Augustine, Confessions

About the Author:

Augustine of Hippo was born in Roman North Africa in the year 354. After spending several years as a Manichee, he was led to the Catholic faith by Neo-Platonist philosophy and the preaching of St. Ambrose of Milan. All the while, Augustine’s mother, St. Monica, was praying for his homecoming. Augustine tells us of his lost years and his time being pursued by God in his Confessions. This work is a timeless classic and speaks to the common human experience, proving the words of Stanislaus Grabowski in 1957 that “St. Augustine, the Father of Fathers and the Doctor of Doctors, is of the past, present, and future.” After his baptism, Augustine’s planned to return to Africa with his mother and some of his friends. Here are his recollections of the time spent in Ostia waiting for their ship home.

23. As the day now approached on which she was to depart this life (which day You knew, we did not), it fell out—You, as I believe, by Your secret ways arranging it—that she and I stood alone, leaning in a certain window, from which the garden of the house we occupied at Ostia could be seen; there, removed from the crowd, we were resting ourselves for the voyage, after the fatigues of a long journey. We then were speaking alone very pleasantly and, “forgetting the things that are behind, and reaching forward to the things that are ahead” (Phil 3:13), we were seeking between ourselves in the presence of the Truth, which You are, what the nature of the eternal life of the saints would be, which eye has not seen, nor ear heard, neither has entered into the heart of man (1 Cor 2:9). Yet we opened wide the mouths of our hearts after those heavenly streams of Your fountain, “the fount of life,” which is “with You” (Ps 36:9), that being sprinkled with it according to our capacity, we might in some measure weigh so high a mystery.

24. And when our conversation had arrived at that point where the very highest pleasure of the carnal senses—even in the very brightest material light—because of the sweetness of that life seemed not only unworthy of comparison, but not even of mention, we, lifting ourselves with a more ardent affection towards “the Selfsame” (Ps 4:8), did gradually pass through all corporeal things, and even heaven itself, from which the sun and moon and stars shine upon the earth. We soared even higher by internal meditation and discourse and admiring Your works. We came to our own minds, and went beyond them, so that we might advance as high as the region of unfailing plenty, where You feed Israel for ever with the food of truth, and where life is that Wisdom by whom all these things are made, both those things that have been, and those that are to come. That Wisdom is not made, but is as she was and ever shall be. Or, rather, to “have been” and “will be” are not in her, but only “to be,” since she is eternal; for to “have been” and “will be” are not eternal. And while we were speaking in this way, and straining after Wisdom, we slightly touched her with the whole effort of our heart; and we sighed and left bound there “the first fruits of the Spirit” (Rom 8:23), and returned to the noise of our own mouths, where the word spoken has both beginning and end. And what is like Your Word, our Lord, who remains in Himself without becoming old, and “makes all things new” (Wis 7:27)?

25. We were saying, then, if to any man the tumult of the flesh were silenced—the fantasies of earth, waters, and air were silenced—the poles were silenced too; indeed, if the very soul were silenced to herself, and would go beyond herself by not thinking of herself—if fancies and imaginary revelations, every tongue, and every sign, and whatever exists were silenced by passing away, since, if any could listen, all these say, “We did not create ourselves, but were created by Him who abides for ever.” If, having uttered this, they should now be silenced, having only turned our ears to Him who created them, and He alone should speak not by them, but by Himself, that we may hear His word, not by fleshly tongue, nor angelic voice, nor sound of thunder, nor the obscurity of a similitude, but might hear Him—Him whom we love in these things—without these things, just as we two now strained ourselves to do, and with rapid thought touched on that Eternal Wisdom which remains over all. If this could be sustained, and other visions of a far different kind could be withdrawn, and this one ravish, and absorb, and envelope its beholder amid these inward joys, so that his life might be eternally like that one moment of knowledge which we now sighed after, would this not be “Enter into the joy of Your Lord” (Mt 25:21)? And when shall that be? When we shall all rise again; but all shall not be changed.

26. I was saying such things; and if not in this manner, and in these words, yet, Lord, You know, that on that day when we were talking in this way, this world with all its delights grew contemptible to us, even while we spoke. Then my mother said, “Son, for myself, I no longer have any pleasure in anything in this life. I do not know what else I want here or why I am here, now that my hopes in this world are satisfied. There was indeed one thing for which I wished to remain a little in this life, and that was that I might see you a Catholic Christian before I died. My God has exceeded this abundantly, so that I see you despising all earthly happiness, made His servant—what am I doing here?”

27. What reply I made to her about these things I do not well remember. However, scarcely five days after, or not much more, she was bedridden by fever; and while she was sick, one day she sank into a swoon, and was for a short time unconscious of visible things. We hurried up to her; but she soon regained her senses, and gazing on me and my brother as we stood by her, she said to us inquiringly, “Where was I?” Then looking intently at us stupefied with grief, “Here,” she said, “shall you bury your mother.” I was silent and kept from weeping; but my brother said something, wishing her, as the happier lot, to die in her own country and not abroad. She, when she heard this, with an anxious look stopped him with her eye, for thinking of such things, and then gazing at me, she said, “Behold what he says;” and soon after to us both she said, “Lay this body anywhere, do not let care for it trouble you at all. Only this I ask, that you will remember me at the Lord’s altar, wherever you may be.” And when she had given this opinion in such words as she could, she was silent, being in pain with her increasing sickness.

28. But, as I reflected on Your gifts, O you invisible God, which You instill into the hearts of Your faithful ones, from which such marvellous fruits spring, I rejoiced and gave thanks to You, calling to mind what I knew before, how she had ever burned with anxiety respecting her burial place, which she had provided and prepared for herself by the body of her husband. For as they had lived very peacefully together, her desire had also been (so little is the human mind capable of grasping things divine) that this should be added to that happiness, and be talked of among men, that after her wandering beyond the sea, it had been granted her that they both, so united on earth, should lie in the same grave. But when this uselessness had, through the bounty of Your goodness, begun to be no longer in her heart, I knew not, and I was full of joy admiring what she had so disclosed to me; though indeed in our conversation by the window also, when she said, “What am I still doing here?” she appeared not to desire to die in her own country. I heard afterwards, too, that at the time we were at Ostia, with a maternal confidence she one day, when I was absent, was speaking with some of my friends on despising this life, and the blessing of death; and when they—amazed at the courage which You had given to her, a woman—asked her whether she did not dread leaving her body at such a distance from her own city, she replied, “Nothing is far to God; neither need I be afraid that He should be ignorant of the place from which He is to raise me up at the end of the world.” On the ninth day, then, of her sickness, the fifty-sixth year of her age, and the thirty-third of mine, was that religious and devout soul set free from the body.

29. I closed her eyes; and there flowed a great sadness into my heart, and it was passing into tears, when my eyes at the same time, by the violent control of my mind, sucked back the fountain dry, and woe was me in such a struggle! But, as soon as she breathed her last the boy Adeodatus burst out into wailing, but, being checked by us all, he became quiet. In the same way also my own childish feeling, which was, through the youthful voice of my heart, finding escape in tears, was restrained and silenced. For we did not consider it fitting to celebrate that funeral with tearful cries and groaning; for in such a way are mourned those who die unhappy or are altogether dead. But she neither died unhappy, nor did she altogether die. For of this we were assured by the witness of her good conversation, her “sincere faith” (1 Tm 1:5), and other sufficient grounds.

30. What, then, was it that grievously pained me within, but the newly made wound, from having that most sweet and dear habit of living together suddenly broken off? I was full of joy indeed in her testimony, when, in that her last illness, flattering my dutifulness, she called me “kind,” and recalled, with great affection of love, that she had never heard any harsh or reproachful sound come out of my mouth against her. But yet, O my God, who made us, how can the honour which I paid to her be compared with her slavery for me? As, then, I was left destitute of so great a comfort in her, my soul was stricken, and that life torn apart as it were, which, of hers and mine together, had been made but one.

31. The boy then being restrained from weeping, Evodius took up the Psalter, and began to sing—the whole house responding—the Psalm, “I will sing of mercy and judgment: unto You, O Lord.” But when they heard what we were doing, many brethren and religious women came together; and while they whose office it was were, according to custom, preparing for the funeral, I, in a part of the house where I conveniently could, together with those who thought that I should not be left alone, discussed what was suited to the occasion; and by this relief of truth mitigated the anguish known to You—they being unconscious of it, listened intently, and thought I was without any sense of sorrow. But in Your ears, where none of them heard, I blamed the softness of my feelings, and restrained the flow of my grief, which yielded a little to me; but the rush of emotion returned again, though not so as to burst into tears, nor to change my countenance, though I knew what I repressed in my heart. And as I was exceedingly annoyed that these human things had such power over me, which in the due order and destiny of our natural condition must necessarily come to pass, with a new sorrow I sorrowed for my sorrow, and was wasted by a twofold sadness.

32. So, when her body was carried forth, we both went and returned without tears. For neither in those prayers which we poured forth unto You when the sacrifice of our redemption was offered up to You for her—the dead body being now placed by the side of the grave, as the custom is there, before being laid therein—neither in their prayers did I shed tears; yet I was most grievously sad in secret all the day, and with a troubled mind begged You, as I was able, to heal my sorrow, but You did not; fixing, I believe, in my memory by this one lesson the power of the bonds of all habit, even upon a mind which now feeds not upon a false word. It appeared to me also a good thing to go and bathe, I having heard that the bath [balneum] took its name from the Greek “balaneion,” because it drives trouble from the mind. Look, I also confess this to Your mercy, “Father of the fatherless,” that I bathed, and felt the same as before I had done so. For the bitterness of my grief did not leave my heart. Then I slept, and on awaking found that my grief was not a little mitigated; and as I lay alone upon my bed, into my mind came those true verses of Your Ambrose, for You are—

God, creator of all things,
and guider of the poles,
clothing the day with fitting light,
the night with the grace of sleep;
That rest may restore the joints
loosed for the use of labour,
and raise weary minds,
and heal the anxious grief.

33. And then little by little did I bring back my former thoughts of Your handmaid, her devout conversation towards You, her holy tenderness and attentiveness towards us, which was suddenly taken away from me; and it was pleasant to me to weep in Your sight, for her and for me, concerning her and concerning myself. And I set free the tears which I repressed before, that they might flow at their will, spreading them beneath my heart; and it rested in them, for Your ears were near me—not those of man, who would have put a scornful interpretation on my weeping. But now in writing I confess it to You, O Lord! Read it who will, and interpret how he will; and if he finds me to have sinned in weeping for my mother during so small a part of an hour—that mother who was for a while dead to my eyes, who had for many years wept for me, that I might live in Your eyes—let him not laugh at me, but rather, if he be a man of a noble charity, let him weep for my sins against You, the Father of all the brethren of Your Christ.

34. But—my heart now being healed of that wound, in so far as it could be convicted of a carnal affection (Rom 8:7)—I pour out to You, O our God, on behalf of that Your handmaid, tears of a far different sort, those which flows from a spirit broken by the thoughts of the dangers of every soul that dies in Adam. And although she, having been “made alive” in Christ even before she was freed from the flesh had so lived as to praise Your name both by her faith and conversation, yet I dare not say that from the time You regenerated her by baptism, no word went forth from her mouth against Your precepts (Mt 12:36). And it has been declared by Your Son, the Truth, that “Whosoever shall say to his brother, You fool, shall be in danger of hell fire” (Mt 5:22). And woe even to the praiseworthy life of man, if, putting away mercy, You should investigate it. But because You do not narrowly inquire after sins, we hope with confidence to find some place of indulgence with You. But whosoever recounts his true merits to You, what is it that he recounts to You but Your own gifts? Oh, if men would know themselves to be men; and that “he that glories” would “glory in the Lord” (2 Cor 10:17)!

35. Putting aside for a little her good deeds for which I joyfully give thanks to You, O my Praise and my Life, You God of my heart, I now beseech You for the sins of my mother. Listen to me, through that Medicine of our wounds who hung upon the tree, and who, sitting at Your right hand, “makes intercession for us” (Rom 8:34). I know that she acted mercifully, and from the heart (Mt 18:35) forgave her debtors their debts; do You also forgive her debts, whatever she contracted during so many years since the water of salvation. Forgive her, O Lord, forgive her, I beseech You; “enter not into judgment” with her. Let Your mercy be exalted above Your justice (Jam 2:13), because Your words are true, and You have promised mercy to “the merciful” (Mt 5:7); which You gave them to be who will “have mercy” on whom You will “have mercy,” and will “have compassion” on whom You have had compassion (Rom 9:15).

36. And I believe You have already done that which I ask You; but “accept the freewill offerings of my mouth, O Lord.” For she, when the day of her dissolution was near at hand, took no thought to have her body sumptuously covered, or embalmed with spices; nor did she covet a choice monument, or desire her paternal burial place. These things she did not entrust to us, but only desired to have her name remembered at Your altar, which she had served without the omission of a single day; from which she knew that the holy sacrifice was dispensed, by which the handwriting that was against us is blotted out (Col 2:14); by which the enemy was triumphed over, who, summing up our offenses, and searching for something to bring against us, found nothing in Him (Jn 14:30) in whom we conquer. Who will restore to Him the innocent blood? Who will repay Him the price with which He bought us, so as to take us from Him? To the sacrament of our ransom did Your handmaid bind her soul by the bond of faith. Let no one separate her from Your protection. Let not the “lion” and the “dragon” introduce himself by force or fraud. For she will not reply that she owes nothing, lest she be convicted and got the better of by the wily deceiver; but she will answer that her “sins are forgiven” (Mt 9:2) by Him to whom no one is able to repay that price which He, owing nothing, laid down for us.

37. May she therefore rest in peace with her husband, before or after whom she married no one; whom she obeyed, bringing forth fruit to You with patience (Lk 8:15), so that she might gain him also for You. And inspire, O my Lord my God, inspire Your servants my brethren, Your sons my masters, who with voice and heart and writings I serve, that so many of them as shall read these confessions may at Your altar remember Monica, Your handmaid, together with Patricius, once her husband, by whose flesh You introduced me into this life, in what manner I know not. May they with pious affection be mindful of my parents in this transitory light, of my brethren that are under You our Father in our Catholic mother, and of my fellow citizens in the eternal Jerusalem, which the wandering of Your people sighs for from their departure until their return. That so my mother’s last request to me may, through my confessions more than through my prayers, be more abundantly fulfilled to her through the prayers of many.

—

IX.23–37. Translated by J.G. Pilkington, Nicene and Post-Nicen Fathers, series one, vol. 1, edited by Philip Schaff (1887), revised by Aaron P. Debusschere [Ambrosian hymn translated by Aaron P. Debusschere].