses the whole Father, whom the Father sealed with the unity of his substance. The Father says, “Let us make,” and you deny that he is a fellow worker. What the Father said, the Son did; and you deny that he is equal, he in whom the Father was well pleased.

“Let the earth,” he says, “bring forth the green herb after its kind.” In all the things that are called growths of the earth the first stage is the shoot. When it has raised itself a little, it becomes herb, afterward grass, and then fruit. There are growths that sprout from the root, like trees that are not sown but spring from the root of other trees. In the reed we see how at its end a kind of knot forms at the side, and from there another reed sprouts. There is, then, in the root a certain power of seed. Grafted shoots, too, sprout in the upper parts. Some, then, acquire their line of succession from the root, others by a different gift. For in each growing thing there is either seed or some seminal power, and that after its kind, so that what is born from it sprouts like the things that were sown, or from whose root it comes: from wheat, wheat; from millet, millet; from a hedge the pear tree breaks out with its white flower, and the chestnut too rises from the chestnut's root.

“Let the earth,” he says, “bring forth the green herb after its kind.” And at once the earth, in labour, poured itself out in new births, clothed itself in a mantle of green, took on the grace of fruitfulness, and, adorned with various shoots, received its own ornaments. We wonder that it produced so quickly; how much greater are the wonders if you look at each detail: how the seeds thrown into the earth are dissolved and, unless they die, bear no fruit, but if they are dissolved by a kind of death of their own, rise again into more abundant fruit. The crumbling clod, then, receives the grain of wheat, the harrowing holds it once scattered, and the earth cherishes and presses it as in a mother's lap. Then, when that grain has dissolved, it sprouts a blade, and the very appearance of the sprouting green is pleasing, which at once betrays the kind of what was sown by its likeness, so that at the very beginning of its stem you may recognize of what kind the herb is, and the fruit appears in the blade; little by little it grows up like grass and, coming of age on its stalk, is raised and rises up. But when the ear, now jointed, has lifted itself, certain sheaths are prepared for the future grain, in which the grain is formed within, so that its tender beginnings may not be harmed by the cold, or burned by the sun's heat, or shaken off by the harshness of winds or the savage force of rains. There follow rows of the ear formed with wonderful art, pleasing to the eye or, for protection, bound together by a kind of natural linking which divine providence has formed. And lest the support of the stalks give way under the weight of the more numerous grain, the stalk itself is enclosed by certain sheaths, so that with doubled strength it may sustain the manifold grain and not bend to the earth, unequal to its burden. Then above the ear itself a palisade of beards is built, so that it projects as from a kind of citadel, lest the ear be harmed by the bites of the smaller birds, or stripped of its fruits, or trampled underfoot.

What shall I say of how the kindness of God has provided for human advantage? The earth returns at interest what it has received, multiplied by an accumulation of interest. Men often deceive and cheat their lender of the principal; the earth remains faithful, and if at any time it has not paid, if perhaps the harshness of cold or too much drought or an immense force of rain has been against it, it makes up the losses of the previous year in another year. So too, when the yield has disappointed the farmer's hope, the earth is at no fault, and when it smiles, the abundance of the fruitful mother pours itself out in births, so that it never causes any loss to its creditor.

But what a sight a full field is, what a fragrance, what sweetness, what delight for the farmers! What could we explain worthily if we used our own speech? But we have the testimonies of Scripture, by which we notice that the sweetness of a field is compared to the blessing and grace of the saints, as holy Isaac says: “The smell of my son is as the smell of a full field.” Why then should I describe the purple violets, the white lilies, the glowing roses, the countryside painted now with golden, now with many-coloured, now with yellow flowers, in which you would not know whether the beauty of the flowers or the force of their fragrance delights you more? The eyes feed on a pleasing spectacle; far and wide the fragrance spreads, with whose sweetness we are filled. So the Lord rightly says: “And the beauty of the field is with me.” For it is with him who formed it; what other craftsman could express the loveliness of each thing? “Consider the lilies of the field”: how great the whiteness of their petals, how the petals, packed together, seem to rise from the bottom to the top so as to express the form of a cup, how a kind of gold shines within, which, fenced in by the palisade round the flower, lies open to no harm. If anyone plucks this flower and separates it into its petals, what hand of so great a craftsman is there that could restore the form of the lily? Who is so great an imitator of nature as to presume to restore this flower, to which the Lord bore such testimony as to say: “Not even Solomon in all his glory was arrayed like one of these”? A most wealthy and most wise king is judged inferior to the beauty of this flower.

Why should I list the healthful juices of herbs, the remedies of shrubs and leaves? A sick stag chews little olive twigs and becomes well. Olive leaves gnawed also free locusts from sickness. Bramble leaves laid on a serpent kill it. Gnats will not touch you if you boil the herb … with oil and anoint yourself with it.

But perhaps some may say: “What of the fact that along with useful things deadly and harmful ones are also produced?” With wheat you find among the foods of life something harmful, which, unless it is noticed beforehand, usually injures health. Hellebore too is found among the other nourishments of life. Aconite also often deceives and misleads the one gathering it. But this is as if you were to blame the earth because not all men are good. Indeed, hear something more: not all the angels in heaven are good. The sun itself parches the ears with excessive heat and scorches the first beginnings of growing things. The moon too shows travellers the road and betrays the ambushes of robbers. Is it right, then, that, neglecting to acknowledge the creator's grace in the things that are useful, we should detract from the creator's providence because of some harmful foods, as if everything ought to have been produced for the sake of the gullet, or as if what the divine goodness has supplied for our belly were small? The foods appointed for us are known to all, which produce both pleasure and health of body.

Each of the things produced from the earth has a particular reason, and each according to its share completes the fullness of the whole creation. Some, then, are born for food, others for other use. Nothing is idle, the earth sprouts nothing empty. What you think useless to you is useful to others; indeed, it is often useful to you yourself for another use. What does not help as food provides medicine, and often the very things that are harmful to you supply harmless fodder to birds or wild beasts. Starlings, for example, feed on hemlock and it does them no harm, because by the quality of their body they escape the poison of the deadly juice. For the force of that juice is cold, and they forestall it by early digestion through the fine passages leading to the seat of their heart, before it attacks the vital parts themselves. The experts say that hellebore is food and nourishment for quails, because by a natural tempering of their body they avoid the force of the harmful fodder. For if by the method of medicine it is often tempered even for the health of the human body, to which it seems contrary, how much more, by a property of nature, does what is turned to health by the physician's hand serve as food! By mandrake too sleep is often brought on when the sick are troubled by sleeplessness. Why should I speak of opium, which has become known to us by almost daily use, since by it the most severe pains of the inner organs are often lulled? Nor is it unknown that the furies of lust have often withered under hemlock, and that long-standing ailments of a sick body have been dissolved by hellebore.

So not only is there no blame of the creator in these things, but there is even an increase of thanks, since what seemed to be produced for danger works remedies of health for you. For what is dangerous is avoided by foresight, and what is healthful is not lost through industry. Or have sheep and goats learned to avoid what is harmful to them, and do they recognize, not by smell alone but by a certain mystery of nature, though they lack reason, the reason for escaping danger or keeping safe, and distinguish the harmful from the helpful, so that often, when they have felt weapons armed with poison, they are said to seek known herbs and apply them as a remedy to the wound? For them, then, food is medicine, so that you may see arrows leap back out of the wound and poisons flee rather than spread. Indeed, for deer poison is food: the snake flees the deer, kills the lion; the dragon binds the elephant, whose fall is the death of the victor. And so they fight with all their might on both sides, the one to bind the foot, so that the fall of the bound beast may not harm it, the other not to be caught by the last hind foot or on a narrow path, where it could not turn itself and crush the dragon with its heavy tread, or have the help of an elephant following.

If, then, irrational animals know with what herbs to treat themselves or with what aids to help themselves, does man, in whom a rational sense is inborn, not know? Or is he so far from the truth that he does not detect what is suited to each use, or so ungrateful for the goods of nature that, because a draught of bull's blood is deadly to man, he thinks that hard-working animal either ought not to have been born or ought to have been produced without blood? Its strength is useful for tilling the fields, handy for drawing carts, pleasant for food; with varied service it supports the farmers, to whom God has given all things, if they knew their own goods, saying: “Let the earth bring forth the green herb, sowing seed after its kind.” For he included not only the food that grows of itself, in herbs and roots and the fruits of trees and the rest, but also that which is obtained by industry and acquired by the cultivation of rustic labour.

How fitting it is that he did not order the lands to pour out seed and fruit at once, but decreed that they should first sprout, then the fields grow green, and afterward the seed grow up according to the property of its kind, so that the fields might never lack their grace, first offering the pleasing beauty of calm and afterward the usefulness of fruit.

But perhaps someone may say: “How does the earth bring forth seeds after their kind, when often the seeds sown degenerate, and when good wheat has been sown, its appearance is returned discoloured and of inferior form?” But if this ever happens, it seems to be referred not to a change of kind, but to a kind of sickness and inequality of the seed. For it does not cease to be wheat if it is either scorched by cold or soaked by rain, but it is changed in appearance rather than in kind, in colour also and by decay. Indeed, grain that has been soaked often returns to the appearance of its kind if it is dried by sun or fire, or, entrusted to diligent farmers, is cherished by a mild climate and the richness of fertile lands. So what degenerated in the parent is restored in the offspring. Therefore we run no risk that the command of God, whose use has become ingrained in nature, may be abandoned for the future through a fault in the succession, since even today the purity of their kind is preserved in the seeds.

For darnel and the other spurious seeds that are often mixed with crops we know from the reading of the Gospel are called tares; but these have a proper kind of their own; they have not drawn a degenerate nature by passing from the seed of wheat into another kind of seed through a discoloured change. The Lord teaches this, saying: “The kingdom of heaven is like a man who sowed good seed in his field; but while men slept, his enemy came and sowed tares over it among the wheat.” We notice, certainly, that tares and wheat seem to be distinct both in name and in kind. Indeed the servants said to the householder: “Lord, did you not sow good seed in your field? From where then does it have tares?” And he said to them: “An enemy has done this.” For the seed of the devil is one thing, the seed of Christ another, which is sown for righteousness. In fact, the Son of Man sowed one thing, the devil another. So different is the nature of the two seeds that the sower is opposite: what Christ sows is the kingdom of God, what the devil sows is sin. How then can the kingdom and sin be of one kind? “So is the kingdom of God,” he says, “as if a man should cast seed upon the earth.” There is also a man who sows the word, of whom it is written: “He who sows, sows the word.”

This man sowed the word upon the earth when he said, “Let the earth bring forth the green herb”; and at once the shoots of the lands sprang up and the various forms of things shone out. Here the green grace of the meadows supplied abundant fodder; there the yellowing ear of the plains, as the richer crop stirred, expressed the image of a surging sea. The earth brought forth all fruit of its own accord. Though it could not be ploughed without a farmer (for the farmer had not yet been formed), yet unploughed it overflowed with rich harvests, and I do not doubt with a greater yield, since no laziness of a farmer could cheat the fertility of the lands. For now fruitfulness is gained by each according to the merit of his labour, where the cultivation of the fields is regarded, and neglect or offence is punished either by deluges of rain or by droughts of the earth or by the blows of hail or, for whatever cause, by the barrenness of rich soil. But then the earth brought in fruits everywhere with a spontaneous yield, because he had commanded who is the fullness of all things. For the word of God was bearing fruit on the earth, and the earth had not yet been condemned by any curse. For the beginnings of the world being born are older than our sins, and the fault is more recent for which we are condemned to eat bread in the sweat of our face and not to know food without sweat.

Even today the fruitfulness of the earth carries on the old abundance in its practice of spontaneous fertility. How many things are still produced of their own accord! But even in those very things that are sought by hand, the divine benefits remain to us in great part, so that grain itself is brought in to those who are resting. The example of the reading set before us teaches this, as the Lord says: “So is the kingdom of God, as if someone should cast seed upon the earth, and should sleep,” he says, “and rise night and day, and the seed should sprout and grow, while he does not know. The earth bears fruit of itself, first the blade, then the ear, then the full grain in the ear. And when it has produced the fruit, at once he puts in the sickle, because the harvest has come.” While you sleep, then, O man, and do not know, the earth produces its fruits of itself. You sleep and rise and marvel at the growth of the grain through the night.

We have spoken of the green herb; now let us speak of the fruitful tree making fruit after its kind, whose seed is in itself. He spoke and they were made, and suddenly, as above with flowers and green herbs, so here the earth was clothed with woods. Trees ran together, forests rose up, the tops of mountains suddenly put forth leaves. Here the pine, there the cypress lifted itself to lofty heights; cedars and spruces came together. The fir too came forth, not content with earthly roots and an airy top, but ready to undergo the hazards of the sea safely as oars and to contend not only with winds but also with waves. The laurel too rose up and gave its fragrance, never to be stripped of its covering. The shady holm oaks also put forth their tops, to keep their bristling foliage even in winter. For nature held this as a bond in each for the future, which it received at the stroke of the world's rising. And so the holm oaks keep their prerogative, they remain green, so that no winds strip them of the garment of their hair.

Before, the rose had risen without thorns, mingled with the flowers of the earth, and the most beautiful flower bloomed without any deceit; afterward the thorn hedged in the grace of the flower, holding up as it were a mirror of human life, which often pricks the sweetness of its enjoyment with the neighbouring goads of cares. For the elegance of our life is fenced in and hedged about by certain anxieties, so that sadness is joined to grace. So whenever anyone rejoices either in the sweetness of reason or in the success of his affairs, he ought to remember the fault through which, in the delight of paradise, while things were flowering, the thorns and briars of mind and soul were assigned to us by right of condemnation. Though you shine, then, O man, with the splendour of nobility or the height of power or the brilliance of virtue, the thorn is always next to you, the briar is always near; always look at what is beneath you. You sprout above a thorn, and the grace does not last long. Each one, the brief flower of his age run out, soon withers.

Surely, as you know that you share what is perishable with the flowers, so you share what is joyful with the vines, from which wine is produced, by which the heart of man is gladdened. And would that you, O man, imitated the example of this kind, so as to bring forth joy and gladness for yourself. In yourself is the sweetness of your grace; it sprouts from you, remains in you, is within you; in yourself must the gladness of your conscience be sought. So it says: “Drink water from your own vessels and from the springs of your own wells.” First of all, nothing is more pleasing than the fragrance of the flowering vine, since a juice pressed from their flower makes a kind of drink that is both for pleasure and for health. Then who would not marvel that from the pip of a grape the vine bursts forth up to the very top of a tree, which it cherishes as with an embrace, binds with arms as it were, surrounds with its limbs, clothes with its tendrils, crowns with garlands of grapes? In imitation of our life, it first fixes a living root; then, because its nature is pliant and frail, it grips with its tendrils, as with arms, whatever it has seized, and by these raises and lifts itself up.

The people of the church is like this, planted as by a root of faith and held down by the layering of humility, of which the prophet says finely: “You brought a vine out of Egypt and planted its roots, and the land was filled. The shadow of it covered the mountains, and its branches the cedars of God. It stretched out its branches to the sea and its shoots to the river.” And through Isaiah the Lord himself spoke, saying: “A vineyard was made for my beloved on a horn in a fertile place. And I surrounded it with a wall and dug about the vineyard of Sorech and built a tower in the midst of it.” For he surrounded it as with a palisade of heavenly commandments and the guard of angels. “For the angel of the Lord will encamp round about those who fear him.” He set in the church as it were a tower of apostles, prophets, and teachers, who are accustomed to stand guard for the peace of the church. He dug about it when he relieved it of the weight of earthly cares; for nothing burdens the mind more than the anxiety of this world and the desire for money or power. This is shown to you in the Gospel, when you read that the woman who had a spirit of infirmity was bent over, so that she could not look up again. For her soul was bent, inclining to earthly gains and not seeing the heavenly grace. Jesus looked at her and called her, and at once the woman laid down her earthly burdens. He shows that those too were burdened with these desires to whom he says: “Come to me, all you who labour and are burdened, and I will refresh you.” So that woman's soul, as if dug about, breathed again and was made straight. But the same vine too, when it has been dug about, is tied up and raised, so that it may not bend back to the earth.

Some shoots are cut back, others are layered: those are cut back that run riot with empty spreading, those layered that the good farmer has judged fruitful. Why should I describe the grace of the rows of props and the orderly arrangement of the trellis, which truly and plainly teach that equality is to be kept in the church, so that no one rich and honoured exalts himself, no poor or low-born man is cast down and despairs? Let there be in the church one and the same freedom for all; let common justice and grace be shared with all. That is why the tower is in the middle, to carry around the example of those rustics, those fishermen, who were found worthy to hold the citadel of virtues. By their examples let our affection be raised, and not lie on the ground cheap and despicable, but let each one's mind lift itself to higher things, so that it dares to say: “But our citizenship is in heaven.” Therefore, so that it may not be bent back by any storms of the world and carried off by tempest, with those tendrils and rings, as with embraces of love, it embraces all its neighbours and rests in union with them. It is love, then, that binds us to higher things and plants us in heaven. For whoever abides in love, God abides in him. So the Lord too says: “Abide in me and I in you. As the branch cannot bear fruit of itself unless it abides in the vine, so neither can you unless you abide in me. I am the vine, you are the branches.”

He has plainly indicated, then, that the example of the vine is to be drawn on for ordering our life. In the warmth of spring it is said first to bud, then from the very shoots to put forth all its fruit; from these the grape forms as it rises, and growing little by little keeps the sourness of an unripe birth, and cannot become sweet unless it is now ripe and mellowed. Meanwhile the vineyard is clothed with green tendrils, by which it is protected with no small help against cold and every harm, and defended from the heat of the sun. What is more pleasing to see or sweeter to taste than to look at the hanging garlands, like necklaces of a lovely countryside, and to pick grapes shining with golden or purple colour? You would think hyacinths and other gems were glittering, Indian stones flashing, the grace of pearls sparkling; and do you not notice that you are warned by them, O man, lest your last day find your fruits unripe, or the time of full age bring forth only small works? For unripe fruit is usually more bitter, and nothing can be sweet but what has grown to the ripeness of perfection. To this perfect man neither the cold of dreadful death nor the sun of iniquity usually does harm, because spiritual grace overshadows him, puts out all the fires of worldly desire and bodily lust, and wards off their heat. Let all who look on you praise you, and admire the ranks of the church like garlands of branches; let each one look at the beautiful necklaces of the souls of the faithful, and delight in the ripeness of prudence, the splendour of faith, the beauty of confession, the loveliness of justice, the richness of mercy, so that it may be said to you: “Your wife is like an abundant vine on the sides of your house,” because you imitate the abundance of the fruitful vine by the gift of copious generosity. But why do I linger on the vine alone, when all kinds of trees are useful? Some are born for fruit, others given for use.

For even those that have no rich fruit have a more precious use. The cedar is suited to holding up the roofs of houses, because its timber is both tall in length and not burdensome to the walls. The cypress too is handy for coffered ceilings and for adorning gables. So the church says in the Song: “The beams of our houses are cedars, our ceilings cypresses,” declaring that the fair ornaments of its roof are those who, like beams, hold up the top of the church by their virtue and adorn its roof. The laurel and the palm are tokens of victory: the heads of victors are crowned with laurel, the palm is the ornament of the victorious hand. So the church says: “I said, I will climb into the palm tree, I will take hold of its heights.” Seeing the eminence of the Word and hoping that it can climb to its height and to the summit of knowledge, it says, “I will climb into the palm tree,” so as to leave all lower things and strive toward the higher, toward the prize of Christ, so as to pick and taste his sweet fruits; for the fruit of virtue is sweet. The poplar too, a shady tree for victors' crowns, and the pliant willow, handy for tying vines, what else do they declare mystically but that the bonds of Christ are good, that they do no harm, the bonds of grace, of love, so that each may glory in his bonds, as Paul gloried, saying, “Paul, a prisoner of Jesus Christ”? Bound by these bonds he said, “Who shall separate us from the love of Jesus Christ?”, with bonds of abstinence, bonds of love. Bound by these bonds David too says: “On the willows in the midst of it we hung up our instruments.” The box tree also, useful for forming the strokes of letters, trains the use of a child's hand with its smooth wood, so Scripture says: “Write on box,” so that at the same time the very material may warn you (since it is always green and never stripped of its leaves) never to be stripped of your hope by pretending, but that the hope of salvation may always sprout for you through faith.

Why should I list how great is the variety of trees, how different and beautiful the adornment of each: how spreading the beeches, how tall the firs, how leafy the pines, how shady the holm oaks, how two-coloured the poplars, how bushy and reviving the chestnut, which as soon as it has been cut usually sprouts a whole wood from itself; how in the trees themselves age, whether old or young, is detected, for the younger have slenderer branches, the older stronger and knotty arms, the former smooth and spreading leaves, the latter more shrunken and rough. There are also trees that, with an old and dead root, do not know how to restore their succession if they happen to be cut down; others, which either have youth still green or a more fruitful nature, for which cutting is a gain rather than any loss, so that they are renewed through several heirs by a reviving succession. There is also, what you may marvel at, sex in fruits themselves; there is a distinction of sex in trees.