Funeral Oration on Pulcheria (complete)

I do not know how I am to use my speech. For I see that this very place in which we have gathered and the subject are twofold, and gloomy on both counts, so that it is not easy for the speech to escape tears, whichever of the two it chooses. The present turn of the year, as the shepherd announced to us yesterday, holds the memory of the grim events that once befell the neighboring city through the earthquake. Who could go through them without tears? But this great and renowned city, set above every city under the sun, the city of beauty, has suffered another earthquake and been robbed of no small adornment, since the luminary that shone in it, to the increase of the imperial good fortune, has suddenly been taken from it; and for this reason it shares the gloom of the emperors. What I mean you surely know, you who fill this assembly, as you see the gloom in this place. I do not know, then, to which earthquake I should turn my speech, the present one or the one that happened long ago. Or is it better to take a stand against the greater grief, and to soothe the city’s own pain, treating the grief with some reasonings? For even if not all who share in the evil are present at the assembly, perhaps through those who are present the speech will be passed on to those who are not.

For among physicians too those are wise who use their art to stand against the greater pains and put off the treatment of the less painful ones. And as experts in these things say, if two pains befall one body at the same time, only the greater is felt, the lesser being masked by the excess of the dominant pain. So I see it in the present case too. For the new pain, which is our own, is stronger than those that pain us through memory. For how could anyone not be moved by what has happened? Who is so unfeeling in soul? Who so iron in character as to receive what has happened without pain? You surely know how this young dove, reared in the imperial nest, just now fledged with bright plumage but surpassing her age in graces, has left the nest and is gone; how she has flown away out of our sight; how envy has suddenly snatched her from our hands. Whether we should call her a dove or a newly opened flower, which had not yet shone forth wholly from its bud but partly shone already and partly was hoped to shine, and yet even in its small and unfinished state outshone others, how suddenly it was quenched in its bud, and before it reached its prime and spread out its whole flower in fragrance, it withered upon itself and became dust: a flower that no one plucked and no one wore as a crown, but nature labored in vain over it; its good was in hopes, but envy, falling on it sideways like a sword, cut the hope off. What happened was an earthquake outright, brothers; an earthquake no kinder than the cruelest disasters. For it did not ravage the lifeless beauty of buildings, nor throw down to the ground bright paintings or lovely sights of stone; this earthquake fell suddenly on the building of nature itself, splendid in beauty and flashing with graces, and brought it down. I saw the tall shoot, the palm with its lofty crown (I mean the imperial power), which with its imperial virtues, as with branches, rises above the whole world and embraces all things; I saw him ruling over others but bent by nature and bowing at the loss of the flower. I saw too the noble vine entwined about the palm, who bore this flower for us, what pangs she suffered a second time, in soul and not in body, when this shoot was plucked from her. Who passed by the grief without a groan? Who did not lament the loss to life? Who did not shed tears at the grief? Who did not mingle his own voice with the common chorus of lament? I saw a sight to be believed, though it would not be believed by those who receive wonders by hearsay.

I saw a sea of people, standing so densely packed that it appeared to the eyes on every side like water: the church full, the forecourt of the church full, the square that received the crowd, the streets, the middle, the sides, the open space on the roofs. All that could be seen was a mass of people, as if the whole world had run together to one place for the grief. The spectacle set before all was that holy flower carried on a golden bier. How downcast were the faces of all who looked on! How tearful the eyes, the hands beating together, groans besides, revealing the pain in the heart! At that hour it seemed to me (and perhaps to the others present then as well) that the gold did not gleam with its natural grace; rather, the brilliance of the stones, the cloth of gold, the flashing of the silver, and the light of the fire, great and abundant, stretched along both sides by the continuous line of wax torches, all were darkened with the mourning and all shared the common gloom. Then the great David too lent his own hymns to the laments, and, exchanging the bright choral dance for one of wailing and mourning, he called forth laments with his melodies. And since at that time every pleasure was driven from souls, tears alone gave people pleasure. Since, then, reason was so far overcome by grief, it may be time to restore, as far as possible, the weariness of the mind with the counsel of reasonings. For there is no small danger that, if we disregard the Apostle’s voice in this, we may be condemned along with those who have no hope. For he says, as we heard just now from the reader, that we must not grieve over those who have fallen asleep; for this grief belongs only to those who have no hope. But someone of smaller soul might say, I suppose, that the divine Apostle commands what is impossible and exceeds nature by his precepts. For how is it possible for one who lives in nature to rise above grief and not be overcome by sorrow at such a sight, when death does not come in its season, in old age, but in the first youth her bloom is quenched by death, the ray of her eyes is covered by the lids, the color of her cheek turns to pallor, the mouth is held fast by silence, the flower of the lips grows dark, and this seems hard not only to the parents but to everyone who looks on the grief? What, then, shall we say to these? We shall not speak a word of our own, brothers, but we shall set before you the saying read to us from the Gospel. For you heard the Lord say, “Let the children be, and do not prevent them from coming to me; for of such is the kingdom of heaven.” So even if the child has gone away from you,

she has run off to the Master; she has closed her eye to you but opened it to the eternal light; she has left your table but been added to the table of the angels; the plant has been uprooted from here but planted in paradise; she has passed from kingdom to kingdom. She has put off the flower of purple, but put on the robe of the kingdom above. Let me tell you the material of the divine garment: it is not linen, nor wool, nor threads from silkworms. Hear David say from what God’s garments are woven: “You have put on praise and majesty, wrapping yourself in light as in a cloak.” Do you see what she has received in exchange for what? Does it grieve you that the beauty of the body is no longer seen? That is because you do not see the true beauty of her soul, which now rejoices in the festival of the heavenly beings. How beautiful is that eye which sees God! How sweet the mouth adorned with divine hymns! “Out of the mouth of infants and nursing babies,” he says, “you have prepared praise.” How beautiful the hands that never did evil! How lovely the feet that never stepped into wickedness nor set their footprint on the way of sinners! How beautiful the whole appearance of that soul, adorned not with the gleam of jewels but shining with simplicity and innocence! But perhaps it grieves you that she did not reach old age. Tell me, what good do you see in old age? Is it good for the eyes to be sore, the cheek to wrinkle, the teeth to drop from the mouth and make the tongue lisp, to have a trembling hand, to stoop toward the ground, to limp on one’s foot, to lean on those who lead one by the hand, to wander in mind, to slur one’s speech, such afflictions as this age necessarily brings? And are we indignant at this, that she did not come to the experience of such things? Surely we ought to rejoice with those whose life has not received the experience of gloomy things, who neither felt any sorrows here nor will know any of the gloomy things there. For such a soul, having nothing for which it must come to judgment, does not fear Gehenna, does not dread judgment; it remains fearless and undismayed, since no consciousness of evil brings on it the fear of judgment. “But she ought,” someone says, “to have reached the full measure of age and to have shone in the bridal chamber.” But the true Bridegroom will answer you that the heavenly bridal chamber is better, and that chamber more to be honored in which there is no fear of widowhood. Tell me, then, of which good things has she been deprived by putting off this fleshly life? Let me tell you the good things of life: griefs and pleasures, angers and fears, hopes and desires; these and such things are what we are entangled with in the present life. What harm, then, has she suffered who has been set free from so many tyrants? For each passion, when it prevails, becomes a tyrant of our soul, enslaving our reasonings. Or does it grieve us that she was not worn down by

the pains of childbirth, that she was not crushed by the cares of raising children, that she did not suffer the like pains that her parents have endured over her? But such things deserve congratulation, not lament. For to have been in no evil is better than human nature allows. So wise Solomon too, in his own writing, calls the departed more blessed than the living. And the great David says that life in the flesh deserves lament and wailing. And yet both were splendid in royal power, and had all the pleasures of life at their command, but they did not incline at all toward present enjoyment; rather, longing for the unspeakable goods laid up in the bodiless life, they counted life in the flesh a misfortune. I have heard David in many places in the holy psalms longing to be outside this constraint, where he says now, “My soul longs and faints for the courts of the Lord,” and now, “Bring my soul out of prison.” Likewise Jeremiah too judges worthy of a curse the day that began this life for him. And one can find many such sayings of the saints of old recorded in the divine Scripture, who were weighed down by life in the flesh through desire for the true life. So too the great Abraham once readily brought his beloved son to God as a sacrifice, knowing that the change would be to something better and more divine for the boy. Those of you who know the history surely know the stories about him. For what does Scripture say? That when Abraham was young a promise came to him from God concerning a son; but when he had passed his prime and was already withered by time, when nature stops increasing itself, since old age no longer obeys its impulses, then, beyond human hopes, the promise is brought to fulfillment; and the boy Isaac is born. And when a fitting time had passed, and he had shot up like a sapling to beauty and stature, and was sweet to his parents’ eyes, shining with the beauty of youth, then the test and trial of his soul is brought upon Abraham, whether he discerns precisely what is better in the nature of things, whether he does not look to the present life. And God says to him, “Offer up your son as a sacrifice, as a whole burnt offering.” All of you who are fathers and have children, and have been taught by nature to love your children, surely know how Abraham would probably have felt if he had looked only to the present life, if he had been a slave of nature, if he had reckoned the sweetness of life to lie in the present life. But why do I speak of him and leave aside the woman, the weaker part of human nature? If she too had not been taught diviner things by her husband, if she had not known that the hidden life is better than the visible one, she would not have allowed her husband to do such a thing to the boy. For surely, moved by a mother’s heart, she would have thrown her arms around

the child, and, wrapping him in her arms, she would have taken the fatal blow before him. Would she not have said these words to Abraham: “Spare the boy, husband; do not become an evil story in life; let us not become a fable for the time to come; do not begrudge your son his life; do not rob him of the sweet sunlight. Fathers strive to give their children a bridal chamber, not a tomb; a wedding crown, not a murderous sword; a wedding torch, not a funeral fire. Robbers and enemies do such things to children, not the hands of fathers. But if the evil must by all means be done, may Sarah’s eye not see Isaac put to death. See, thrust the sword through both of us, beginning with me, wretched as I am; one blow will suffice for the two. Let one mound be raised over both; let one gravestone tell our common misfortune.” Sarah would surely have said these and such things if she had not seen with her eyes the things that are unseen by us. For she knew that the end of life in the flesh becomes, for those who depart, the beginning of a more divine life: one leaves shadows and lays hold of truth; one leaves deceits and errors and turmoil, and finds those good things that are beyond eye and ear and heart. Love will not trouble him, nor will filthy desire twist him; pride will not puff him up; no other passion of those that grieve the soul will disturb him; God becomes everything to him. That is why she readily gives the boy to God. And what of the great Job? When he had suddenly been stripped of all his possessions, and before he could gather his soul after the earlier blows, the last blow was announced to him, how did he receive the calamity of his children? He had three daughters and seven sons; he was most blessed in his children; for, many as they were, they were all one in their love for one another. They did not live each apart by himself, but all visited one another and, by their round of friendly hospitality, went on giving one another joy in turn and receiving it. And then, as it happened, the banquet was at the house of the eldest of the brothers in its turn: the mixing bowls full, the table full of food, cups in their hands; spectacles, probably, and music besides, and all the delights of a banquet, one spirit, friendliness, games, smiles, everything that is likely to make a gathering of young people at the hearth delightful. What, then, came of it? At the height of their enjoyment of the sweetest things, the roof was shaken down on them, and the banquet became the tomb of the ten children. The mixing bowl was mingled with the blood of the young, and the food was defiled with the gore from their bodies. When such a calamity was announced to Job (look at the athlete with me in my speech, not only so that you may admire the victor, for the gain from admiration is small, but so that you may emulate the man in like circumstances, and that the athlete may become your trainer,

anointing your soul by his own example for endurance and courage in the time of wrestling with trials), what, then, did the man do? Did he say anything ignoble or small-souled, or show it by his bearing, by tearing his cheek with his nails, or plucking out the hair of his head, or sprinkling himself with dust, or beating his breast with his hands, or throwing himself on the ground, or setting mourners around himself, or calling out the names of the departed and wailing at their memory? None of these things; the messenger of evils told of the calamity of his children, and he, as soon as he heard, at once began to reason as a philosopher about the nature of things, saying where things come from, by whom they are brought into being, and who may fittingly have charge of things: “The Lord gave, the Lord has taken away.” From God, he says, people have their coming into being, and to him their departure; they return to that from which they were brought forth. God, then, who has the power to give, likewise has the power to take away. Being good, he plans good things; being wise, he knows what is beneficial. “As it seemed good to the Lord” (and it surely seemed good rightly), “so he has done. Blessed be the name of the Lord.” You see how great is the height of the athlete’s nobility of mind: he turned the time of affliction into a time for reflecting philosophically on the nature of things. For he knew precisely that true life is stored up in hope, while the present life is like a seed of the life to come. And the things expected differ from the things present as much as the ear of grain differs from the seed from which it springs. The present life corresponds to the seed; the life expected is shown in the beauty of the ear. “For this perishable must put on imperishability, and this mortal must put on immortality.” Looking to this, Job rejoices with his children in their good fortune, that they had been loosed sooner from the bonds of life. And here is the proof: when God’s promise pledged double in place of all that had been taken away, and the repayment was doubled in everything else, he did not seek the doubling of the children alone, but only ten were given in place of the ten taken. Since human souls endure forever, for this reason he receives a double repayment for the things that perished; but in the case of the children, those born later are counted together with those born before, since all live to God, and temporary death does not prevent the departed from existing. For death is nothing else among human beings than a purification from evil. For since in the beginning our nature was made by the God of all things like a vessel able to receive good things,

but the enemy of our souls poured evil into us by deceit, the good no longer had room; for this reason, so that the evil that had grown into us might not last forever, by a higher providence the vessel is dissolved for a time by death, so that, the evil having flowed out, humanity may be refashioned and restored, free from any mixture of evil, to the life of the beginning. For this is the resurrection: the restoration of our nature to its original state. If, then, it is impossible for our nature to be refashioned for the better without resurrection, and resurrection cannot take place unless death has gone before, death would be a good, since it becomes for us the beginning and the way of the change for the better. Let us cast out, then, brothers, grief for those who have fallen asleep, which only those endure who have no hope. And our hope is Christ, to whom be glory and might, honor and worship, to the ages.