Latin Translation of Basil's Hexaemeron 2.1–2.8

With the few words we went through this morning, we found such a hidden depth of meaning that we are inclined to despair altogether of what follows. For if such is the entrance to the holy place, and the vestibule of the temple is so beautiful and splendid that it dazzles the eye of our mind with the elegance of its beauty, what must we think the holy of holies to be? Who, then, would dare to handle impossible things, or who will gaze on things unspeakable, whose sight is inaccessible and whose meaning cannot be expressed? Yet since, before the just Judge, a reward not to be despised has been assigned to us even for the mere zeal for better things, let us not be reluctant to explore. For although we are thought to fall far short of such dignity, yet if we follow the intention of Scripture, with the Holy Spirit's help, we shall not be judged unworthy, and by the will of heavenly grace we shall bring some edification to the church. "Now the earth," it says, "was invisible and unformed." How, then, when both elements, heaven and earth, were made with equal honour, had heaven been completed, while the earth was still unformed? Or what was the cause at all that it was not completed and not visible? The full formation of the earth is its own fruitfulness, that is, the sprouting of all plants, the abundance of trees, fruitful and unfruitful, the colours and scents of flowers, and the other things which, brought forth a little later by divine command, adorned the earth. Since none of these yet existed, the word of Scripture rightly called it unformed. We may properly say the same of heaven, that it was incomplete, since it too had not yet received its own adornment: it had not yet been lit by the brightness of sun and moon, nor crowned with the choirs of stars. So you will not seem to stray from the truth if you call heaven also unformed. He called the earth invisible for two reasons: either because man, its spectator, had not yet come forth, or because, lying hidden under the waters that then covered it, it could not be seen at all. For the waters had not yet been gathered into their own receptacles, the waters that, collected afterwards into one, the Lord named seas. Something is invisible, then, either because it cannot be grasped by fleshly eyes, like our mind, or because, though by nature it can be seen, it is hidden by the covering of some body drawn over it, like iron lying in the deep. In this sense we must think the earth is now called invisible, since it was covered by the surface of the waters. Then, since light had not yet been established, it is no wonder if it was held invisible, since the air itself, lacking brightness, was dark.

But the detractors of the truth, who do not follow the Scriptures in their proper sense but drag their interpretation to suit their own will, say that by such words the matter of things is shown: that it was by nature invisible, unformed, and shapeless, deprived of all form and figure, and that the craftsman took it up and shaped it by his wisdom, and so made through it all the things that are seen. If we call this matter unbegotten, it will undoubtedly be made equal to God in the honours it deserves, and will be judged worthy of the same privileges as he. What could be more abominable and wicked than that a confused and utterly shapeless thing should be judged endowed with the same dignity as God, who is wise, powerful, supremely good, and the Creator of all? Then, if it is so great that it can receive all of God's skill, they will still seem to make its substance equal to God's power, if indeed the earth by itself can measure the whole of God's wisdom. But if matter is less than divine power, their argument is led into a still more atrocious blasphemy, since because of the poverty of matter they try to make God ineffective and idle in his works: the poverty of human nature deceived them into thinking such things. Since among us every art is exercised on some material provided to it, as smithing on iron and carpentry on wood, and in these there is one thing that underlies, another the form, another what is formed from the form (for the material is what is taken from outside, the form is what is produced by the art, and the finished work is composed of both, that is, of form and material), so they think about the divine working too: that the shape was brought to the world from the Creator's wisdom, but the material was supplied to the Creator from outside, and that the whole world was built in this way, possessing a substance sought from elsewhere but a shape and figure received from the power of God. Hence they take occasion to deny that God presides over the causes of the world, and to say that he contributed only a small portion to the generation of things, like a beggar's mite; because of the poverty of their understanding they cannot look up to the summit of truth. Nor did they consider that here among us art is known to be applied after the material, for the sake of providing for life. For wool came first, and the practice of weaving was found afterwards, so that what was lacking by nature might be supplied by art; wood too existed first, and the woodworker's art, taking it afterwards and shaping it for necessary uses, gave us no small benefit: it gave the oar to sailors, the winnowing fan to farmers, and the spear to soldiers. But God, before the things that are seen came to be, embraced all things in his mind; and, wishing to bring into being things that did not exist, he considered what the world should be like and produced together with it a matter suited to its form. To heaven he assigned a nature fitting for it, and to the shape of the earth he gave a substance proper and due to it. Fire, water, and air he distinguished as he willed, and brought them into the order that the nature of each required. And the whole world, though unlike itself and composed of diversity, he bound together into one fellowship and framework, held fast by the inviolable bonds of a certain concord, so that even things far apart in position are believed to be joined by mutual mixing. Let them cease, then, with their fabulous inventions, from handling with the pitiable sense of their own thoughts a power incomprehensible to the mind and unspeakable in human words.

God made heaven and earth, not each by half, but the whole heaven and the whole earth, that is, the substance itself together with its form. For God is not an inventor of shapes, but the creator of the whole nature. Let them answer us how the working power of God and the passive nature of matter agree with each other, if one supplied only the underlying substance without figure, and the other, possessing skill in shapes, arranged what was offered, so that each might supply from the other what it lacked: the Creator having something on which to show the knowledge of his art, and matter laying aside its shapelessness and taking on a beautiful face. But enough on this; let us return to what we set before us: "Now the earth was invisible and unformed." When he said, "In the beginning God made heaven and earth," he passed over many things in silence, namely fire, water, and air, which were produced as certain states of those principal ones and which, as completing the world, undoubtedly came forth at the same time. But the historian deliberately passed these over, to sharpen our heart to the diligence of taking up hints from a few things, which makes us search out by thinking what is lacking. So, since nothing had been said about water, that he made it, but he said that the earth was invisible, you must reckon with yourself by what covering the earth was veiled so as not to appear. Fire could not hide it, for fire is bright rather than dark; nor could air cover it, whose nature is certainly transparent, since it shows the forms of all things clearly to those who look. It remains, then, that we understand that water was drawn over the surface of the earth, for the nature of moisture had not yet flowed down into its receptacles. For this reason the earth is called not only invisible but also unformed. Even now an abundance of waters hinders the earth from supplying a wealth of fruits. This, then, was the cause both that the dry land could not be seen and that it was held unformed. For the formation of the earth is, as we said, its natural adornment: crops waving in the plain, green meadows shining with the varied colour of flowers, fertile hills, and mountain tops shaded with tall trees. The earth had none of these, though it was in labour with the birth of them all through the power implanted in it by the Creator; but it awaited the time when by divine command it would bring forth its offspring into the light.

"And darkness," it says, "was over the abyss." Here again further occasions for fables and wicked inventions are given to those who twist the words of Scripture to their own will. For they do not interpret darkness in the way it is naturally meant, that is, as a dark air or a place darkened by some body placed in front of it; but they say it is an evil power, or rather evil itself, having its beginning from itself, opposed to the goodness of God, and they assert that this is the nature of darkness. For if God is light, they say, then the power opposed to him is undoubtedly darkness, according to the logic of the sense; it has not borrowed its substance from anything else, but evil is its own mother, the ruin of souls, the cause of death, the enemy of virtue; and they contend that it both subsists and was made by God. What impious and profane doctrine might not be invented from this? What ravening wolves, tearing the Lord's flock, would not take this word as their starting point to snatch away simple souls? From here flowed the sects of Marcion and Valentinus and the accursed sect of the Manichaeans: who among the churches will not sin by even naming that rottenness? Why do you depart so far from the truth, O man, seeking out for yourself the causes of your own perdition, when the word is simple and plain to all? "The earth," it says, "was invisible." Why? Because the abyss had been laid over it. And what is meant by "abyss"? A great mass of water having a boundless depth. "But we know," they say, "that many bodies are often seen through clear water. How, then, was no part of the earth shown through the waters at that time?" Because the air poured over the waters was still without light and dark. For when the rays of the sun have penetrated water, we often see the pebbles at the bottom, which certainly cannot happen at night. The cause of the earth's being invisible, then, was the waters laid over it. For he says that there was an abyss that hindered the view, and the abyss itself was darkened. So we do not say that the abyss is a multitude of hostile powers, as some falsely argue, nor that darkness is some original and evil substance opposed to goodness. For two things set against each other by contrariety must be destructive of each other's substance and produce everlasting quarrels for each other, bound as they are to struggle with each other. If one of them prevails, the opposite part, conquered, is undoubtedly destroyed. And if they want evil always to be equal to goodness, they will subject things to unceasing conflict and corruption, as the parties now overcome each other and now give way. But if they declare that evil is overcome by goodness, what reason is there that the nature of evil does not seem to have perished entirely? If not, which it is wicked to say, I wonder how they do not flee from uttering so sacrilegious a blasphemy. But we affirm that evil did not receive the beginning of its birth from God for this reason: nothing can generate its contrary. For neither did death originate from life, nor darkness from light, nor health from sickness; but in changes of condition, transitions always take place from contrary to contrary, whereas in births each thing comes not from its contrary but from what is like it. "Then," they say, "if darkness is neither unbegotten nor made by God, where does it come from? For that it is evil, no living person dares to deny." What do we say, then? That evil is not a living and animate substance, but a disposition contrary to virtue, fallen away from goodness, and seated in the minds of the most depraved.

Therefore I do not want you to think that evil comes from outside, or to suppose that it possesses an original nature of wickedness; rather let each person recognize that he is the author of his own wickedness. For of the things that happen to us, some come from nature, such as old age and sickness; some happen of themselves, that is, chance events, which, arising from affairs unrelated to us, bring us either joy or grief, as when the finding of a hidden treasure befalls those digging a well, or a mad dog meets those going to the market. But others are in our power: such as to bridle the desires for pleasure, to restrain lusts, to check anger, to avoid one who provokes us, to follow the truth or hate falsehood, to be gentle in character or harsh, humble or proud. Of the things of which we are masters we do not borrow the beginnings from elsewhere. Recognize, then, that what is properly evil takes its beginning from the acts of free will. For if evil came from necessity, so great a fear of the laws would not weigh upon sinners, nor would judges set punishments worthy of the guilty. Let this be said about what is properly evil. But sickness, poverty, disgrace, and the other things that usually sadden mortals I do not think should be put among evils at all, since their opposites are not placed among the greatest goods either; some of them are natural, and they often seem to happen to our benefit. So, restraining for the present a discourse that would bear on morals, let us rather turn our minds to the consideration of darkness simply and without any subtlety. The argument requires us to know whether darkness was generated together with the world, and whether it should be thought to be earlier than light. If so, why is the worse thing held to be older than the better? Yet we assert that this darkness too does not exist by a substance of its own, but is a certain defect in the air, produced when light is taken away. And again we must ask of what light the place of the world was suddenly deprived. For we think that if anything existed before the establishment of this perceptible and corruptible world, it was certainly in light. For neither the dignity of the angels, nor all the heavenly armies, nor whatever is named or cannot be named, or any rational power or ministering spirit, could live in darkness; rather it possessed a condition fitting for it in light and joy. On this point I think no one will contradict. Whoever, then, awaits in the promises of good things that light which is above the heavens, of which Solomon says, "Light is always for the righteous" (Prov 13:9), and the Apostle, "Giving thanks to God the Father, who has made us fit for a share in the inheritance of the saints in light" (Col 1:12)... For if the condemned are driven into the outer darkness, those who await a reward for worthy works will undoubtedly obtain a home of rest in that light which is outside the world. Since, then, it is agreed that heaven was made by God's command and was suddenly stretched out and enclosed around the earth with its proper roundness, having a dense body so strong that it can separate what lies outside from what is inside, it necessarily left behind it a region without light, since the brightness that shone from above was shut out. For three things must come together to produce a shadow: light, a body, and a darkened place. We must know, then, that the darkness of the world arose from the shadow of the heavenly body. Consider what we say through a plain example. If at midday you set up for yourself a tent of very dense and opaque material, you will place yourself there in a darkness of your own making. Think, then, that that darkness was of this kind: not established as an original thing, but following upon something else. This darkness is said to be borne over the abyss, because the edge of the air usually lies against the surfaces of bodies; and at that time water lay over everything, which is why it was necessarily said that darkness was over the abyss.

"And the Spirit of God," it says, "was borne over the water." If he calls the diffusion of this air "spirit," understand that the writer is enumerating for you the several portions of the world: for he says that God made heaven and earth, water and air, this last being fluid and diffused. Or else, which I think more true and which was approved by those who were before us, he calls it the Spirit of God, that is, the Holy Spirit. For Scripture has reserved this name so as to declare a special and fitting mention of it; and we must believe that no other spirit is meant than the Holy Spirit, who completes the blessed and venerable Trinity. If you take this sense, you will find a greater benefit conferred on you from it. How, then, was this Spirit borne over the waters? I will tell you not my own words but those of a certain man, a Syrian by race, who was as far from the wisdom of the world as he was near to true doctrine. He said that the Syriac language is more expressive and, because of its kinship with the Hebrew tongue, comes closer to the words of the Scriptures. The sense of that saying, then, is this. "He was borne over," he said, means: the Spirit cherished and gave life to the nature of the waters, like a hen brooding, putting a life-giving power into what it cherished. In this way, then, he interprets "was borne over," that is, he moved the nature of the waters toward life. From this can also be sufficiently proved what some ask about so anxiously: that the Holy Spirit too does not lack creative power.

"And God said, Let there be light." God's first word fashioned the nature of light, drove away the darkness, dissolved the gloom, and at once brought forth every glad and pleasant sight. Then the sky appeared, which had until then been hidden by the Lord, and its beauty shone forth as great as its appearance even now bears witness. The air was lit by the light mixed with it, and extended the keen penetration of its brightness everywhere to all its bounds. Upward it was neighbour to the ether and heaven; in breadth it touched at once the northern and southern, eastern and western parts, since its nature is bright and transparent, so that light passing through it met no delay or lapse of time. For as the air directs our glances at once, without any moment of time, to the things that are seen, so it poured the arrival of light, received swiftly and with all speed, through all the limits of its compass. The ether too is made lovelier by being lit up, and the waters appear more splendid, not only because they are lit by the whiteness of the light, but also because, flashing with its reflection, they give back a brighter image of the air. So the divine word made all things pleasing and fair. For as those who sprinkle oil make the depth of the sea transparent for themselves, so God, the maker of things, by the [word] of his mouth suddenly gave the world the delight of light. "Let there be light," God said; and at once the command was the work, and a nature was made than which nothing more delightful to enjoy could enter the thought of mortals. But whenever we speak of the voice, word, or command of God, you must notice that no sound is sent forth by the effort and movement of a body producing a voice, nor is God's word air struck by a tongue; it is the impulse of his will, which we think it more useful, for the sake of those who are taught, to represent in the form of a command. "And God saw the light, that it was good." With what praises shall we be able to celebrate light, when it has received such a testimony to its goodness from the Creator? Yet the divine words compel our eyes to judge of it in the same way; for speech cannot express all that the sense of sight, going before it, attests. For if bodily beauty is formed from members properly arranged with one another and from the charm of colour, how can we fully explain how light, whose nature is simple and alike throughout, is good? For so we call gold good, not because it is well wrought, but because it gives us great delight by its colour. Likewise the star that is called Antifer is named the most beautiful of all the stars, not because of an excellent arrangement of members, for it has none, but because it bestows a glad and lively brightness on our eyes. God's testimony of this kind, then, does not look only to this, that light is good in itself and pleasant to those who see it; he also called it good because of the usefulness that was afterwards conferred from it on mortals. "And God divided between the light and the darkness": that is, he made their natures unmixed and unlike each other by contrariety, since he set them apart and separated them by long distances from each other, as it is said: "And God called the light day, and the darkness he called night."

Now indeed, after the creation of the sun, "day" is the name for the air lit by the sun while it stays in the hemisphere above the earth, and "night" is the shadow of the earth produced when the sun has set. But at that time, not by the motion of a body but by the diffusion of the original light, now withdrawing itself, now bringing itself back again, according to the divine command, day came about and night followed. "And there was evening, and there was morning, one day." The name "evening," then, must be understood as a common term. For both at the beginning of the day and as it turns to its setting, night is adjacent to it; but to reserve the privileges of the birth of day, he spoke first of evening, meaning that night follows the day. For before light was created, there was no night in the world, but darkness. The shadow of the earth that we described above, cutting off the day, was called night; and so it was called by a new name after it came into being. "So there was evening, and there was morning": he did not say day and night, but evening and morning, in order to give the dignity of the name to the better part. For the day equally touches evening and morning; and you will find Scripture keeping this custom everywhere in counting times. For we say that so many days have passed, making no mention of nights, as the psalm teaches: "The days of our years" (Ps 90:10). And again Jacob: "The days of my life are few and evil" (Gen 47:9). And elsewhere: "All the days of my life" (Ps 23:6). What was then related for the sake of history, the writer established as laws to hold good for the future. "And there was evening, and there was morning, one day." Why did he not say "first," but "one"? Surely it would have been more consistent for one who was going to speak of the second, the third, and the fourth to call it the first day rather than one. But he said this either to define the measure of day and night together and to join the time of both, so that twenty-four hours might appear to make up the space of one day (we understanding that by the name of day night too is meant); hence, even if one of them happens to become longer through the change of the solstice, the fixed time of the hours still embraces the intervals of both, as if you said that twenty-four hours belong to the measure of one day. Or perhaps he said "one" because in the heaven the sun's departure from certain signs and its return to the same are completed within one day. So whenever evening or morning, following the sun's circuit, embraces the circle of the earth, it usually completes its own course in no longer time than the space of one day. Or, as a more hidden reason teaches: when God created the nature of time, he set for it a measure and fixed signs from the intervals of days; he willed it to be counted by the week, and commanded it always to turn back upon itself, measuring the movement of time; and he ordered the week to be completed by the space of one day, which returns upon itself seven times. For this is the nature of circular figures, that beginning from themselves they are always carried round into themselves. This is also the property of the age, which, turning back incessantly along its own tracks, by no means reaches an end. For this reason he called the head of time not the first but one day, so that by this very name its kinship with the age might be kept. For, indicating a pattern of things simple and having nothing in common with others, it was named "one" quite fittingly and properly. And although Scripture declares to us many ages, saying "ages of ages," yet there no first, second, or third age is numbered. From this we are given to understand rather differences of various states and acts, and not the circuits, successions, and ends of ages. "For the day of the Lord," it says, "is great and bright" (Joel 2:11). And elsewhere: "Why do you seek the day of the Lord? It is darkness and not light" (Amos 5:18). But he means the darkness assigned to those who deserve it. For the word bears witness to that day as never setting and everlasting, which the psalm also calls the eighth, since it lies outside time. Whether, then, you say "day," or "age," or "seventh," it is drawn from the same meaning: it is declared singly and not as many. So, to direct our thoughts to the future life, he rightly called the principal day, which is the image of the ages, "one," since it is of the same age as light. I mean the holy Lord's day, which was glorified by the resurrection of the Saviour. And this is what he said: "There was evening, and there was morning, one day." But while we have been occupied with the account of that evening, the present evening sets a limit to the course of our discussion. May the Father of the true light, who adorned the day with heavenly light and made the night bright with the rays of fire, who has prepared the rest of the age to come for those who deserve it, illumine your hearts with the knowledge of the truth and keep your life spotless, granting you to walk honourably, so that you may shine like the sun in the brightness of his saints, to my rejoicing in the day of the Lord; to whom be glory and honour, now and always, and for ages of ages. Amen.