Address of Thanksgiving to Origen 14–19

For did not these things introduce the conflicting and contradictory doctrines and the factions of the philosophers, some opposing the doctrines of others, some holding fast to these, others to those, and attaching themselves to some? And all wish to philosophize, and profess it from the time they were first turned to it, and say that they wish it no less now that they have long been in the discourses than when they began; rather, that they now have even more love for philosophy, since they have had the chance to taste it (as one might say) and to spend time in its discourses, than when first, without experience, they were stirred by some impulse to philosophize; they say this, but they no longer listen to any discourses of those who think otherwise. So no one of the older (philosophers) ever persuaded any of the younger ones, or of the Peripatetics, to turn to him and philosophize his philosophy, nor the reverse, nor, in a word, anyone anyone. For no one would easily be persuaded to change and attach himself to others, abandoning his own; and that, perhaps, to those by whom, had he been persuaded before coming to philosophy, he would have been loved from the first and easily persuaded; since, his soul not being preoccupied, he would have clung to them and loved them equally, opposing for their sake these doctrines which he now holds. Such is the philosophy of our fine and most learned and most critical Greeks: whatever each met at the beginning, drawn by some impulse, he says that this alone is true, and all the rest of the other philosophers deceit and nonsense; not establishing his own by argument any more than each of the others defends his own, so as not to be obliged to change and alter his purpose under compulsion or persuasion; having no other ground (if the truth must be told) than the irrational impulse toward philosophy that brought him to these doctrines, and no other judgment of what he thinks (if it is not paradoxical to say so) than undiscerning chance; each loving what he first encountered, by which he is as if bound and no longer able to attend to others: whether he can say something, with demonstration of truth, about all his own views and that those of his opponents are false, being helped by argument; or whether, unhelped, he has given himself up and handed himself over at random, as if to a windfall, to the arguments that seized him first. … they have tripped up those who hold them in other matters, and especially in the greatest and most necessary of all, the knowledge of the Divine and piety. And yet they remain bound by them in a way, and no one any longer easily draws them out, as from a marsh in a very wide plain hard to cross, which no longer lets those who have once fallen in either turn back or get safely across, but holds them in it until death; or as from a deep, dense, tall forest, into which a traveller entered, thinking perhaps to go out again and set himself in the clear, in the open; but he cannot, because of its length and density. Turning about a great deal in it, and finding paths within that join one another, he goes many ways, thinking to go out by one of them soon; but they lead only inward, with no way out at all, being paths of the forest alone. At last the traveller, weary and giving up, as if everything had become forest and there were no longer any dwelling on earth, chooses to stay there, setting up his hearth and providing himself what room he can in the forest. Or as with a labyrinth: with one entrance visible, and nothing intricate suspected from outside, someone enters through the one visible door; then, going on to the innermost parts and seeing the intricate spectacle, an all-clever structure of many passages, contrived with continuous entrances and exits, he wishes to go out but can no longer, trapped within by what seemed to him a clever structure. No labyrinth is so hard to unravel and intricate, no forest so dense and varied, no plain or marsh so terrible in holding those who come near, as an argument, if there should be one, against some of these philosophers. So, lest we suffer the same as the many, he did not lead us to any one philosopher's school, nor think it right for us to go off to them; but he led us to all, wishing us not to be untried in any Greek doctrine. And he himself went in with us, leading and guiding us by the hand, as on a journey, so that, if anything crooked and unsound and sophistical should meet us, he, as a craftsman unaccustomed to nothing and inexperienced in nothing from long familiarity with discourses, might himself stay aloft in safety and, stretching out his hand to others, save them, as if drawing up those who were sinking; gathering and setting before us all that was useful and true in each of the philosophers, and separating out what was false, both in other matters and especially in what men say about piety.

Concerning these he advised us to give heed to no one, not even if someone should be attested by all men as all-wise, but to give heed to God alone and to his prophets; he himself interpreting and making clear whatever was dark and enigmatic (as there are many things in the sacred words; whether because it is pleasing to God to converse with men in this way, so that the divine word may not enter bare and uncovered into an unworthy soul, such as most are; or because every divine oracle is by nature most clear and simple, but to us who have departed from God and have unlearned how to listen, it appears unclear and dark through time and age, I cannot say). But he made it clear and brought it to light, whether they happened to be riddles, being a skilled and most intelligent hearer of God, or had nothing crooked in their nature; nor was anything unintelligible to him, the only one of the men of today, as far as I myself have known or heard from others speaking of some, who had so trained himself to receive in his own soul the pure and luminous meanings of the oracles and to teach them to others. For the Leader of all of them, who speaks within the prophets, the friends of God, and prompts every prophecy and mystical and divine word, so honoured him as a friend that he made him his advocate; and what he had only hinted through others, he gave the teaching of through him; and whatever he, being most trustworthy, commanded royally or declared, he granted to him to search out and find their reasons; so that if anyone should happen to be hard of soul and unbelieving, or even eager to learn, learning from him he might in a way be compelled both to understand and to choose to believe, and to follow God. And he says these things, I think, in no other way than by fellowship with the divine Spirit; for the same power is needed by those who prophesy and by those who hear the prophets; and no one could hear a prophet unless the very Spirit who prophesied gave him the understanding of his words. Such a saying lies in the sacred writings too, saying that the one who shuts alone opens, and no one else; and the divine Word opens what is shut by making the riddles clear. This greatest gift he has received from God, and a most beautiful portion from heaven: to be an interpreter of the words of God to men, to understand the things of God as God speaks them, and to recount them to men so that men may hear. Therefore nothing was unsayable to us, nor hidden, nor inaccessible; but we were free to learn every discourse, barbarian and Greek, more spiritual and more civic, divine and human, going round all things and searching them out with all freedom, filling ourselves with all and enjoying the goods of the soul; whether some ancient learning of truth, or whatever else one might name such, we had in him the wonderful provision and power of the most beautiful sights. And (to put it briefly) this was truly a paradise to us, an imitation of the great paradise of God, in which we were not to till the earth below, nor to grow fat by feeding the body, but only to increase the possessions of the soul, as if we had planted ourselves like fair plants, or had been planted in it by the Cause of all, rejoicing and delighting ourselves.

This is truly the paradise of delight, this the true gladness and delight which we have enjoyed during this time now completed, no short time already, and yet altogether short, if it is to stop here, as we are now drawing away and withdrawing from here. For I do not know what has befallen me, or what sin I have committed again, that I am going out, that I am driven out. What I should say I do not know, except that I am a second Adam going out of paradise; and I have begun to speak. How well I lived, hearing my teacher speak and keeping silent! Would that I had learned even now to keep quiet in silence, and not to make this strange spectacle, the teacher made a hearer! For what need had I of these words? Why should I utter such things, when I ought not to go away but to persevere? But these seem to be the offences of the old deceit, and the ancient penalties still await me. Do I not seem to disobey again, daring to transgress the words of God, when I ought to remain in them and by them? But I depart, fleeing from this blessed life, no less than that old man (fled) from the face of God, returning to the earth from which I was taken. Earth, then, I shall eat all the days of my life there, and earth I shall till, and it will bring up thorns and thistles for me, my griefs and shameful cares, released from the fine and good cares; and I return to what I have left behind, to the land from which I came out, to my kinsfolk below, and to my father's house; leaving the good land, where unknown to me long ago was my good fatherland, and the kinsfolk whom I later began to recognize as the true kin of my soul, and the house of our true Father, in which the Father is reverently honoured and revered by the true sons who wish to remain in it. But I go out from these, dishonoured and unworthy, turning back and running backwards. It is said that a son, receiving from his father the share of the inheritance falling to him over against his brother, wished to travel away from his father to a far country; and living prodigally he scattered and consumed his father's substance; and at last, in want, he hired himself out to feed swine. Compelled by famine, he longed to share the swine's food, but did not obtain even this. So he paid the penalty of his prodigality, exchanging for his father's table, which was royal, what he had not foreseen, the swine's food and the food of servitude. Something like this we seem likely to suffer when we depart, and not even with the whole of the inheritance falling to us. For we depart without having received what we ought, leaving the fine and dear things with you and beside you, and exchanging them for worse. For all gloomy things will succeed us: noise and tumult instead of peace, and instead of a quiet and orderly life a disorderly one; instead of this freedom, harsh slavery, marketplaces and lawsuits and crowds and luxury; and we shall no longer have any leisure at all for the better things. Nor shall we speak the divine oracles, but we shall speak the works of men (this is reckoned simply a curse for a prophet), and we, of wicked men too. Night truly instead of day, darkness instead of bright light, mourning instead of festival, and an enemy land instead of fatherland will succeed us, in which I may not sing a sacred song (for how could I, in a land foreign to my soul, where those who remain cannot be near God?), but only weep and groan, remembering the things here, if even this will be granted me. Enemies are said once to have come upon a great and holy city in which the divine was worshipped, and to have dragged away captive its inhabitants, hymn-singers and theologians, to their own land, which was Babylon; and those carried there, when asked by their masters, would not hymn the divine nor sing psalms in a profane land, but hung their musical instruments on the willows and wept by the rivers of Babylon. I seem to be one of them, driven out from this city and holy fatherland of mine (where day and night the holy laws are proclaimed, and hymns and songs and mystical words; and there is perpetual sunlight, by day, as we converse with the divine mysteries, and by night, as we are held by the images of what the soul saw and did by day; and, in a word, where divine possession prevails continually): from this I am driven out, carried captive to the foreign land, where I shall not be able to play the pipe, having hung up my instrument on the willows as they did; but I shall be in the rivers and shall work clay, and I will not wish to say hymns, remembering them; but perhaps through long labour of other kinds I shall even forget, robbed of my memories. And if only I were departing unwillingly, as a captive! But I depart willingly too, warred out not by anyone else but by myself, when I could remain. Perhaps also, departing from here, I shall not travel safely, as one going out from some safe and peaceful city; it is likely that on the road I shall meet robbers, be seized, be stripped and wounded with many wounds, and lie thrown down somewhere half dead.

But why do I lament these things? There is the Saviour of all, even of the half-dead and the robbed, the guardian and physician of all, the Word, the sleepless guardian of all men. We have also seeds, both those which you showed us that we had, and all that we have received from you, the fine counsels, with which we depart, weeping indeed as those who go, but carrying these seeds with us nonetheless. Perhaps, then, the guardian who stands over us will keep us safe; perhaps we shall return to you again, bringing from the seeds their fruits and sheaves, not perfect (how could they be?), but such as is possible for us from the deeds of civic life, spoiled by a power that is either unfruitful or bears evil fruit, but that will not be further spoiled by us, if God consents.

Let my speech, then, end here, having been bold where it least ought to have been. But it has rendered thanks, I think, gratefully, as far as our ability goes, saying nothing worthy but not keeping altogether silent; and it has also wept, as friends who go abroad are accustomed to do. Whether it is youthful I do not know; it has nothing of flattery, nor is it too old-fashioned or too elaborate; but this I know clearly, that it has the quality of not being feigned, but is wholly true, with a sound mind and a sincere and whole intention.

But you, dear friend, rise, and having prayed, send us off now; you saved us by your holy teachings while we were present; save us by your prayers when we have gone away. Hand us over and commend us, or rather hand us over to God who brought us to you, giving thanks for what he has done for us so far, and beseeching him to lead us by the hand in what is to come as well, standing by us always, prompting our mind with his commands, putting his divine fear into us, so that he may be our best tutor. For when we have gone away, we shall not obey him in the freedom we had with you. Ask that some consolation for our separation from you may come to us from him: that he send a good escort, a fellow-travelling angel. And ask also that he turn us back and bring us to you again; this, above all, and alone, will console us.