The Narrative Shape of Emotion in the Preaching of John Chrysostom 9780520975729

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The Narrative Shape of Emotion in the Preaching of John Chrysostom

CHRISTIANITY IN LATE ANTIQUITY The Official Book Series of the North American Patristics Society Editor: Christopher A. Beeley, Duke University Associate Editors: David Brakke, Ohio State University Robin Darling Young, The Catholic University of America International Advisory Board: Lewis Ayres, Durham University • John Behr, St Vladimir’s Orthodox Theological Seminary, New York • Brouria Bitton-­Ashkelony, Hebrew University of Jerusalem • Marie-­Odile Boulnois, École Pratique des Hautes Études, Paris • Kimberly D. Bowes, University of Pennsylvania and the American Academy in Rome • Virginia Burrus, Syracuse University • Stephen Davis, Yale University • Elizabeth DePalma Digeser, University of California Santa Barbara • Mark Edwards, University of Oxford • Susanna Elm, University of California Berkeley • Thomas Graumann, Cambridge University • Sidney H. Griffith, Catholic University of America • David G. Hunter, University of Kentucky • Andrew S. Jacobs, Harvard Divinity School • Robin M. Jensen, University of Notre Dame • AnneMarie Luijendijk, Princeton University • Christoph Markschies, Humboldt-­Universität zu Berlin • Andrew B. McGowan, Berkeley Divinity School at Yale • Claudia Rapp, Universität Wien • Samuel Rubenson, Lunds Universitet • Rita Lizzi Testa, Università degli Studi di Perugia 1. Incorruptible Bodies: Christology, Society, and Authority in Late Antiquity, by Yonatan Moss 2. Epiphanius of Cyprus: A Cultural Biography of Late Antiquity, by Andrew S. Jacobs 3. Melania: Early Christianity through the Life of One Family, edited by Catherine M. Chin and Caroline T. Schroeder 4. The Body and Desire: Gregory of Nyssa’s Ascetical Theology, by Raphael A. Cadenhead 5. Bible and Poetry in Late Antique Mesopotamia: Ephrem’s Hymns on Faith, by Jeffrey Wickes 6. Self-­Portrait in Three Colors: Gregory of Nazianzus’s Epistolary Autobiography, by Bradley K. Storin 7. Gregory of Nazianzus’s Letter Collection: The Complete Translation, translated by Bradley K. Storin 8. Jephthah’s Daughter, Sarah’s Son: The Death of Children in Late Antiquity, by Maria Doerfler 9. Constantinople: Ritual, Violence, and Memory in the Making of a Christian Imperial Capital, by Rebecca Stephens Falcasantos 10. The Narrative Shape of Emotion in the Preaching of John Chrysostom, by Blake Leyerle

The Narrative Shape of Emotion in the Preaching of John Chrysostom

Blake Leyerle

UNIVERSIT Y OF CALIFORNIA PRESS

University of California Press Oakland, California © 2020 by Blake Leyerle

Library of Congress Cataloging-­­in-­­Publication Data Names: Leyerle, Blake, 1960– author. Title: The narrative shape of emotion in the preaching of John Chrysostom / Blake Leyerle. Other titles: Christianity in late antiquity (North American Patristics Society) ; 10. Description: Oakland, California : University of California Press, [2020] | Series: Christianity in late antiquity; 10 | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2020014481 (print) | LCCN 2020014482 (ebook) | ISBN 9780520345171 (cloth) | ISBN 9780520975729 (epub) Subjects: LCSH: John Chrysostom, Saint, –407—Criticism and interpretation. | Preaching—History—Early church, ca. 30–600. | Anger—Biblical teaching. | Grief—Biblical teaching. | Fear—Biblical teaching. Classification: LCC BR65.C46 L49 2020 (print) | LCC BR65.C46 (ebook) | DDC 251.0092—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020014481 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020014482

Manufactured in the United States of America 29 28 27 26 25 24 23 22 21 20 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

For Patrick and for Peter

C onte nt s

Acknowledgments Introduction. The Narrative Shape of Emotion Chrysostom’s Program Plan of the Study

1. Anger The Origin of Rage

ix 1 7 20 21 22

Quelling Anger

31

Anger’s Imperative

44

Conclusion

50

Inscribing the Lesson: David and Saul

2. Grief The Sadness of Things Envy, Malice, and Indignation

52 63 64 70

Grieving over the Dead, the Sick, and the Barren 

77

Lamenting Personal Debility

85

Mourning Sin

93

Conclusion A Case Study in Surmounting Sadness: Job

98 99

viii     contents

3. Fear The Disciplinary Force of Fear

112 113

Fear as a Bridle

113

Fear as a Goad

117

The Social Benefits of Fear

121

Fear as a Deliberative State

127

Conclusion The Advantages of Fear: Cain

4. Chrysostom’s Goal: Stimulating Zeal

138 139 150

Rhathymia

150

Arousing Aversion

154

Awe

156

Shame

160

Disgust

162

Inspiring Emulation

166

Conclusion

175

Imitating Zeal: The Samaritan Woman

Conclusion Bibliography Index

176 183 193 209

Ac knowle dgm en ts

I have been thinking about the emotions in the writings of John Chrysostom for a long time, but I can identify two separate encounters as the true beginning of this project. The first was an invitation by Cynthia Baker, then chair of the Social History of Formative Christianity and Judaism Section of the Society of Biblical Literature, to submit a paper for a panel on garbage and “the category of the discarded.” Examining the topic of refuse in Chrysostom, my research took an unexpectedly excremental turn, and I found myself deep in disgust. Nor was I alone: without any prior consultation, the other panelists (AnneMarie Luijendijk, Jonathan Schofer, and Ian Werret) also wrote papers on toilets, toilet paper, and associated practices. No one who was present for that 2008 session will ever forget David Frankfurter’s response. The second formative encounter was with David Konstan’s book The Emotions of the Ancient Greeks, which limned in lucid prose the topic’s breadth and literary extension and aroused in me emulous desire. As I drafted and refined these chapters, my thought was deepened and sustained by the interest and engagement of many students. The enthusiastic reaction of five classes of a freshman seminar on “Ancient Emotions” enlivened my thinking and fueled my progress. The strong sense of cohesion created by our shared discussion enhanced my appreciation for the impact of emotion on community formation, and the experience of watching staged dramatic scenes revealed the power of even short emotional performances. To the graduate students in three doctoral seminars, I owe a different kind of debt. Their sharp analytical comments and incisive questions pushed me to refine my thesis, and their papers often surprised (and delighted) me by revealing unexpected connections and new areas for fruitful exploration. Many of these essays have now been published, and it ix

x     Acknowledgments

is a pleasure to acknowledge them in my footnotes. My doctoral advisees working on John Chrysostom have also taught me much: Mark Roosien revealed the creative impact of earthquakes on liturgical development and community formation; Robert Edwards clarified Chrysostom’s understanding of Providence and illuminated further aspects of the preacher’s reliance on narrative; and Paul Saieg has reinforced the importance of concrete practices and opened my eyes to certain technical vocabulary that I had hitherto failed to appreciate. To Robert, I also owe heartfelt thanks for compiling the bibliography. The enthusiasm of colleagues and friends has lifted my spirits and sped my progress. Despite my fear of overlooking names, I must mention those who generously read and commented on the papers, essays, or articles that later became part of this larger project, cheerfully engaged in wide-­ranging discussions of emotion, or otherwise provided concrete counsel and advice. It is a pleasure to thank Martin Bloomer, Kate Cooper, Mary Rose D’Angelo, Chris de Wet, Maria Doerfler, Susanna Elm, John Fitzgerald, David Frankfurter, Robin Jensen, Gil Klein, Margaret Mitchell, Candida Moss, Wendy Mayer, Yannis Papadogiannakis, and Robin Darling Young. I am also grateful to those members of the Society of Biblical Literature, the North American Patristic Society, and the Inter­national Conference on Patristic Studies who came to hear my papers and stayed to offer helpful suggestions and critiques. I thank Kate Cooper, whose invitation in 2013 to contribute to a volume on violence in late antiquity sparked my interest in Chrysostom’s understanding of fear. My argument here expands upon that original essay, now published in Cooper and Wood, Social Control in Late Antiquity: The Violence of Small Worlds. Thanks are also due to Margaret O’Dell, whose invitation to give the plenary address at the 2017 Annual Meeting of the Upper Midwest Region of the Society of Biblical Literature impelled me to pull together my thoughts on zeal. To Susanna Elm, who invited me to participate in a stimulating conference on Antioch at Kloster Kappel in Switzerland, and to Yannis Papadogiannakis, who invited me to participate in a workshop at the Seventh International Conference on Patristic Studies at Oxford, I owe a particular debt of gratitude. Their consistent support of my project and warm personal regard has been a source of steady inspiration. I thank my chair, Timothy Matovina, for supporting my application for research leave, and the University of Notre Dame for granting it. The project would not have come to light without the early commitment of Eric Schmidt, the acquisitions editor of the University of California Press, and the enthusiasm of Christopher Beeley, the series editor. To Maria Doerfler and Wendy Mayer, who served as expert readers for the Press, I owe a great deal: their generous assessment and constructive suggestions pushed me to strengthen the argument in crucial places. It is a pleasure to thank them, as well as the anonymous presenter who recommended the manuscript so warmly. I am grateful to the entire production team, but especially to Gary Hamel, who corrected the copy

Acknowledgments    xi

with such precision and care. Thanks are also due to Warren Campbell for assisting with the index. Having been the recipient of so much expert help, I readily acknowledge that all remaining errors and omissions are solely my own. Finally, it is my delight to thank the two people who have contributed most: my husband, Patrick, who read over every word of the manuscript with a charitable eye and an exacting editorial pencil, and our son, Peter, who makes everything worthwhile. They have taught me much about all the emotions, but especially love and gratitude. With joy, I dedicate this book to them.

Introduction The Narrative Shape of Emotion

John Chrysostom was a passionate man. Zealous, courageous, and capable of great affection, according to the ancient church historians, he could also be sharp and prone to anger, even in the eyes of his friends and admirers. His enemies condemned him outright as “a harsh, irascible, obtuse, and arrogant man.”1 But whatever his personality, he understood the power of emotion. Gibbon, although hardly given to praising Christian authors, noted his skill in engaging the feelings of his listeners and summarized the elements that, in the eyes of earlier critics, had contributed to the fourth-­century preacher’s “genuine merit”: “They unanimously attribute to the Christian orator the free command of an elegant and copious language, the judgment to conceal the advantages which he derived from the knowledge of rhetoric and philosophy, an inexhaustible fund of metaphors and similitudes, of ideas and images to vary and illustrate the most familiar topics, the happy art of engaging the passions in the service of virtue, and of exposing the folly as well as the turpitude of vice, almost with the truth and spirit of a dramatic representation.”2 It may seem odd, then, that so little attention has been devoted 1.  Socrates notes his “zeal for temperance” (ζῆλον σωφροσύνης), as well as his tendency toward sharpness and irritability (πικρότερος . . . θυμῷ . . . ἐχαρίζετο) (Hist. eccl. 6.3 [SC 505.268]); Sozomen concurs that his enemies described him as harsh and disagreeable, maladroit, and arrogant (χαλεπὸν καὶ ὀργίλον, σκαιόν τε καὶ ὑπερήφανον) (Hist. eccl. 8.9 [SC 516.276]). Palladius counters accusations that he was haughty (ὑπερήφανον) and gave evidence of disdain and pride (ὑπεροψίας καὶ τύφου), protesting rather that his friends found him “temperate, gentle, . . . and courageous” (σωφροσύνης, πραΰτητός, . . . ἀνδρείας), and citing the affection that he showed toward his fellow bishops and women friends at the time of his exile (Dialogus de vita Joannis Chrysostomi 19, 12, 10 [SC 341.378, 230, 206–8]). 2. Gibbon, History of the Decline and Fall, 3.396 (italics added).

1

2     Introduction

to the role of emotions in his preaching. In a series of pioneering articles, Francis Leduc directed attention to Chrysostom’s understanding of anger, grief, and vainglory, but did not articulate a unified theory.3 Other scholars have built strongly on this work, but none has produced a monograph.4 The rising interest in the study of the emotions across the humanities has created a hospitable environment in which to pursue this topic. Nuanced analyses, stemming especially from the fields of classics and medieval studies, have heightened awareness of the integral role of emotion in the art of persuasion and the pursuit of virtue,5 even as an outpouring of neurological studies has enriched our understanding of the biochemical basis of affect and offered tantalizing connections to the ancient world.6 Investigating emotion in another, distant culture, however, is not without its challenges. For if the universality of at least some emotions seems guaranteed by their basis in biology and neurology, other evidence points compellingly to their socially constructed nature.7 We know that emotional terminology in one language cannot be mapped neatly onto another, that translation always involves gaps and distortions. To refer to emotions in the writings of John Chrysostom is then to beg the question of whether, or to what degree, our sense of the meaning of that word can be attributed to his understanding of the Greek term pathē. The fit is far from perfect, but emotions nevertheless seems preferable to the archaic and rather misleading language of the passions.8 To settle upon a translation, however, is not to plumb the interpretative dilemma. Even within a given culture, people must learn from others when to feel a particular emotion and how to express it. Every emotion thus depends upon a prior act of interpretation, an ability 3.  Leduc, “Gérer l’agressivité”; “Penthos et larmes”; “Thème de la vaine gloire.” Leduc’s work is notable in that it explores multiple emotions. Other scholars, around the same time, were exploring individual pathē: Bardolle, “Tristesse (athumia) et thérapeutique spirituelle”; de Durand, “Colère chez S. Jean Chrysostome.” Edward Nowak’s analysis of Chrysostom’s view of suffering is also germane, although his focus is broader than an analysis of sorrow (Chrétien devant la souffrance). 4.  See, for example: Brottier, “Jeu de mots intraduisible”; Zincone, “‘Voi ridete”; Blackburn, “‘Let the Men Be Ashamed’”; Blowers, “Pity, Empathy”; de Wet, “John Chrysostom on Envy”; Papadogiannakis, Emotions; “Prescribing Emotions”; “Homiletics and the History of Emotions.” 5.  The bibliography is now very large. Most relevant are: Nussbaum, Therapy of Desire; Up­heavals of Thought; Graver, Stoicism and Emotion; Harris, Restraining Rage; Sorabji, Emotion and Peace of Mind; Kaster, Emotion, Restraint and Community; Rosenwein, Emotional Communities; Konstan, Emotions; “Rhetoric and Emotion”; Fitzgerald, Passions and Moral Progress; Chaniotis, Unveiling Emotions; Chaniotis and Ducrey, Unveiling Emotions II. 6.  As Andrea Scarantino observes, “Many of the questions . . . philosophers ask about emotions overlap with questions asked by affective scientists” (“Philosophy of Emotions,” 4). Wendy Mayer has applied some of these neural-­cognitive findings to her analysis of Chrysostom’s writings (“Preaching Hatred?” 58–136). 7.  For an overview, see Plamper, History of Emotions. 8.  As will become clear, emotion accurately captures Chrysostom’s confidence in the arousing properties of feeling.

Introduction    3

and willingness to size up a situation in a particular way. Because these judgments reveal underlying, socially encoded values, emotions are of lively interest not only to the historian but also to the preacher. It is this link to ethical formation that makes emotions so central to the preaching John Chrysostom. Thanks to the work of Wendy Mayer, in particular, a new consensus has been emerging that John should be understood as a “medico-­philosophical psychic preacher.”9 His homiletic efforts were directed toward a practical and largely therapeutic goal. He aimed to heal and correct the mindset (or gnōmē) of his listeners.10 Because he believed, like many philosophically inclined thinkers of his time, that uncontrolled emotion led to vice and unhappiness, emotional regulation was very much part of his psychagogic project.11 He consistently sought to diminish some feelings and to strengthen or redirect others. His understanding of the particular emotions—their origin and exacerbating factors—derives largely from Aristotle’s influential formulation.12 But for his regulatory strategies, he relied on a variety of contemporary therapeutic techniques, many of which were drawn from the Stoics. These include forms of behavioral modification, but privilege rational argument. In order to modify the feelings of his listeners, he most often focuses on changing their thinking.13 His goal, however, differed in significant ways from that of the philosophers. Unlike the Stoics, he did not aim at the eradication of emotion.14 To the contrary, he insists again and again on its utility. This conviction springs from his 9.  Mayer, “Shaping the Sick Soul”; “Persistence in Late Antiquity.” See also Rylaarsdam, John Chrysostom on Divine Pedagogy. 10. Laird, Mindset. 11.  For the philosophic background of this idea, see Hadot, Philosophy as a Way of Life, 83; Fitz­ gerald, Passions and Moral Progress. For Chrysostom as a preacher and psychagogue, see Rylaarsdam, John Chrysostom on Divine Pedagogy; Maxwell, Christianization and Communication, esp. 88–94; Cook, Preaching, 84–104. 12.  Reliance on Aristotle’s definitions was widespread. As Harris notes of anger, in particular, “All or most of the many definitions of orgē which later writers offer are more or less simplified versions of the one in Aristotle’s Rhetoric” (Restraining Rage, 61). Aristotle’s insistence on virtue as “a disposition to act” in a situation based on reason rather than emotional reflex stimulus would have resonated with Chrysostom. See Fortenbaugh, “Aristotle and Theophrastus on Emotions,” 41–44. Frijda agrees that at the core of emotion, is a change of readiness for action (Emotions). Nowak, while sensitive to the multiple philosophical influences on Chrysostom, asserts the importance of Stoicism to his thought (Chrétien devant la Souffrance, esp. 57–88). 13. All philosophical schools shared the assumption that adults can regulate their emotions through reason and that this process was the goal of philosophical therapy. See Gill, “Philosophical Therapy,” 350–51. Mayer has drawn attention to the multiple audiences to which Chrysostom spoke (“Audiences for Patristic Social Teaching,” 89–94; Mayer and Allen, Churches of Syrian Antioch). 14.  Cook agrees that Chrysostom’s goal differentiates him from classical medico-­philosophical therapists, but attributes this difference to the impact of theological doctrine: “the theocentric and eschatological dimensions of Christian thought are a key part of what distinguished early Christianity

4     Introduction

commitment to scripture, with its implicit endorsement of a wide range of feelings and a great intensity in their expression, but it also derives from his analysis of the human condition and, in particular, its besetting weakness. Hampered by indifference and arrested by inertia, humans often lack motivation to make progress in virtue. They must be spurred into action, and emotion can reliably provide this goad. Thus, in order to prompt caring and stimulate action, Chrysostom deliberately arouses feelings, especially uncomfortable ones. Another profound difference from contemporary philosophers lies in his temporal orientation.15 The happiness that he hopes his listeners will achieve lies not in the here and now, but in the future life of heaven. He is not primarily focused on alleviating their present distress. Indeed, in order to ensure future bliss, he often deliberately sharpens their sense of fear.16 The most characteristic aspect of Chrysostom’s method, moreover, is his pervasive reliance on narrative. He draws on stories to illustrate both good and bad emotional control. These allow him to analyze social triggers as well as the cognitive processes that typically prompt certain behaviors. They provide a means of exploring the interpersonal dynamics that exacerbate or mitigate reactions. And they serve as mnemonic devices by fleshing out theoretical propositions; they give a face and a plot to philosophical maxims. But John relied on stories not only to explain feelings but also to arouse them. He used narrative to elicit from his listeners indignation or admiration at the actions of others as well as immediate strong sensations of fear, pleasure, disgust, anger, and desire.17 Although typical of Chrysostom, this interest in stories is not unique to him. Stories were central to Hellenistic philosophy in general, as Martha Nussbaum observes, but especially to Stoicism, precisely because of that school’s concern with emotions. Stoic philosophers understood that stories appealed to the emotions in a way that arguments and precepts did not. This was not because emotions sprang from “natural” or instinctual reactions, but rather because they arose from beliefs and values that had been internalized at a very early age primarily by listening to stories. In Nussbaum’s words:

from classical philosophy, and these dimensions have a profound impact upon Chrysostom’s understanding of the cure of souls” (Preaching, 84–104, on 89) 15.  The goal of philosophy, as Hadot writes, “was to allow people to free themselves from the past and the future, so that they could live within the present” (Philosophy as a Way of Life, 221–22). Sorabji objects that the Epicureans and Stoics did not find value only in the present, but does acknowledge that both schools aimed to release people from fear of the future (Emotion and Peace of Mind, 238–40). 16.  A large part of philosophers’ efforts toward the cure of souls was directed at releasing people from their fear of death (Gill, “Philosophical Therapy,” 343). 17.  Dolf Zillman’s notion of disposition theory suggests that we acquire a disposition to like characters who behave well and to dislike those who behave badly (“Psychology of Suspense”).

Introduction    5 We learn emotions in the same way that we learn our beliefs—from our society. But emotions, unlike many of our beliefs, are not taught to us directly through propositional claims about the world, either abstract or concrete. They are taught, above all, through stories. Stories express their structure and teach us their dynamics. These stories are constructed by others and, then, taught, and learned. But once internalized, they shape the way life feels and looks. . . . Indeed, it seems right to say . . . not only that a certain sort of story shows or represents emotion but also that emotion itself is the acceptance of, the assent to live according to, a certain sort of story. ­Stories, in short, contain and teach forms of feeling, forms of life.18

To effect lasting cognitive change, the Stoics knew that they had to begin with emotions, and if with emotions, then with stories, since it is through stories that emotions are taught most deeply.19 The narratives on which Chrysostom dwells are typically drawn from scripture, and thus form part of the expected subject matter of any homilist, but the extent to which Chrysostom focuses on exploring their emotional tenor is truly striking. He consistently draws attention to characters’ feelings, highlights their rational underpinnings, and traces their outcomes. Although this aspect is seldom noted in the secondary literature, it is the backbone of his preaching.20 A brief example, drawn from one of his homilies on Genesis, illustrates the point.21 In the midst of the story of Noah and the flood, he comes to the phrase, “and the Lord God shut the ark from the outside” (Gn 7:16). The use of anthropomorphizing language to describe the work of the deity is interesting, but the passage seems otherwise rather unpromising for emotional development. But this is not how Chrysostom sees it. He passes quickly over the verb, noting simply that it is an instance of divine accommodation to human ways of speaking, and zeroes in on the final words: “from the outside” (exōthen autou). This simple adverbial expression launches him into a vivid evocation of Noah’s emotional experience inside the ark. Through a string of questions and contemporary parallels, he compels his listeners to imagine how Noah felt, locked into a closed box, tossed on surging waters: How would he have been able, tell me, to bear being locked in there like that, as though in some prison or awful jail? Where did he find the strength, tell me, to

18.  Nussbaum, “Narrative Emotions,” 287; Therapy of Desire, 339–41, 508. 19.  Turpin, “Tacitus, Stoic exempla,” esp. 363–71. Graver, Stoicism and Emotion, esp. 149–51. See also Reydams-­Schils, Roman Stoics, 18–24. 20.  Amirav’s commentary forms a case in point. Her outlines of Chrysostom’s homilies on Noah summarize the propositional content, but never mention the emotional focus (Rhetoric and Tradition, 157, 189). 21.  For a consideration of the context and dating of these homilies, see Amirav, Rhetoric and Tradition, esp. 50–57. Her study does not include homily 25.

6     Introduction withstand the awful crashing of the waves? For if people, who happen to be in a boat driven by sail, see the pilot sitting at the helm, pitting his own skill against the onslaught of the winds, fear for their own safety and, as we say, die of fright when they see the vehemence of the waves, what could one say about this righteous man? For finding himself in the ark, as I was just saying, as though in a prison, he was forced to remain inside, and tossed from side to side, he was unable to see the sky or lift up his eyes to anywhere else, having nothing at all to look at that could bring him any comfort.22

With the taste of fear still in their mouths, Chrysostom then invites his listeners to envisage the deprivation that Noah experienced and nudges them steadily toward disgust, by conjuring up the fetid stench of confined animal bodies: For a whole year, he lived in this strange and novel prison, unable even to breath fresh air—for how could he, when the ark was closed in on all sides? Tell me: how did he put up with it? How did he endure it? Even if their bodies had been made of iron and steel, how could they have survived without having the benefit of fresh air, or of the breeze—which no less than fresh air, exists to restore our bodies—or being able to feast their eyes on the sight of the sky or the variety of flowers growing on land? How was it that their eyes did not grow blind, living like this for so long? . . . How was this righteous man, with his sons and their wives, able to endure living with the animals and the beasts and all the other feathered creatures? How did he bear the stench? How did he put up with living with them?23

Finally, he confronts them with Noah’s grief and despair. The patriarch’s anguish stemmed not only from his perception of his own situation as precarious and protracted, but also from his imagination of what others were suffering outside: What would he not have suffered, at seeing, so to speak, with his imagination, and engraving on his mind the bodies of human beings and domestic animals—both clean and unclean—undergoing the same death, jumbled altogether without any distinction being made? And on top of this, when reflecting on the loneliness, the isolation, that painful way of life, the utter lack of any consolation from any quarter, from social contact or from sight, or from knowing precisely how long he was destined to endure existence in that prison. For as long as there was the beating and crashing of the waves, fear was sent daily surging through him. For what was the likelihood that he would suspect a good outcome, when he saw the waters staying the same for a hundred and fifty days: rising higher and not diminishing at all?24

These quotations are lengthy, but even so represent only a fraction of the extended homily. From three words, Chrysostom evokes worlds of feeling into which he 22.  Hom. Gen. 25.4 (PG 53.223). All translations are my own, unless otherwise attributed. 23.  Hom. Gen. 25.4 (PG 53.224). 24.  Hom. Gen. 25.6 (PG 53.227).

Introduction    7

not so much invites as plunges his listeners. He does not allow them to maintain their distance. His words compel them to feel what Noah felt. Any study of Chrysostom’s thought on the emotions must begin therefore with his commitment to narrative. Why does he rely so heavily on stories? Why did he devote so much attention to the emotional reactions of biblical characters? And what did he hope to achieve through this program? These are large questions, but in a small treatise directed at parents on how to raise their children, he provides some preliminary answers. C H RYS O S T OM’ S P R O G R A M

The circumstances in which he composed On Vainglory; or, How to Raise Your Children remain obscure. We do not know the date of its composition or how it was disseminated. But the nature of its intended audience seems somewhat clearer. Like Chrysostom’s usual congregations, the families he addresses are secular. He speaks to fathers who expect that their sons and daughters will marry, who assume that their boys will grow up to pursue a career and their girls to manage a household.25 The program he presents conforms in important respects to traditional parental desires: children are raised to be respectful of their parents and self-­controlled in their appetites. But his larger agenda is distinctly countercultural. As the double title of the treatise suggests, he aims to form children who reject the dominant cultural value of the pursuit of civic honor.26 To this end, he prescribes a variety of practical measures and expedients, but stresses above all the necessity of raising children with a different set of narratives. They should not be told traditional mythic tales based on the kinds of plots in which “[a] certain man loved a certain woman,” or “[t]he king’s son and younger daughter did the following.”27 Heroes like Achilles were not to be held up for emulation, lest boys learn to admire men who were “slaves to their passions and cowardly towards death.”28 Instead of recounting “myths about sheep with golden fleeces,” fathers 25.  The date and location of the treatise remain disputed. Its impact is even less certain. As a treatise rather than a homily, we do not know how it was diffused or any specific details about its intended audience. As a child-­rearing manual written by a cleric who had no children, moreover, the work is frankly hortatory. We do not know its effect or whether anyone followed any of the advice he so urgently outlines. 26.  Roskam, “John Chrysostom on Pagan Euergetism.” 27.  Inan. glor. 38.476–47 (SC 188.128). Johnston stresses the foundational role of myths—as well-­ told, gripping stories—in creating and sustaining belief in the Greek gods (Story of Myth, esp. 7–22). 28.  θαυμαζομένους ἥρωας, παθῶν δούλους ὄντας καὶ δειλοὺς πρὸς θάνατον (Hom. Eph. 21.1 [PG 62.150]). Plato warned against the dangers of mythological stories (Resp. 378a–b, Leg. 663d–664b). The Stoics agreed that “poetry has a powerful and in some respects dangerous effect on the passions of the soul” (Nussbaum, “Poetry and the Passions,” 98).

8     Introduction

should tell their sons biblical stories.29 And he proceeds to demonstrate exactly how this should be done. From the outset, he endorses the close tie between effective narration and the arousal of emotion. Fathers must take care to make their recital as pleasurable as possible for their young listeners. Instead of rushing through a tale, they must slow down and insert pauses. He illustrates the proper tempo with the very first story he recommends, which is that of Cain and Abel: “When the boy is relaxing from his studies . . . [s]peak to him and tell him this story: ‘In ancient times, there were two children, born of a single father, two brothers.’ Then, after inserting a pause, continue, ‘And they had both been born from the same womb. One was elder, the other younger.’”30 By lingering over the account, the father allows the child to savor it. The story of Cain and Abel is, of course, quite short, but even so, one can still sharpen suspense—and thus increase satisfaction—by interrupting the narration to ask, “And then what happened?”31 Longer tales, like that of Jacob and Esau, should be broken into installments.32 The break should not be made carelessly, but intentionally positioned to increase narrative tension. Nor should this state of pleasurable suspense be cut short. Only after the lapse of several days, should the father “spin the sequel.”33 A deliberately slowed pace also creates opportunities for narrative amplification. This can take the form of repetition with variation, as in the passage cited above, where Cain and Abel’s relationship is expressed in five different ways.34 Or one can insert new material. Chrysostom illustrates this technique by adding a brief gloss to the biblical description of Abel as a shepherd: “and he led his flocks out to wooded valleys and lakes.” In addition to lengthening the narration, such scenic details are also intended to increase pleasure: “to sweeten” the account so that it “delights” the listener.35 29.  Inan. glor. 39.505–7 (SC 188.132). In his first homily on David, he seems to echo this advice. After urging his listeners to “stir up” biblical stories “continually with their wives and children,” he presents the accounts as similar but superior to the old tales: “If you want to talk about a king—look, here’s a king; if about soldiers, or family matters, or political deeds, you will see a great abundance of these in the scriptures” (Dav. 1.7 [CCGS 70.24]). 30.  Inan. glor. 39.496–99 (SC 188.130–32). 31.  Τί δὴ οὖν μετὰ τοῦτο γίνεται (Inan. glor. 39.500–501 [SC 188.132.519–20]). 32.  Inan. glor. 44.610–11 (SC 188.142). Johnston’s work on ancient myth also identifies the power­ful impact of episodic narration: breaking a longer narrative into installments “whetted listeners’ appetites to hear more about them [i.e., the Greek heroes] and encouraged them to think about those characters . . . during the intervals in between” (Story of Myth, 91–96, on 96). 33.  [Π]ροσύφαινε τὰ ἑξῆς (Inan. glor. 45.628 [SC 188.144]). 34.  Deliberate pacing and redundancy are highly appreciated aspects of oral recitation (Ong, Orality and Literacy, esp. 36–42). For Chrysostom’s use of repetition, see Maxwell, Christianization and Communication, 104–7. 35.  [Ἐ]ξῆγε τὰ ποίμνια ἐπὶ νάπας καὶ λίμνας (Inan. glor. 39.500–501 [SC 188.132]). “Make the stories sweet (καταγλύκαινε τὰ διηγήματα)” (ibid., 501–2).

Introduction    9

Another kind of amplification consists of exploring the feelings of characters and their consequences.36 Thus, John supplies an explanation for why Cain’s sacrifice was rejected (he had reserved the best produce for himself and offered inferior goods to God), and explains why he reacted as he did (he felt angry at being dishonored and passed over for another).37 An especially clear instance of insertion concerns Abel’s fate. Although the biblical account tells us nothing about what happened to him, beyond the fact that his spilled blood cried out from the ground, Chrysostom knows that there is more to say. The father must continue the story: “What happened after this? God received the younger son into heaven: although he died, he is above.”38 This outcome is so patent to Chrysostom that he is perhaps unaware that he is supplying it. By doing so, he reduces the ambiguity of the story: it now conveys a straightforward moral that good things happen to people who behave well and bad things to people who behave badly. To our eyes, all of these additions look like interpolations. But Chrysostom would not agree. He prefaces these examples with the explicit directive that, although fathers should make every effort to sharpen their child’s interest in the story, they must “introduce nothing untrue, but only what can be drawn from scripture.”39 To his way of thinking, he is not importing material, but simply surfacing the implicit meaning of scripture. A final kind of amplification is straightforwardly extra-­biblical. It consists of drawing contemporary analogies. These have a clearly explanatory function. For example, John suggests a comparison with rural patronage practices as a means of contextualizing or even normalizing God’s preference for one brother over the other. “It happens just this way among overseers in the country: the master honors one of those bringing his dues and welcomes him inside, but leaves the other one standing outside. Thus it happened here too.”40 When a story contains elements that transcend a child’s experience, analogies are especially helpful. Because no child can appreciate the emotional toll of exile, Jacob’s sense of desolation can only be brought home to him by the use of comparison. “The profound meaning surpasses the child’s understanding; but with adjustment 36.  Stories, according to Brian Boyd, offer important evolutionary advantages precisely because they allow us to evaluate characters and situations at one remove (On the Origin of Stories, 1–16, 191–96). 37.  Inan. glor. 39.512–14, 520–21 (SC 188.132). 38.  Inan. glor. 39.537–38 (SC 188.134). 39. Εἶτα αὐτὸν καὶ διανάστησον—ἔχει γάρ τι καὶ ἡ διήγησις—μηδὲν ψευδὲς ἐπιφέρων, ἀλλὰ τὰ ἀπὸ τῆς Γραφῆς (Inan. glor. 39.507–9 [SC 188.132]). For a summary of Chrysostom’s exegetical approach, see Hill, “Chrysostom as Old Testament Commentator,” esp. 67–69. As Kecskeméti has shown, Chrysostom often inserts fictional elements into his exegesis, not to introduce new aspects, but “to make the meaning of the text clearer, and to highlight the emotions that animate the characters” (“Exégèse chrysostomienne,” 137). 40.  Inan. glor. 39.516–19 [SC 188.132]).

10     Introduction

(meta sunkatabaseōs),41 it can be implanted in his tender childish understanding, if we know how to handle the story. We shall speak to him thus: ‘This brother went away and came to another place. And he had no one with him: no slave, no foster-­father, no pedagogue, no other person at all.’”42 This gloss translates adult experience into terms that a child can understand, but at the same time, it is designed to speak to the young person’s sympathies, to invite him to feel what the biblical figure felt.43 This aim emerges clearly at the end of Chrysostom’s tutorial on how to tell the story of Cain and Abel. The father should conclude: “And so [God] took the one [namely, Abel] up to heaven immediately, but the other, the murderer, lived for many years in unceasing misery. Living in a state of fear and trembling, he suffered ten thousand terrible things and was punished every day.” Lay stress on the punishment. Do not simply say, “He heard from God, ‘Groaning and trembling you will be on the earth.’” For the young boy does not yet know what this means, but tell him, “Just as when you are standing before your teacher and are in agony over whether you are about to be whipped, you tremble and are afraid, just so did this man live all his days, because he had offended God.”44

The analogy, once again, serves a cognitive function: it effectively conveys the terror in which Cain lived in terms appropriate to a child’s understanding. But equally clearly it does more: it is designed to get the child to feel Cain’s fear. And to this end, Chrysostom urges fathers to conjure up a paradigmatic scene of childhood fear.45 Deliberately eliciting uncomfortable feelings, such as fear and loneliness, might seem at odds with the stated goal of promoting narrative pleasure. But this is not the case. John recognized that people enjoy the vicarious experience of difficult emotions. His frequent comments on his congregations’ response suggest that many came to church to be moved and that the homily was the high point of this experience. They clapped and shouted aloud their approval.46 Although he expresses ambivalence over applause, worrying that people come for pleasure 41.  For the important concept of “accommodation” in Chrysostom, see Rylaarsdam, John Chrysostom on Divine Pedagogy; Hill, “On Looking Again at Synkatabasis.” 42.  Inan. glor. 46.632–38 (SC 188.144). 43.  For this reason, examples are to be drawn from the child’s home (Inan. glor. 52.704–5 [SC 188.152]). The list of absent figures suggests a boy of relatively high social status, as I have argued elsewhere (“Appealing to Children”). 44.  Inan. glor. 39.545–54 (SC 188.136). 45.  Inan. glor. 40.565–68 (SC 188.138). This aim, as we will see more clearly in later chapters, has a strongly inhibitory aspect, but is not exhausted by that agenda. 46.  [Χ]θὲς . . . μέγα ἀνακεκράγετε, δηλοῦντες τὴν ἡδονήν (Serm. Gen. 7.1 [SC 433.302]); see also Serm. Gen. 4.3 [SC 433.248]; Hom. 1 Cor. 4.11, 13.3 [PG 61.39–40, 110]. As soon as the homilist stood up to speak, they rushed forward, pushing and jostling to get closer to him (Proph. obscurit. 2.1 [PG 56.176]).

Introduction    11

rather than ethical improvement, he approves of their investment in his preaching.47 He opens his second homily on the story of the poor man, Lazarus, by praising their previous responsiveness: that they had audibly “commended the poor man’s endurance and repudiated the cruelty and inhumanity of the rich man.” Because they received the first installment so enthusiastically, they deserve to hear the sequel: “Come, I will reward you with the rest.”48 “Emotions,” as Noël Carroll comments, “are the cement that keeps audiences connected to . . . narrative fictions.”49 This psychological response was central to Aristotle’s analysis of dramatic pleasure. Audiences enjoy tragedy because it stirs up their emotions, especially pity and fear, and this arousal effects a catharsis of these same emotions. Exactly what Aristotle meant by catharsis remains puzzling: Is it a kind of purgation or purification, as is usually assumed, or is it rather a clarification, as Nussbaum has proposed?50 But whatever the end, Aristotle is clear on the pleasure experienced by audiences and the means by which it can be triggered most effectively. Among his suggestions, he recommends that the protagonists be members of the same family, and that the action of the plot be complicated by a “discovery” (anagnōrisis) that coincides with “a sudden change in fortune” (peripeteia).51 Chrysostom concurs that familial relationship and dramatic reversal increase narrative pleasure. When comparing the two biblical stories of sibling rivalry, he even uses the Aristotelian term. The story of Jacob and Esau, he judges, “insofar as the reversal of fortune (peripeteian) is greater, and the brothers are older, gives more pleasure.”52 47.  His ambivalence over applause: Hom. Act. 30.4 (PG 60.226); Diab. 1.1 (PG 49.245–46). B ­ rändle, Matt. 25:31–46 im Werk des Johannes Chrysostomos, 196–97; Leyerle, Theatrical Lives and Ascetic Shows, 63–64. 48.  Laz. 2.1 (PG 48.981). 49.  Carroll, “Art, Narrative and Emotion,” 191; see also Oatley, Passionate Muse. 50.  Poetics 1449b26–7, 1452a1–2; Sorabji notes the parallel in the Politics (8.7, 1341b32–1342a16) where Aristotle discusses the effects of music (Emotion and Peace of Mind, 288–90). For a discussion of various interpretations, see Lear, “Katharsis.” Nussbaum favors intellectual enlightenment (“Tragedy and Self-­Sufficiency,” esp. 280–83; Fragility of Goodness, 378–94. Sorabji argues that by increasing pity, tragedy reduced antecedent grief (Emotion and Peace of Mind, 288–300, esp. 291–92). 51.  The finest tragedies concern family members (Poetics 1453a19–1454a14). For peripeteia, see Poetics 1452a22; cf. 1450a34; Rhet. 1.11, 1371b10. Plots could also be simple, in which case, the change in the hero’s fortunes simply unfolds as a continuous whole. Chrysostom invokes the idea of discovery (ὁ ἀναγνωρισμός) in his retelling of the Joseph story, when Joseph makes his identity known to his brothers (Hom. Gen. 64.6 [PG 54.557]). 52.  Inan. glor. 43.583–85 (SC 188.140). Chrysostom uses this technical term with considerable precision in his discussion of Herod’s downfall (Bab. 56 [SC 362.162–64]), and of Joseph’s amazing rise to eminence, despite his brothers’ envious and destructive actions (Laz. 4.5–6 [PG 48.1014]). He also uses it in a general sense to describe reversals of fortune (Fat. prov. 1.1 [PG 50.750]).

12     Introduction

He marvels at the deft design of the plot: “that Esau did not appear back from hunting before the basis of the dramatic action was complete.”53 Along with stimulating delight, strong feelings sharpen attention and enhance recall. “When someone listens to what is said with pleasure, he obviously implants this information in his mind, and by storing it away in the depths of his mind, he makes it indelible.”54 Much of John’s advice on emotional arousal is overtly directed at making stories memorable. Many of the strategies for increasing pleasure—­adopting a leisurely pace, inserting pauses, using repetition and amplification—­have a reinforcing effect. And in order to ensure that these stories become imprinted upon the child, Chrysostom recommends a regimen. A story should be told many times, first by the father and then by the mother. After many reiterations, the father should then invite the child to tell him the tale, “so that the boy might enjoy showing off.”55 After he has learned several stories, the game gets more complex. If, to the father’s request, “Tell me the story of those two ­brothers,” the child begins to relate the story of Cain and Abel, the father should stop him by saying, “I don’t want that one, but the one about the other two brothers, in which the father gave his blessing.”56 If the boy hesitates, his father can prompt him by giving hints, but should withhold the names.57 Only when the child can accurately recount the tale of Jacob and Esau, up to the point at which the father left it, should he be rewarded by hearing the rest of the story. Taking the child to church will compound the reinforcing effect: when he hears a story that he knows read aloud, “he will rejoice and leap with pleasure,” not only because he recognizes it and can anticipate its ending, but also “because he knows what the other children do not know.”58 After the child has mastered a story, the father should explain “how it benefits him.” Clear moral lessons should be derived and laid before the child. They can be presented as maxims or posed in an interrogative mode. From the story of Cain and Abel, for example, the father could summarize the ethical teaching, “There is no reason for grief in adversity,” or he could ask his son: “Do you see how great a sin greed is, how great a sin it is to envy a brother? Do you see how great a sin it is to think that you can hide anything from God? For he sees all things, even those that are done in 53.  [Ὅ]τι οὐ πρότερον ὁ Ἡσαῦ ἀπὸ τῆς θήρας παραγέγονε, μέχρις ὅτε πέρας ἔλαβενἡ τοῦ δράματος ὑπόθεσις (Hom. Gen. 53.3 [PG 54.468]). 54.  Hom. Gen. 4.1 (PG 53.40). 55.  Inan. glor. 40.558 (SC 188.136). The verb (φιλοτιμῆται) is hard to translate. It recalls the traditional disposition that fueled civic benefaction, which Chrysostom refutes in the opening sections of the treatise. But one might also translate the phrase, “so that he might display an honor-­loving disposition,” or “ so that he might compete for honor.” 56.  Inan. glor. 45.622–26, 40.557–58 (SC 188.142, 136). 57.  Καὶ τὰ τεκμήρια λέγε· μηδέπω γὰρ τίθει τὰ ὀνόματα (Inan. glor. 45.626–27 [SC 188.142–44]). 58.  Inan. glor. 41.571–72 (SC 188.138).

Introduction    13

secret.”59 If the story is longer and broken into segments, the father should not wait until the end to draw these moral conclusions, but rather use the pauses between installments to set them forth clearly. The relationship between moral and story is thus mutually reinforcing: the moral distils the meaning of the story, while the story, in turn, proves the correctness of the moral. This dynamic interrelation, however, should not be misinterpreted. The Bible does not provide Chrysostom with a reservoir of examples, from which he can draw supports for prior philosophical or rhetorical arguments; scripture forms the basis of all his thought.60 Returning to Chrysostom’s account of Noah’s experience on the ark, we can see how consistently he himself follows the advice he gives to fathers.61 Not only does he break the story into small segments and develop them slowly over time, but he begins the homily by reviewing the previous day’s reading: First, however, it is necessary, to remind you dear people, where we left off our previous instruction, so that we might take up the discourse today from that point, and weave the things that must now be related with what has already been told. For in this way, we can easily take in what is said. So, where did our instruction conclude? [At the place where] it says: “The Lord God said to Noah, ‘Go into the ark, you and all your household, because I have seen that you are righteous before me in this generation; and from the clean domestic animals bring on board seven by seven, and from the unclean two by two. For yet seven days, and I will bring rain on the earth for forty days and forty nights, and I will obliterate from the face of the earth every offspring, from human beings to domestic animals, which I have made.’ And Noah did all that the Lord God commanded him.” At that point, we stopped reading, and there we concluded the instruction. . . . So come now, let us move on today to the next verses, and see what Sacred Scripture tells us, after Noah’s entrance into the ark.62

Then, he provides the next installment. This is, of course, standard procedure for a homiletic commentary, but the fact that the method is common should not obscure the clarity with which Chrysostom adverts to his practice nor mislead us into underestimating its narrative impact. He amplifies the story by filling in concrete details, such as the sound of the waves hitting the ark and the smell of the fetid air, and above all, by delving into the feelings of the protagonist. These he presents as complex and nuanced, and he takes his time in exploring them. A recurrent phrase, “Do not rush heedlessly by,” signals 59.  Inan. glor. 40.562 (SC 188.138). 60.  Lai seems to suggest the former (“John Chrysostom and the Hermeneutics of Exemplar Portraits,” 83, 89–90, 94, 125]). As Mitchell notes: “Paul is the supreme example of lived virtue who is to be imitated” (Heavenly Trumpet, 43–55, on 49). On exemplars, see also Young, Biblical Exegesis, 253–57. 61. This homology is not altogether unexpected, since Chrysostom consistently draws parallels between the church and the household, but it is nevertheless striking and has not yet been fully appreciated. 62.  Hom. Gen. 25.1 (PG 53.218).

14     Introduction

his intent to explore some aspect of the narrative, to consider the occasion further or the intent of the speakers.63 To skim over a phrase is to miss its significance, to fail to appreciate the emotional weight of the matter. In the preceding homily, for example, after repeating the biblical injunction to Noah to take on board a pair of all living creatures, John cautions his listeners: “Do not rush heedlessly by this, beloved, but imagine the righteous man’s consternation at the thought of caring for all these other creatures: it was not that he had to think only about his wife and his children and their wives, but to this was added the care and feeding of so many animals.”64 From even the most intransigent of material, Chrysostom wrests emotional significance. In the homily that follows, he again pauses to focus on the phrase “Now Noah was six hundred years old.” “Pay attention, I beseech you; and let’s not rush heedlessly over this expression. For these brief words contain a hidden treasure and, if we bring our intelligence to bear, we will be able to learn from them the extraordinary loving kindness of the Lord and the great intensity of wickedness of the people at that time.”65 The numerical information is neither trivial nor idly conveyed. When read in conjunction with Gn 5:32, which gives the patriarch’s age as five hundred years, it highlights the extent of God’s mercy: that God withheld punishment for over a hundred years, while the ark was being built. And it underscores the depth of human insensibility that, despite seeing Noah’s earnest labors during all that time and the sheer size of his construction, people were not filled with fear or troubled by anxiety and thus did not correct their ways. Through direct address and contemporary analogies, John petitions his congregation’s active involvement. For if, after such a number of years and after so many generations, we are appalled at simply hearing the story from Scripture and feel utterly helpless, what was that righteous man likely to have felt, when he saw that unbearable abyss with his own eyes? How could he have endured it even for a moment? At the very first sight, would he not rather have been instantly stunned and have fainted dead away? . . . Consider for me, beloved, how in our own day we become anxious when small rain showers occur and are afraid about everything and even despair, so to say, of life itself.66

By appealing to the quotidian experience of his listeners, Chrysostom heightens their identification with the biblical character. This too makes the stories more memorable. 63.  Μὴ ἁπλῶς παραδράμῃς. The phrase occurs very frequently. See, for example: Stat. 7.3 (PG 49.93); Laz. 2.3 (PG 48.985–86); Eust. 1 (PG 50.599). “Don’t simply rush by the things that have been said, but imagine the occasion on which they were said and consider the piety of the speakers” (Juv. 2 [PG 50.574]). 64.  Hom. Gen. 24.5 (PG 53.212). 65.  Hom. Gen. 25.1 (PG 53.218); see also Stag. 1.4 (PG 47.434). 66.  Hom. Gen. 25.6 (PG 53.226).

Introduction    15

Concise, easily remembered morals punctuate the narrative flow. After describing the terror and disgust that Noah experienced, the preacher draws a lesson. The extremity of Noah’s distress proves that he received divine aid; for had he not, he would certainly have “fallen into brooding” and “mulling over base and unmanly alternatives.”67 The fact that he was able to tolerate such difficult conditions teaches us that “Help from above makes all things possible.” At the same time, his ability to endure so many hardships without voicing resentment also reveals his remarkable virtue. “For this,” Chrysostom summarizes, “is the way good people behave”: like that righteous man, they “bear everything calmly, supported by faith and hope in God.”68 Even the horror that Noah felt at the thought of what was happening outside the ark is made to serve a pedagogical function. It underscores the compassion of God, who, in order to spare him the greater distress of witnessing the annihilation of all living creatures, “shut the ark from the outside.”69 But even before any explicit morals are drawn, stories profit listeners. As soon as their words enter the child’s soul, Chrysostom promises, he benefits from them. When a boy hears, for example, about Jacob and Esau’s keen rivalry to secure their father’s blessing, he absorbs a lesson about the importance of paternal approval and “learns to respect and honor his father.”70 In this way, he can begin to grasp the value of concepts that exceed his childish intellect. Chrysostom explains the process with reference to Abel’s reception into heaven: “From these stories, the young child learns the doctrine of the resurrection. For if in pagan myths (mythois) such fabulous events are recounted, one says “He made her into a demi-­god.” The young child believes it, and although he does not know what a demi-­god is, he knows that it is something greater than a human being and marvels as soon as he hears it. Much more will he do so, when he hears about the resurrection: that his soul went up into heaven.”71 The narrative teaches both by inscribing a world of possibilities and also by associating values with different outcomes. These beliefs can subsequently be reinforced through explicit commentary, but even when left implicit, they are still effectively communicated by the story itself. 67.  [Κ]αταπεσεῖν τοὺς λογισμοὺς, καὶ . . . ἀγεννές τι καὶ ἄνανδρον λογίσασθαι (Hom. Gen. 25.6 [PG 53.228]). 68.  The effect of grace: Hom. Gen. 25.4, 6 (PG 53.224, 227–28); tolerance of difficulty: ibid., 25.5 (PG 53.225–26). 69.  “[S]o that the sight and appearance [of the annihilation] would not completely shatter him, he shut him into the ark as though into a prison (δεσμωτηρίῳ)” (Hom. Gen. 25.4 [PG 53.223]). 70.  Inan. glor. 44.612 (SC 188.142). 71.  Inan. glor. 39.537–45 (SC 188.134–36). A few sections later, he reiterates the point: “For if some fictive story (μῦθος) can so seize their [i.e., the children’s] soul as to seem entirely believable, how would things that are actually true not seize and fill it with great fear?” (Inan. glor. 44.615–17 [SC 188.142]).

16     Introduction

Even more important than cognitive lessons is the arousal of right feeling. When a story is well told, the listener shares the characters’ emotions—­he feels anger, envy, or grief—­and this experience is formative. Chrysostom makes the point especially sharply with respect to Cain. He counsels the father to do everything he can to get the child to place himself in the elder brother’s situation and to share his feelings. Once this has happened, he promises that the internalized affect will shape the child: “He will not need a pedagogue, since this fear that comes from God, more than any other fear, will shake and take charge of his soul.”72 An enthusiasm for fear shapes much of the preacher’s pedagogical program. As the child matures, he should be told “more fearful tales.” But even at eight, he can hear the story of the flood, of what happened to Sodom, and of what took place in Egypt. At fifteen, he should be told about hell and have the story of Joseph repeated to him “continually.”73 Evoking fear is important, but it is not the only emotion that John is keen to elicit. He recommends the story of Moses as a means of helping the child internalize rightly felt anger, whereas those of Ham and Job will teach him restraint, how to avoid contempt and insult.74 In his homily on Noah, Chrysostom works consistently and deliberately to get his listeners to put themselves into the patriarch’s situation and feel what he felt. Stimulating feelings of fear, disgust, sadness, and horror is central to his purpose.75 His reasons for arousing these strong and difficult emotions are many, but even from the outset his corrective agenda is clear. Along with changing people’s beliefs and perceptions, he aims to reform their emotional reactions, to lay down new patterns of response. As he says in his homilies on the obscurity of the Old Testament: “This is the reason we comment on the Scriptures: not so that you may simply come to know them, but so that you may correct your behavior. For if this doesn’t happen, we are reading them aloud in vain; in vain, we are expounding them.”76 Research in our own day concurs that narrative can indeed change people’s attitudes and feelings. It does so, Keith Oatley argues, precisely because it offers readers the opportunity of entering the fictional world and experiencing the interactions and emotions of the characters as if they were their own. This effect, he contends, was what Aristotle meant when he spoke of the central importance of 72.  Inan. glor. 40.566–68 (SC 188.138). 73.  Inan. glor. 52.697–98, 61.757 (SC 188.150, 158). 74.  Inan. glor. 69.840–43, 71.865–70, 72.878–88 (SC 188.168, 172, 174). 75.  Sandwell has pointed to Chrysostom’s interest in arousing “bafflement” in his listeners, as a way of stimulating awe (“How to Teach Genesis 1.1–19,” esp. 557–60). 76.  Proph. obscurit. 2.7 (ed. Zincone, 148). “We want not just to read you stories (ἱστορίας), but to correct each of the passions troubling you” (Stat. 14.4 [PG 49.149]). “Even if we maintain doctrinal orthodoxy, but have no virtuous deeds, we will be utterly excluded from eternal life” (Serm. Gen. 2.1 [SC 433.196]). Doerfler describes the desired effect of “dramatic homilies” on early Christian audiences (Jephthah’s Daughter, 48–62).

Introduction    17

mimesis, and to capture its force, he suggests that a more accurate translation of the term would be “simulation” rather than “imitation.” Narrative simulation can alter our perception in three different ways.77 It can extend our sympathy by g­ iving us perspective into situations and feelings of those other than ourselves; in so doing, it broadens our experience and enriches our mental models.78 It can also deepen our insight into our own reactions and feelings by allowing us to reencounter remembered events at the right pace and “distance.”79 For in our lived experience, events often happen too quickly for us to process them effectively, and then our emotions are either too close or too distant. In the former case, they overwhelm, and in the latter, they fail to touch us. By allowing us to reexperience significant emotions at the right distance and pace, stories can change us. This outcome is not automatic, but relies on a combination of feeling and critical reflection. In Oatley’s words: “If becoming angry or sad is habitual, or if we do not reflect on it, then nothing will happen when one becomes angry or sad in reading a story except the experience of the emotion. But if the story and its context . . . allow us to reflect on the emotion together with its meaning, then the reader may reach an insight, and build a new piece of his or her model of the self and its relations. In other words, some cognitive transformation may result.”80 Illumination occurs as a kind of purification or catharsis, just as Nussbaum proposed. A third kind of transformation occurs when readers, in effect, enter the story by identifying with the protagonist and adopting his goals and plans, while resisting those of the antagonist. In order for this to occur, both sides must actively collaborate. The narrator must make the imagined world seem concrete and real, and invite the readers’ active engagement by addressing them directly. Readers, for their part, must synthesize the narrative elements into a seamless and compelling whole (“they must get the whole thing to run”), and willingly enter the simulation.81 When the protagonist’s plans encounter vicissitudes, they feel emotion. Although the action is simulated, the emotions are real: they are not those of the character but of the reader. The intensity of these feelings varies, but it can match that of ordinary life, and the effect, although familiar remains surprising.82 It is this investment of self that gives narrative its 77.  Oatley discusses this theory in a number of publications, but lays out these options most clearly in his, “Taxonomy of the Emotions,” esp. 66–72. See also his “Meeting of Minds,” esp. 444–48, and “Emotions and the Story Worlds of Fiction,” esp. 59–63. Studies in cognitive science provide a different model, but one that also corroborates the importance of mimesis. See for example, Rizzolatti and Craighero, “Mirror Neuron” with thanks to Wendy Mayer for drawing my attention to this work. 78. Oatley, Passionate Muse, 113–26. 79. Scheff, Catharsis, 46–79. 80.  Oatley, “Emotions and the Story Worlds of Fiction,” 54. 81.  Oatley, “Meeting of Minds,” 441. 82.  Larson and Seilman, “Personal Remindings.” Johnson-­Laird and Oatley, “Emotions, Music, and Literature,” 110. For the power of “parasocial interactions,” see Johnston, Story of Myth, 87–96.

18     Introduction

transformative potential. By changing the fictional simulations, and choosing to identify with them, people can change themselves.83 This formulation is modern and relies on concepts unfamiliar to Chrysostom, but captures, nevertheless, much of what he seems to have believed. Transformation depends upon feeling and reflection, and can be best achieved through narrative. In order to effect change, stories must be well told: characters and their situations must be made to seem real, so that listeners care about what happens to them. The pacing must be slow enough that emotions can build and spaces be opened for reflection on these feelings: their triggers, exacerbating factors, outcomes, and cost. The more intense the emotions, the more listeners change.84 They can gain a new perspective on the lives of others by witnessing the emotions of those different from themselves, or acquire additional insight into their own feelings by reliving them at an optimal distance, or, perhaps most powerfully, they can take aspects of the characters into themselves by identifying with their struggles, desires, and choices. Usually, this change is temporary. But with repetition over time, they can establish new patterns of thinking, of feeling, and finally, of acting. Stories are the means by which people can be changed. Thus, whether Chrysostom is recommending a program for rearing children or speaking to his own congregations, his strategies remain largely the same.85 He relies on the power of narrative to trigger emotion and to prompt reflection on those feelings. The only real difference between the two audiences is the ease with which they assimilate the lessons. Children, like soft wax, are readily imprinted, whereas adults demand far greater labor, since they must not only internalize new stories but also unlearn old ones.86 Traditional myths were not only durably inculcated by the educational system but also actively reinforced by various forms of popular entertainment. For Chrysostom’s program to succeed, he needs to make his stories stick. His goal is to implant these words, to inscribe them deeply on the 83. Oatley, Passionate Muse, 181. Miall and Kuike, “A Feeling for Fiction.” 84.  Oatley cites a number of studies supporting this conclusion (Passionate Muse, 121–25). 85.  For this reason, the vexed question of the dating of Chrysostom’s homilies, so ably analyzed by Wendy Mayer, need not concern us. 86.  Inan. glor. 20.288–90 (SC 188.104); see also In illud: Vidua eligatur 7 (PG 51.327). The image of the young child as being like wax is borrowed from Plato (Theaet. 191c). Two months will suffice to establish a habit “as second nature” (Inan. glor. 33.437–41 [SC 188.124]). Because stories embed themselves deeply in our minds, changing them, as Nussbaum observes, is likely “to be a matter of prolonged therapy, not of one-­shot argument” (“Narrative Emotions,” 295). Gill makes a similar point, with respect to medical imagery: “The fact that regimen plays such a substantial role in ancient medicine may indeed have been one of the factors that made it plausible for philosophers to present their guidance as psychological medicine” (“Philosophical Therapy,” 347–48); see also Cook, Preaching, 99–102.

Introduction    19

minds of his listeners.87 He does so by committing himself to repetition and also by engaging his listeners’ emotions. An appreciation for the fundamental role of emotions in Chrysostom’s thought promises finally to illuminate a long-­standing puzzle, namely, the basis for his extraordinary reputation as a preacher.88 We know that he was regarded, already in his own lifetime, as an outstanding speaker. The ancient church historian Socrates testifies to the fact that people found his sermons “brilliant and alluring,” and the fact that his extant works fill more volumes of the Patrologia than those of any other author except Augustine testifies to the consistently high regard in which his writings were held.89 But the basis for this reputation has been harder to understand. Scholars have praised his lovely Greek, approvingly noted his careful attention to the scriptural text, and admired his unswerving focus on the poor. But at the same time, many have found his homilies exegetically unremarkable and theologically pedestrian. Where he works his way methodically through a scriptural text, as he does in his homilies on Genesis, he rarely attends to doctrinal issues, even when they seem to present themselves. He is faulted for his repetitiousness and for his tendency to indulge in digressions. A homily that opens with one topic can veer swiftly to another, often well-­worn theme, then be interrupted by a lengthy aside, and finally come to a close, before ever returning to the announced theme. Frances Young captures the sentiments of many when she writes, “For the modern reader, the most disturbing aspect of Chrysostom’s sermons is their chaotic form.”90 An appreciation for the centrality of moral formation, however, rather than of doctrinal catechesis may explain his habit of redundancy, of returning over and over again to exactly the same theme. For, as he explains, “[W]hen someone wants to eradicate an emotion that has been rooted and entrenched in the soul for a long time, one or two days of exhortation do not suffice; but instead it is often necessary to discuss this issue for many days—­that is, if we are intending to make a public speech not for the sake of our own honor or pleasure, but for your gain and benefit.”91 At the same time, the power of emotion, the attraction of an orator who can stir strong feelings in his listeners, surely illuminates the appeal of his preaching. 87.  The language of engraving is common; for an example, see Incomp. 1.413–17 (SC 28bis.136–38). 88.  Cook takes up this question, although he poses it differently. For him, the paradox is the popularity of “the tongue which cuts” (Preaching). 89.  [Λ]αμπροὶ καὶ τὸ ἐπαγωγὸν ἔχοντες (Socrates, Hist. eccl. 6.4.9, trans, Cook, Preaching, 29). 90. Young, From Nicaea to Chalcedon, 217. She notes the plentiful digressions and asides, as well as the frequent disjunction between the opening portion of the homily, which is typically focused on exegetical matters, and the subsequent ethical discourse. See also Mayer and Allen, John Chrysostom, 29–30. 91.  Dav. 1.1 (CCGS 70.3).

20     Introduction P L A N O F T H E S T U DY

In the chapters that follow, we will look in turn at a triad of difficult emotions: anger, grief, and fear. Each of these, in John’s thought, is marked by certain characteristic emphases. His analysis of anger, for example, labors its social logic, the ways in which it depends upon an assessment of status and intent, whereas his discussion of sadness focuses on the implicit values articulated by grief. His interest in fear, which is, as we have already noted, a striking aspect of his thought, centers on its imaginative aspect, the way in which it compels attention to the future. These central emotions, while providing a focus, necessarily engage other feelings. A discussion of sadness, for example, involves consideration of greed and envy, even as an analysis of anger necessitates mention of hatred. To correct and redirect these feelings, Chrysostom turns to rational arguments and a range of behavioral techniques. Although many of these strategies are familiar from the late antique repertoire of emotional regulation, his handling of them is nevertheless interesting not only in itself, but also for the light it sheds on his understanding of his calling and of the needs of his various congregations. Above all, however, he relies on the persuasive force of narrative. To make the case and to showcase its power, each of these chapters concludes with an extended analysis of a particular biblical story on which Chrysostom relies to convey his ethical teaching and to form his listeners. In his retelling of the narrative, it is the protagonist’s feelings that, to borrow the language of Orhan Pamuk, form “the secret center,” the real subject of the story.92 A final chapter turns to an assessment of zeal, the durable feeling-­state that Chrysostom strove, above all, to inculcate. This imperative arises from his assessment of the human condition as marked by an ingrained tendency toward laziness and a disinclination to care. His willingness to elicit uncomfortable feelings springs directly from that diagnosis. People must be roused to action, and this is the role of anger, grief, and fear, as well as of other related emotions such as disgust, shame, and awe. Over time, as the stories that elicit these feelings are progressively internalized, arousal becomes a stable disposition. Zeal is the sign of a transformed self.

92. Pamuk, Naïve and Sentimental Novelist, 151–78.

1

Anger

Although Chrysostom never wrote a treatise on the topic of anger, he had much to say about it in his homilies. Because anger, like desire, is more natural than any other passion—­and thus exceedingly widespread—­it exerts a truly tyrannical power.1 To name it, he uses a range of Greek words. Occasionally, he invokes epic wrath (mēnis) and the quasi-­medical cholos, but by far the most frequent terms are thymos and orgē.2 Between these, there are differences in nuance—­thymos can refer to temperament (what we would probably call “drive”) rather than to a specific feeling event—­but the overlap is considerable; he often uses the two as synonyms.3 The central task of this chapter is to show how deeply and pervasively Chrysostom engages with the topic of anger and to lay out his general understanding of the emotion: its sensations, triggers, and exacerbating factors, as well as the methods he recommends for allaying it. The influence of Aristotle’s theory on his thinking as well as that of common Stoic and Epicurean therapeutic techniques 1.  [Φ]υσικώτερα . . . γενικωτάτων (Hom. Matt. 17.1 [PG 57.255]). 2.  Mēnis is used in Oppugn. 1.8 (PG 47.330): “Who has driven out all rage (μῆνιν) from his heart and forgiven the sins of all who have wronged him?” It is also used to describe the excessive rage of Symeon and Levi in avenging their sister (Hom. Gen. 67.1 [PG 54.574]). “Irritability” (τὸ ἀκρόχολον) is a characteristic failing of the elderly (Hom. Tit. 4.1 [PG 62.681–82]). Thumos may reflect an emotional state; orgē is a feeling, but is only fully itself when it leads to action (Harris, Restraining Rage, 57). 3.  “Restrain rage; quench wrath” (Κατάστειλον τοίνυν ὀργὴν, σβέσον θυμόν) (Catech. illum. 2.3 [PG 49.235]). The collocation is Pauline (Rom 2.9). Any analysis of Chrysostom’s view of anger remains indebted to Leduc’s sensitive study (“Gérer l’agressivité”). See also de Durand, “Colère,” who seems oddly unaware of Leduc’s work.

21

22     Anger

is very apparent, but his commitments are scriptural rather than philosophical.4 It is always in light of biblical stories that he makes sense of feelings, and it is from them that he derives a strong sense of the ethical utility of anger. Of primary interest is the social logic of anger—­the fact that it arises only in certain inter­ personal contexts—­and it is to this reality that his remarks return again and again. T H E O R IG I N O F R AG E

In response to the question of why people get angry, Chrysostom appears to have largely followed Aristotle, who put forward an answer beautiful in its clarity. Anger, he suggested, arises as a response to a slight (the Greek is oligōria) directed either at oneself or at those dear to one.5 Slights can take the form of contempt, spitefulness, or insult, but the central role of belittlement ensures that anger is always directed at a particular individual. Although one can certainly harbor intensely negative sentiments toward groups or types of people, the feeling in those situations is hatred rather than anger. Chrysostom’s allegiance to this view is evident throughout his works, and can be seen especially clearly in his comments on the gospel passage in which Jesus warns that anyone who insults his brother will be liable to punishment. The obscure Aramaic term Raka, he notes, “is an expression not of great insult (hybreōs), but rather of contempt (kataphronēseōs) and belittlement (oligōrias) on the part of the speaker.”6 For this reason, he acknowledges, many consider the gospel saying inappropriately severe: it seems intolerable to 4.  Chrysostom notes that the control of anger is a philosophical concern (Exp. Ps. 6.1 [PG 55.72]), but his acquaintance with the different schools of thought seems superficial. For the influence of Stoic thought, see Malingrey, “Résonances stoïciennes.” Lai argues that Chrysostom’s understanding of Greco-­Roman ethics is derived simply from exposure to late antique culture and literature rather than from “a deliberate study of the philosophers’ writings” (“John Chrysostom and the Hermeneutics of Exemplar Portraits,” 47). Roskam comes to a similar conclusion from his analysis of Chrysostom’s acquaintance with Plutarch’s writings (“Plutarch’s Influence”). Saieg’s work, however, suggests that Chrysostom’s understanding of memory may be significantly indebted to Stoic theory of perception (“Transforming the Phenomenology of Perception”). 5.  Aristotle defines a slight as “the activation of an opinion about something seeming worthless” (Rhet. 2.2.3–4, 1378b at 2.2.3, trans. Freese, 175). He lists three kinds of slight: contempt (kataphronēsis), spite (epēreasmos), and arrogant abuse (hybris) (Konstan, “Aristotle on Anger,” 108). Galen too notes, “I observe that most people become distressed when it seems to them that they have been shown a lack of esteem by some other individual—­and also at financial losses” (Aff. Pecc. Dig. 1.8, Kühn 43, in Singer, trans., Galen, 274). 6.  He compares it to the use of the demeaning “you” (σύ) in Greek. “For just as we say, when giving orders to domestic slaves or other inferiors, ‘You! Get out of here!’ or ‘You there! Speak to so and so’ (Ἄπελθε σὺ, εἰπὲ τῷ δεῖνι σύ), so they who use the Syriac language (τῇ Σύρων . . . γλώττῃ) say, ‘Raka,’ putting this word in place of ‘you’” (Hom. Matt. 16.7 [PG 57.248]). Later in the same homily, however, he admits that calling someone a fool is not a trivial slight (ibid., 16.8 [PG 57.249]).

Anger    23

them that simply saying, “Idiot!” would make one liable to hell. But to this objection he replies that most acts of violence have their beginning in words. “There is nothing more unbearable than insult—­absolutely nothing can bite a person’s soul so sharply.” Stung, a person retaliates, “Who are you to insult me?” And the other fires back, “A better man than you.”7 As anger rises, insults escalate and can lead to blows—­even kicking and biting. “Such little things,” Chrysostom concludes, “have given birth to murder and overthrown whole cities.”8 Not all slights, however, trigger anger, but only those that are undeserved. If a belittling comment is warranted, Aristotle reasons, it cannot provoke an angry response, since “anger is not aroused by what is just.”9 Thus, if a person has in fact drunk too much, she should not feel enraged at someone calling her inebriated. But slights can also be undeserved when they come from someone from whom one expected better: a friend, for example, or more typically in the ancient world, a social inferior.10 For, as Aristotle observes, “men think that they have a right to be highly esteemed by those who are inferior to them in birth, power, and virtue.”11 Thus it follows that anger depends upon an assessment not only of the truthfulness of the statement, but also of the relative standing of both parties. An awareness of this social logic deeply marks Chrysostom’s writings. He marvels that Hannah, praying at Shiloh, did not respond angrily to the suggestion that she was drunk. For not only was the belittling comment untrue, but it came from the 7.  Ὡς τίς ὑβρίζεις; Ὡς βελτίων σου (Hom. Act. 39.4 [PG 60.280]). See also Hom. Jo. 48.3 (PG 59.272); Hom. Matt. 16.8 (PG 59.249); Hom. Rom. 8.8 (PG 60.465–66); Dav. 1.6 (CCGS 70.23). The tendency of insults to escalate is vividly captured in Basil’s description of an angry interchange: “One calls the other ‘a nobody from nobodies’ (ἀφανῆ, καὶ ἐξ ἀφανῶν). He, in turn, calls the first ‘a slave born from slaves’ (οἰκοτρίβων οἰκότριβα). One says, ‘day-­laborer’ (πένητα); the other, ‘tramp’ (ἀλήτην). One cries, ‘ignorant’ (ἀμαθῆ); the other shouts, ‘insane’ (παραπλῆγα)” (Hom. adversus eos qui irascuntur [PG 31.359]). 8.  Hom. Matt. 16.8 (PG 57.249); see also Hom. Eph. 14.2–3 (PG 62.103). Joseph thus acted wisely to send his brothers away with the injunction “Don’t become enraged on the way.” He knew how easily wrangling leads to insults and then to blows (Hom. Gen. 64.6 [PG 54.558]). For public fights in the market, including kicking and biting, see Hom. Matt. 15.11 (PG 57.237). 9.  [Ο]ὐ γίγνεται [ἡ] ὀργὴ πρὸς τὸ δίκαιον (Rhet. 2.3.15, 1380b). Harris observes that all later definitions of anger are versions of Aristotle’s (Restraining Rage, 61). On the association between anger and an assessment of unfairness, see Haidt, Righteous Mind, 128–54, esp. the table on 146. 10.  No one shows anger toward social superiors since “it is impossible to be afraid and angry at the same time” (Rhet. 2.3.10–11, 1380a-­b trans. Freese, 187-­89); but one can be angry at friends (ibid., 2.2.19, 1379b). 11.  Rhet. 2.2.7, 1379a, trans. Freese, 177. Plutarch agrees that “it is our philoi who mainly suffer from our rage” (Cohib. ira 5 = Mor. 455c); philoi probably means “dear ones” in general, as Harris notes (Restraining Rage, 285–87, 299–300, 313). Harris’s analysis focuses far more on rage between fathers and sons as well as husbands and wives, rather than between siblings. See Konstan’s useful discussion of the hierarchical aspect of anger in Aristotle (Emotions, 73–74).

24     Anger

mouth of “Eli’s slave.”12 On similar grounds, he praises the tax collector’s reaction to the contemptuous words of the Pharisee. “He did not abuse or revile him in turn; he did not speak the words that many say: ‘Do you dare to comment on my life, to concern yourself with what I’ve done? Am I not better than you? Let me tell you your offenses, and I will ensure that you never enter these sacred doors again.’ He said none of these heartless words, with which we shower one another every day.”13 Because Chrysostom rejects the Pharisee’s claim to superior status, he considers it likely that the tax collector would have become enraged at the undeserved slight and retaliated in kind; his mildness is therefore unusual and impressive. For the same reason, the reaction of the merchants to Jesus’s cleansing of the Temple presents a puzzle. Having been publicly slighted by an outsider, who to all appearances had no status to call them thieves or overturn their tables, it would have been “reasonable for them to have been wildly enraged” (ekthēriōthēnai), but instead they only asked for a sign. In this instance, however, Chrysostom does not find mildness praiseworthy. Instead, he takes it as proof that their anger elsewhere in the gospel, purportedly elicited by ritual violations, was inauthentic; their reactions to Jesus were always spurred by malice.14 As the scene in the Temple makes clear, gesture can convey contempt as clearly as verbal insults. Chrysostom knew this well. In his early treatise On the Priesthood, he details the complaints of some, presumably elite, members of the congregation about the behavior of their priest. They felt slighted by his failure to make eye contact with them, and by his display of favor toward others: “‘He smiled broadly at that person,’ says one, ‘and addressed him with a cheerful face and hearty voice, but was less welcoming to me—­indeed, quite offhand.’”15 Priests, 12.  Hom. Act. 15.4 (PG 60.125); Hom. Eph. 24.4 (PG 62.173). Hannah spoke respectfully, “She did not say what many people say, ‘Is the priest saying these things to me? Is the one, who teaches these things to others, jeering about drunkenness and intoxication?’” (Anna 2.4 [PG 54.648]: see also ibid., 3.3 [PG 54.657]). Whoever is slighted “by a vile and base person suffers greater distress” (Hom. 2 Tim. 10.1 [PG 62.656]). 13.  Dav. 3.4 (CCGS 70.61). The “woman of the city,” who anointed Jesus’s feet in Luke, also deserves praise for not responding angrily to the Pharisee’s reproach. “What? Tell me, are you free from sin?” (Hom. Act. 15.5 [PG 60.126]). He lists many scriptural figures, in this homily, who refrained from responding to insults with anger. 14.  βασκανίας. The connection between anger and envy was common. See the work of Sanders on “script based” emotions (Envy and Jealousy; see also Kaster, Emotion, Restraint and Community). For a theological engagement with Kaster’s scripts, as they influence envy, see Blowers, “Envy’s Narrative Scripts.” See also Hagedorn and Neyrey, “‘It was out of envy that they handed Jesus over.’” 15.  Sac. 3.14.34–36 (SC 272.220). John’s own congregation grew annoyed at his constant preaching on almsgiving, which they took, with some justification, as a slur on their generosity. In his defense, Chrysostom notes that people only get annoyed at advice when they are not following it. “If someone practices almsgiving . . . and hears someone else discussing almsgiving, not only is he not annoyed, but he rejoices at hearing his own good actions discussed and extolled” (Hom. 1 Tim. 6.3 [PG 62.534]).

Anger    25

for their part, had to guard against mounting anger in the face of listeners’ casual gestures of contempt, such as criticism of their homiletic efforts, obvious inattention, or even yawning at their words.16 The tendency to react angrily can be increased by a sense of need. Hunger, Aristotle suggested, is a case in point, and Chrysostom notes the same phenomenon. The Lenten fast made some irascible with their slaves, to the point that they interpreted a lack of speed in setting the table for dinner as a deliberate act of insolence. Flying into a rage, they overturned everything, “kicking, insulting, and reviling over just a little delay.”17 It was thus entirely to David’s credit that, “in a season of calamity,” when he was on the point of being exiled from his home and country and feared even for his own life, he did not respond angrily when “a vile and outcast soldier” threw rocks at him and crowed over his misfortune.18 The tight correlation between status and anger reveals a paradox at the heart of the emotion. As a reaction to injury, it is an undeniably painful sensation. Chrysostom acknowledges that insults can wound more deeply than stones and that even their memory can cause burning pain.19 But at the same time, as an assertion of status and power, anger is a pleasurable feeling. Its thrill stems from the prospect of revenge, of exacting immediate and direct retaliation for undeserved suffering. “What the injured man desires most to see,” Chrysostom notes, “is himself having the pleasure of revenge.”20 And it is this implicit threat that makes the signs of anger frightening. For although a flushed face, protruding veins, clenched fists, and pressured speech cause no harm in themselves, they articulate an awareness of power and a will for revenge that rightly inspires fear. As a vigorous and expressive display of social status, anger is not only a feeling, but also an action.21 The exhilaration that accompanies anger springs directly from its ability to instill terror. 16.  Sac. 5.5.19–26 (SC 272.292); few of the critics have any real basis for discrimination (ibid., 5.6.21–30 [SC 272.294–96]); priests must struggle against anger (ibid., 6.7.47–49 [SC 272.328]). For yawning, see Hom. Act. 19.4–5 (PG 60.155). Anger over nonattendance (Hom. Gen. 6.1 [PG 53.54]). 17.  Hom. Matt. 35.5, 87.3 (PG 57.411, 58.772); see also Stat. 14.1 (PG 49.145). Aristotle, Rhet. 2.2.9–10, 1379a. 18.  Hom. Matt. 3.5 (PG 57.38); Anna 2.3 (PG 54.647). Lai argues that this scene is pivotal to Chrysostom’s understanding of David as the embodiment of the virtue of humility (“John Chrysostom,” 98–105). 19.  Hom. Act. 31.3 (PG 60.231); Hom. Matt. 79.4 (PG 58.722); Hom. Rom. 8.8 (PG 60.465). 20.  Ἐπειδὴ γὰρ τοῦτο μάλιστα ἐπιθυμεῖ ἰδεῖν ὁ ἀδικηθεὶς, ἐκδικίας ἑαυτὸν ἀπολαύοντα (Hom. Rom. 22.2 [PG 60.612]). “There is a certain pleasure in the heat of anger and it exercises a harsher tyranny over the soul than pleasure. . . . It impels us easily to madness and untimely enmities and irrational hatred, and it causes us to give offense senselessly and pointlessly, and it forces us to do and say many other similar things” (Sac. 3.10.163–69 [SC 272.178]). Only the prospect of revenge allows “the weak and mistreated soul” to give up its anger readily (Virginit. 49.6 [SC 125.280]). 21. Harris, Restraining Rage, 57.

26     Anger

Where no possibility exists of exacting vengeance, there can be no anger. Lower status people may indeed feel strongly negative emotion toward abusive superiors, but since they lack any prospect of retaliation, Aristotle insists that their feeling is not anger, but rather hatred. Chrysostom agrees. He assumes that subordinated people, no matter how gravely insulted or how despitefully treated, cannot feel anger toward those above them.22 Reacting mildly in such circumstances is thus not particularly meritorious. As one’s social standing rises, however, so does the possibility of rage.23 Chrysostom summarizes the gradient: if someone of superior status insults us, we certainly will not commend him, but we will not get angry either, but if someone of the same or lower status slights us, we are likely to fly into a rage and say that “he’s witless or . . . out of his mind.”24 It is the difficulty of “submitting to abuse by those considered inferior” that makes it a sign of virtue.25 Other social factors can exacerbate anger. Aristotle takes for granted that it is much more enraging to be insulted in public than in private, and Chrysostom draws attention to this same phenomenon. In the case of insults, he observes that: “Nothing pains us so much as the judgment passed by spectators; for it is not the same thing to be insulted in public as in private: we easily put up with the insults (hybreis) that we suffer in a deserted place, when no one is present to witness or know about them. . . . What is painful, then, is not in the nature of the insult, but in the judgment of the spectators, that one appears contemptible.”26 If the on-­lookers include people one respects or those by whom one would like to be honored, the pain is sharper and the likelihood of an angry response increases. When preaching on the scriptural verse that “Cain was very distressed (lelypēsai) and his countenance fell” (Gn 4:5), John adds that “his face darkened” (skythrōpos), a description that suggests anger as well as sorrow.27 He attributes 22.  Slaves and sons must endure harsh and often unjust treatment from their masters and fathers (Adv. Jud. 8.5–6 [PG 48.936–37]). 23.  Those in power “are prone to anger, and to abuse their power arrogantly” (Exp. Ps. 145.1 [PG 55.473]). Psalm numbers follow the LXX. 24.  Hom. Act. 39.3 (PG 60.279); “if those who insult us are friends or of superior status, we bear it . . . but if of equal status or lesser, we do not bear it” (ibid., 50.3 [PG 60.348]). “Insult, abuse, harsh comments, and contemptuous jokes, spoken either casually or seriously by inferiors . . . cannot be borne by many—­perhaps only by one or two” (Sac. 3.10.134–38 [SC 272.174]). Elsewhere, Chrysostom denies that people tolerate demeaning comments from friends: “[I]f he insults us, we are more savage than wild animals” (Hom. Matt. 87.1 [PG 58.769]). 25.  Hom. Gen. 52.2 (PG 54.459), citing Rom 12:19, “Yield ground to anger.” 26.  Hom. Act. 39.3 (PG 60.279). Galen’s advice on restraining anger mobilizes the same concern: “In the same way that people in general attempt to make all their actions fine ones when they enter a public arena, you do the same in your own home” (Aff. Pecc. Dig. 1.5, Kühn 26, in Singer, trans., Galen, 260). 27.  Inan. glor. 39.520–21 (SC 188.132). Both the MT and Peshitta convey this meaning: “Cain was very incensed and his face fell.” Contemporary Jewish exegetes pointed to his flushed face as a sign of anger (noted in Glenthøj, Cain and Abel, 6).

Anger    27

this reaction to the fact that he had been dishonored and his reputation diminished by his brother, who, as his younger sibling, should not only have treated him well, but also honored him.28 But it is the setting of the insult—­the fact that Abel diminished Cain in the sight of God—­that was chiefly infuriating, since he had been slighted before someone he honored and by whom he would have liked to be admired.29 Because anger effectively redresses belittlement by demonstrating one’s social significance, not reacting angrily was often assessed negatively as expressing a culpable lack of self-­respect.30 Heroic figures were particularly marked by their sensitivity toward any threat to their honor, and of these, the best known is Achilles, whose rage at being slighted by Agamemnon triggered the action of the Iliad.31 The metaphorical image associated with the warrior was that of the lion, a creature whose reputation for nobility was undergirded by its perceived propensity to rage.32 Chrysostom continues this association, by referring to lions as “the most wrathful of all things,” and by characterizing vengeance as “feeding these lions.”33 28.  Inan. glor. 39.520–21 (SC 188.132); Paenit. 2.1 (49.285). It was the thought that Abel had triumphed and gained an advantage over him that fueled Cain’s rage (Ep. Olymp. 13.2b [SC 13bis.312]). Jewish interpreters linked Cain’s name either to “envy” or “acquisition” (Kim, “Cain and Abel in the Light of Envy,” esp. 77–78). Greek literature is full of bitter fraternal conflicts, as Harris observes (Restraining Rage, 299–300). Plutarch’s treatise on brotherly love (Frat. amor.) concentrates on strife and envy, apparently based on the assumption that these emotions typically mark fraternal relations. The description of Cain as “grieved” (elypēsen) in the LXX is echoed in the later description of Joseph and his envious brothers (Gen 45:5). 29.  Rhet. 2.2.22, 1379b. Ancient exegetes debated whether Cain’s anger would have been directed at God or at Abel (Glenthøj, Cain and Abel, 108–9). 30. A sentiment clearly acknowledged by Chrysostom: “Whoever is wronged and neither avenges himself nor feels pain seems to be an idiot (μωρὸς), and without honor, and weak to non-­ Christians” (τοῖς ἔξωθεν) (Hom. 1 Cor. 13.2 [PG 61.108]; see also Hom. Jo. 48.3 [PG 59.272]; Stat. 20.4–5 [PG 489.204–05]). Konstan, “Aristotle on Anger,” 112–14. 31.  Braund and Gilbert, “ABC of Epic Ira.” In order to illustrate the component of disrespect in hybris, Aristotle cites Achilles’s words in response to Agamemnon: “He dishonored me,” and treated me as though I were “a despised (atimētos) vagrant” (Il 1.356, 9.648), quoted in Konstan, “Aristotle on Anger,” 113. See also Harris, Restraining Rage, 131–56. 32.  Schnapp-­Gourbeillon, Lions, héros, masques; Miller, The Epic Hero, esp. 70–87; Hawtree, “Animals in Epic.” The lion was thought to express the perfect male type (see ps.-­Aristotle, Physio­ gnomonica 809b.34–37). Braund and Gilbert, “ABC of Epic Ira,” 251–53, 256–68. 33.  “Consider, if you will, that your anger (τὸν θυμὸν) is a kind of wild animal, and so much care as others show to lions, show as much to yourself. . . . For this [i.e., anger] also has sharp teeth and claws and, if you do not tame it, will destroy everything. For not even a lion or a serpent can tear up your entrails as much as anger, continuously deploying its iron claws” (Hom. Matt. 4.9 [PG 57.50]; see also Exp. Ps. 7.3 [PG 55.84]). Taking vengeance on one’s enemies feeds the lion of anger: Hom. Rom. 3.4 (PG 60.416); Dav. 3.3 (CCGS 70.57); Laz. 6.5 (PG 48.1034); Virginit. 37.3 (SC 12.220). For more on Chrysostom’s view of lions, see my Theatrical Lives and Ascetic Shows, 121–37, and “Locating Animals in John Chrysostom’s Thought,” esp. 282–91.

28     Anger

Members of his congregation seem to have shared the opinion that it would be blameworthy not to respond angrily to insult offered either to themselves or to those they held dear. Many prided themselves on getting angry and were happy to be feared.34 They admired those who took vengeance on enemies and were certain that no one with any self-­respect would put up with others saying of him, “He’s an abject and pathetic person: everyone insults him, but he takes it; everyone walks all over him, but he doesn’t defend himself.” They were given to boasting, “No one who has harmed me, has laughed at me,” which was to say, as Chrysostom notes, “I had my revenge.”35 To his advice advocating mildness, they retorted, “But he insulted my son! He called him a house slave!”36 A failure to react to overt belittlement would be read as servile and stupid: a kind of tacit acquiescence that would encourage further insult.37 The same logic was marshaled in defense of domestic violence. When Chrysostom objects to husbands hitting their wives, or to wives beating their female slaves, he imagines their swift rejoinder: “But the woman is insolent!”38 A proper self-­regard demanded a strong response. Philosophers after Aristotle broadened the causes of anger. They were willing to accept that people might rage even against “the gods, wild beasts and soulless implements.”39 Chrysostom acknowledges that people sometimes react angrily toward inanimate objects, but he tends to attribute such behavior to very young children. A toddler, for example, who is learning to walk, may react angrily if he stumbles and falls, and try to retaliate by overturning the offending footstool, slapping his own knee, or hitting the ground.40 Slightly older children may stamp their

34.  Hom. Eph. 15.1 (PG 62.107). 35. Ψυχρὸς ἄνθρωπος, καὶ ταλαίπωρός ἐστι·πάντες εἰς αὐτὸν ὑβρίζουσιν, αὐτὸς δὲ φέρει·.  .  . Οὐδείς με ἀδικήσας κατεγέλασέ μου, φησί·τουτέστιν, Ἐπεξῆλθον. . . . (Hom. Act. 41.5 [PG 60.295–96]); Exp. Ps. 9.9 (PG 55.135). 36.  [O]ἰκέτην (Hom. Act. 15.4 [PG 60.125]). 37.  “The more he sees my gentleness, the more he attacks me. . . . I insult him back, so that he will not become cruel” (Ἀνθυβρίζω, ἵνα μὴ ἄχρηστος γένηται) (Hom. Act. 31.3 [PG 60.231]). Compare Aristotle, Nic. Eth. 4.5, 1125b–1126a. 38.  θρασύνεται (Hom. 1 Cor. 26.7–8 [PG 61.222–23]). For Chrysostom’s categorical opposition to wife beating, see: Schroeder, “John Chrysostom’s Critique”; Dossey, “Wife Beating and Manliness,” esp. 7–11. Chrysostom also describes what we would term psychological battery: men “dishonoring, insulting, and heaping much abuse” on their wives (Dav. 3.2 [CCGS 70.53]). 39. Plutarch, Cohib. ira 5 = Mor. 455d, trans. Helmbold, 107. Galen too notes that people feel anger toward animals and inanimate objects. He has seen men “strike out, kick, tear their clothes, and perform every act with a furious expression, to the point where . . . they even get angry with doors, stones or keys, which they rattle, bite or kick” (Aff. Pecc. Dig. 1.5, 1.4, Kühn 22, 16, in Singer, trans., Galen, 257). Basil compares people who get enraged over trivial things to dogs who bite the stones that people throw at them (Hom. adversus eos qui irascuntur [PG 31.369]). 40.  Hom. Col. 4.4 (PG 62.330); Hom. Act. 41.5 (PG 60.295); see also Hom. Heb. 22.4 (PG 63.160); Oppugn. 1.3 (PG 47.323).

Anger    29

feet and tear their own clothes.41 But even in these situations, Chrysostom views anger as directed rather than diffuse: children throw temper tantrums because their toys have been taken away, and a toddler retaliates against the perceived cause of his fall. It remains the case, then, that for Chrysostom, anger is almost always a response to human interactions. His allegiance to Aristotle’s social analysis emerges clearly in his comments on the gospel account of Jesus cursing the fig tree. A quick reading of the account might well suggest that Jesus felt angry at the tree when he discovered no fruit on it, and reacted accordingly, by cursing it. Indeed, the likelihood of this scenario is increased by the fact that Jesus is said to have been hungry, since, as Aristotle notes, people are more likely to be irritable when they are suffering from some lack, such as hunger or thirst.42 But Chrysostom carefully exposes the illogicality of this interpretation. Why, he asks, would Jesus have approached the tree as if he might find fruit upon it if it was not, as Mark notes, the time for figs? And if it were not fig season, why would he have cursed the tree for not having fruit? The unreasonableness of this scenario proves conclusively, to his mind, that the evangelists were recording not Jesus’s motivations, but rather the misguided perceptions of his disciples. It was they who assumed that Jesus walked up to the tree “as if he might perhaps find fruit upon it,” and thus drew the erroneous conclusion that he cursed it because he found none. But if Jesus was not angry, why did he curse the tree? He did so, Chrysostom opines, to show on-­lookers, in this case, his disciples, his power to take vengeance.43 This explanation preserves an integral aspect of any display of anger—­namely its ability to communicate a person’s power to exact vengeance and thus to evoke fear—­even as it denies that the person felt either the pain of insult or the pleasure of anticipated revenge. To many, however, the kind of careful assessment of status and desert upon which Aristotle’s theory rests appeared at odds with the experience of anger as a powerful, instinctive reaction that seems to have little to do with rationality. Chrysostom certainly acknowledges the overwhelming experience of anger. To describe the speed of its onset, its potential for swift escalation, its sheer force, and its devastating results, he often has recourse to metaphors of a ship getting caught up in a powerful storm.44 But he rejects any attempt to excuse rage on 41.  Hom. 1 Cor. 4.6 (PG 61.38). 42.  Rhet. 2.2, 9–10, 1379a. 43.  “[I]n many places the evangelists record the opinions of the disciples” (Hom. Matt. 67.1 [PG 58.633]; see also Laz. 1.5 [PG 48.968–69]). God’s “anger” is not a feeling but a strategy designed to prompt repentance; it is pedagogical (Exp. Ps. 7.10–12 [PG 55.96–100]). 44.  The metaphor also stresses the likelihood of subsequent regret: caught up in a fearsome storm, the crew throws overboard everything that comes to hand; only after calm has been restored, do they weep for what they have lost. So too a man will grieve over his lost reputation for graciousness and gentleness (ἐπιεικείας καὶ πραότητος) (Hom. Act. 39.3, 15.5 [PG 60.280, 126]).

30     Anger

the grounds that a person was swept away. He finds any claim that “anger spoke the words, not I,” fully as silly as saying, “my hand inflicted the wounds, not I.”45 For him, anger depends upon assent, and assent rests on cognition. He does not consider the possibility that a person might be enraged but not know the cause of this feeling, or that someone’s anger might have both an apparent and an actual cause, as when some relatively insignificant affront taps into long-­smoldering resentment.46 For Chrysostom, anger is a largely cognitive reaction to an identifiable trigger. Medical authorities offered their own challenge to the Aristotelian model. Instead of focusing on social interactions, they traced the causes of anger to an imbalance of the humors. Those in whom the element of bile predominated were simply “hot” by nature and easily enraged.47 Some seasons of the year, or indeed periods of life, tended to enflame this underlying condition. It was observed, for example, that very young children were commonly subject to irrational rages.48 In these manuals, the arousal of anger has little or nothing to do with insult, but is instead the result of excess blood and mounting heat and pressure.49 Chrysostom seems well aware of these theories. He subscribes to the humoral model and notes that “students of medicine” affirm that people whose temperament is “drier” tend to be “impulsive, irritable, and wrathful.”50 He too explicitly connects anger with excess bile. Although bile is a necessary element within the 45.  Hom. Act. 17.3 (PG 60.139). A point strengthened by the echo of Euripides’s infamous line, “It was my mouth that swore, not my mind” (Hippolytus 612). 46.  Ledoux makes a strong argument for the contribution of unconscious influences on emotion (Emotional Brain, 42–72, esp. 62–72). Rorty makes the distinction between apparent and real causes of an emotion (“Explaining Emotions”). 47.  The connection between anger and ill health is already found in Philodemus, whose treatise De ira (written in the 60s), is the earliest surviving monograph on anger. See Annas, “Epicurean Emotions”; Sanders, “On a Causal.” For Galen, anger is related to heat, and thus to physical affections involving heat (such as fever) (Singer, trans., Galen, 26–29). For anger as a sickness of the soul, see Harris, Restraining Rage, 339–61. 48.  Hanson, “‘Your Mother Nursed You with Bile.’” Chrysostom observes that infants express rage and may strike the cheeks of those who hold them, flail against parental shoulders, or even hit themselves (Hom. Matt. 17.1 [PG 57.255]). 49.  Aristotle too believed that emotions have a physical basis in the organism, but as Konstan notes, he did not reduce them “to material states such as the temperature of blood around the heart” (Aristotle on Anger, 105, citing De an. 1.1, 403a16–b2, esp. 403125). Galen’s opinion is also nuanced. He insists that temperament is a result of character development as well as of nature. As proof, he cites the fact that his father was “to an extraordinary degree free from anger,” but his mother’s “irascibility was so extreme that she would sometimes bite her maids” and “was perpetually shouting and fighting with my father” (Aff. Pecc. Dig. 1.8, Kühn 41, in Singer, trans., Galen, 272). 50.  As an imbalance of humors causes stomach distress, so an “excess of heat” troubles the soul with anger (Hom. Act. 31.4 [PG 60.232]). For Chrysostom’s allegiance to the humoral model, see Mayer, “Medicine in Transition,” esp. 13–16; “Shaping the Sick Soul,” esp. 150–57.

Anger    31

body, it must be kept within its proper limits. For if “the membrane that encloses it bursts,” it will flood the entire system, infecting the blood and attacking the other organs “with its own peculiar malignity.”51 In many passages, he describes the physiological sensations of rage. Images of heat and pressure, especially around the heart, are pervasive, as is the association of anger with fever.52 But even if he acknowledges that some people’s humoral mixture may make them irascible and thus prone to anger, he still assumes that outbursts are triggered by a perceptible insult, and thus have a clear cognitive basis. Chrysostom’s thought is, then, deeply informed by Aristotle’s understanding of anger as a response to an undeserved slight. Where he discerns this dynamic at work, he takes a strongly negative view of the emotion and bends every effort toward allaying it. His approach combines behavioral and cognitive strategies, but strongly emphasizes the latter. Many of these techniques are common within the anger-­management repertoire of late antiquity, but Chrysostom’s use of them is nonetheless illuminating. Not only does it clarify further the highly social nature of anger, but it also focuses attention on the central role played by narrative in his ethical program. QU E L L I N G A N G E R

What makes the task of subduing anger difficult is its associated pleasure, which stems from its function as a powerful mode of displaying social status. In order to champion mildness, John must first rupture anger’s connection with honor. He must convince his listeners that “Nothing is more shameful than anger, nothing more dishonorable, nothing more terrible, nothing more unpleasant, nothing more hurtful.”53 His first move is lexical but goes to the heart of the issue. Passions, he notes, are so called because we suffer them. To fly into a rage is not an action, but a kind of passivity: to submit to a kind of wounding or, at very least, a bruising. 51.  Hom. Eph. 15.1, 2 (PG 62.106, 108); see also, Hom. Matt. 18.5, 81.5 (PG 57.270, 58.736); Exp. Ps. 7.6 (PG 55.89). 52.  Anger is a fierce fire (Hom. Jo. 26.3 [PG 59.156]; Stat. 8.3 [PG 49.102]; Dav. 2.2, 3.5, 3.7 [CCGS 70.33–34, 64, 70]); the high priests before the arrest of Jesus and the Jews in Acts are described as “boiling with anger” (τῷ θυμῷ ζέοντες) (Hom. Matt. 79.3 [PG 58.721]; In illud: In faciem ei restiti 4 [PG 51.375]). The association of anger with fever is also common: “We are enflamed [with anger] and in no better state than the fevered” (Hom. Jo. 84.3 [PG 59.458–59]; Hom. Act. 50.4 [PG 60.350]). For a sense of pressure or the “swelling” of the heart, sometimes in connection with heat, see Hom. Gen. 53.5 (PG 54.470); Sac. 6.12.18–19 (SC 272.342); Dav. 1.4 (CCGS 70.14); Pecc. 12 (PG 51.364). Fever is also connected with excessive bile (Exp. Ps. 7.6 [PG 55.89]). Basil describes similar physiological symptoms (Hom. adversus eos qui irascuntur [PG 31.356]). 53.  Οὐδὲν αἰσχρότερον θυμοῦ, οὐδὲν ἀτιμότερον, οὐδὲν δεινότερον, οὐδὲν ἀηδέστερον, οὐδὲν βλαβερώτερον (Hom. Act. 15.5 [PG 60.126]).

32     Anger

In any angry confrontation, it is not the apparent target of ire but rather the enraged person who suffers most.54 Chrysostom supports this contention by appealing to medical lore, which identified anger as the root of various physical ailments, such as dimness of vision, insanity, and “innumerable other” afflictions.55 Continuing to indulge in angry outbursts damages one’s health. Like giving wine to those in the grip of fever, it further “aggravates the disease.”56 Even if the enraged do not actually fall sick from their anger, they still suffer from its impact. With their distended veins, disturbing color, distorted features, and twitching limbs, their appearance becomes unsightly and repugnant.57 Verbal portraits were quite common in the philosophical treatises of the time, which sought to discourage anger by, in effect, holding up a mirror to the enraged person. The protagonist in Plutarch’s treatise On the Control of Anger claims that his first step in curing himself of the passion was to observe its debasing effect on others. Once he had seen how people changed for the worse under the impulse of anger, he felt a strong aversion ever to appear “so terrible and deranged.” If only, he went on to wish, “some attentive and clever companion” might hold up a mirror to him in times of anger, so that the sight of his distorted features might dissuade him from his passion.58 Chrysostom makes use of this same visualization technique. In graphic detail, he describes the disfiguring effects of anger. “If you see a drunk vomiting, retching, bursting, with bulging eyes, filling the table with his filthiness, and everyone hurrying to get away from him, and then you should fall into the same state, would you not be more hateful? This is what an enraged man is like: more than a person in the act of vomiting, his veins stand out, his eyes are inflamed, his guts are racked; he spews out words far filthier than food, 54.  Insults harm not the person who is insulted, but rather the one offering insult (Hom. Act. 15.4, 39.3, 50.4 [PG 60.125, 279, 349–50]). Thus, people often admonish, “Spare yourself, you’re harming yourself” (Exp. ps. 7.6 [PG 55.89]). Anger can be compared to demon possession (Exp. Ps. 4.5 [PG 55.46]); but its cause lies not in an evil demon, “but in the wickedness of those who have been taken captive by the passion of anger” (Hom. Jo. 4.5 [PG 59.52]; see also Hom. Gen. 53.5 [PG 54.470]). 55.  Hom. Act. 15.4 (PG 60.125); see also ibid., 6.4, 50.4 (PG 60.62, 349–50). 56.  Hom. 1 Cor. 26.8 (PG 62.223). 57.  Everything about them is disordered: “eyes unpleasant, mouth twisted, limbs swollen and twitching, tongue out of control and sparing no one, mind crazed, appearance unsightly” (Hom. Act. 17.3 [PG 60.139]). “When anger is incited and made to boil up around the chest, the mouth breathes out fire, the eyes send out fire, the face swells all over, the hands are oddly extended, the feet spring up ridiculously and trample those holding them down. . . . Truly the enraged man is not a pretty spectacle” (Hom. Jo. 4.5 [PG 59.52]). 58.  Cohib. ira 6 = Mor. 455f–456b, trans. Helmbold, 109–11. The image of a mirror is found in Seneca (Ira 2.36.1–3). To dissuade people from anger, Philodemus deliberately tried to arouse “horror” (De ira 3, col. 3.14–18). Galen also stresses “the ugliness of soul of those who get angry” (Aff. Pecc. Dig. 1.4, 1.5, 1.7, Kühn 16, 25, 41, in Singer, trans., Galen, 252, 259, 272).

Anger    33

everything he says is unchewed, nothing is properly digested, for his rage will not allow it.”59 The language of vomit to describe a lack of oral control is intentionally repellent. But Chrysostom is not finished. To the language of unregulated expulsion, he adds revolting ingestion. Seeing an abusive person is like watching someone eat filth—­or rather, an animal gobble human waste. “Don’t you see swine chewing up excrement?” (kopron), he asks. “These men do likewise. For what could stink more than the words abusive men utter?”60 The image is intentionally disgusting and he knows that his listeners feel sickened by hearing it. But he is not dismayed. He intends to diminish the pleasure of anger by tarnishing its apparent nobility. “I want you to feel this nausea,” he says, “when you see these things happening, and not take pleasure in it.” A further set of images makes the status implication of this loss of bodily regulation apparent. In losing control of himself, the enraged person is mastered by his passion. In a slave-­owning society, this language is far from metaphorical.61 To give way to anger is a demonstration not of power, but of inferior status. Even self-­controlled slaves, he insists, stand higher.62 And because weakness in the ancient world was typically gendered female, Chrysostom can insist that exchanging insults is not the fine action of elite men, but rather womanly behavior.63 It 59.  Hom. Act. 31.4 (PG 60.232–33). Here the idea of a mirror is implicit. There are many passages in which Chrysostom compares the ugliness of drunkenness to that of anger: “Anger is a kind of intoxication,” and if “the enraged could see himself clearly, during the period of his anger, he would not need any other admonition” (Hom. Jo. 26.3 [PG 59.146]). An extended description occurs in one of the homilies against Judaizing Christians: “The man overcome by anger is drunk. . . . [H]is face swells, his voice grates, his eyes become bloodshot, his mind is darkened, his reasoning is swamped, his tongue trembles, his eyes are unfocused, and his ears hear other than what is said, as anger impacts his brain more severely than unmixed wine” (Adv. Jud. 8.1 [PG 48.927]). For other examples, see: Hom. Matt. 15.10, 42.1 (PG 57.236, 452); Hom. Act. 41.4 (PG 60.293–94); Catech. 5.4–5, 9–10 (SC 50.202–03, 204–05). 60.  Hom. Act. 31.4 (PG 60.233); see also ibid., 41.4 (PG 60.294); Hom. Rom. 8.8 (PG 60.465). The analogy of an angry person to one vomiting, and of anger to excrement occurs also in Hom. Matt. 18.5, 51.4–5 (PG 57.270, 58.516). Variants also occur: getting angry is like throwing mud into a pure fountain (Hom. Act. 15.5 [PG 60.126]); its offensiveness is like the stench of a cesspool when stirred (Hom. Jo. 48.3 [PG 59.272]). 61.  Chrysostom traces the origin of slavery to Genesis 9:21–25, when Ham looked upon the nakedness of his father (Inan. glor. 71.864–74, 72.878–89 [SC 188. 172, 174]; Hom. Col. 4.3 [PG 62.329–30]). As Foucault points out, the ethical life in antiquity was construed as one of self-­mastery (Use of Pleasure, esp. 63–93). 62.  Self-­controlled slaves can also benefit their masters by shaming them: “When we are angry with our household slaves, let us call to mind our own sins, and be ashamed at their gentleness. For when you are insulting, and he bears the insult in silence, you are acting disgracefully and he philosophically: accept this instead of an admonition” (Hom. Jo. 26.3 [PG 59.146]; see also Hom. Matt. 87.4 [PG 58.773]). 63.  “Does your wife abuse you? Do not become a woman: to be abusive is womanly” (Μὴ γένῃ σὺ γυνή· γυναικῶδες γὰρ τὸ ὑβρίζειν) (Hom. Act. 15.5 [PG 60.126]). A persistent stereotype, “from Homer to the Council of Elvira,” associated women with anger (Harris, Restraining Rage, 264).

34     Anger

is those who resist the impulse to angry retaliation by maintaining silence or by walking away who demonstrate true virility. It seems clear, however, that not many of John’s listeners found this reasoning persuasive. They held to the common opinion that not retaliating was proof of weakness and flight a sign of acquiescence. They rejected his arguments with the scathing rejoinder: “These words of philosophy are appropriate for a widow.”64 It is in this context that we should place Chrysostom’s assertion that “anger is a shameless dog.”65 To deny the conventional association of anger with the lion was to reject the heroic code, in which elite males were honor bound to redress insult. The greater their reputation, the more sensitive they were to any slight. Taunting was thus the expected prelude to combat. Dogs were, moreover, strikingly equivocal creatures. If some, like Odysseus’s faithful hound Argus shared the heroic excellence of their masters, most were figures of shame.66 The reason for this reputation is open to debate. The willingness of dogs to copulate in public is commonly cited, but, as Plutarch notes with some asperity, it is not as though cattle, pigs, and horses mate behind closed bedroom doors.67 A more likely association is the residual wildness of dogs: the fact that the same creatures that fought courageously alongside heroes might turn viciously on their owners or, indeed, return to gnaw their bones. This potential hostility in a creature that shared one’s board made the dog not only an ambivalent figure but also a strongly gendered one. Already in Hesiod, it was women who had doggish minds, and the subsequent rich elaboration of canine abuse is directed most often at females.68 To call anger a shameless dog is then to tarnish the emotion by robbing it not only of its heroic, but also of its masculine aspect.69 Plutarch takes it for granted that “women are more irascible than men” (Cohib. ira 8 = Mor. 457ab; see also 457c). For a brief but perceptive analysis of Chrysostom’s use of “figures of shame,” see Blackburn, “‘Let the Men Be Ashamed.’” 64.  Ἀλλὰ χήρας εἶναι δοκεῖ τὰ ῥήματα τῆς φιλοσοφίας (Hom Act. 15.4 [PG 60.125]). “If we are silent, bystanders will despise our weakness” (Hom. Jo. 48.3 [PG 59.272]). Prayers to God for vengeance were common: “Show him the same!” “Do so to him!” “Strike him!” “Pay him back!” (Hom. 1 Tim. 6.2 [PG 62.531]; see also Hom. Matt. 19.8, 51.6 [PG 57.285, 58.517]; Anna 1.6 [PG 54.641]; Pecc. 10–11 [PG 51.362–63]; Paenit. 4.4 [PG 49.305]). 65.  Κύων ἐστὶν ἀναιδὴς ὁ θυμός (Hom. Act. 17.4 [PG 60.139]). For an analysis of Chrysostom’s use of this image, see my “Locating Animals,” 292–96. 66.  Braund and Gilbert, “ABC of Epic Ira,” 256–57. Franco, Shameless, esp. 75–120; for Argus, see ibid., 37–40. 67.  Quaest. rom. 111, 290A–C at B. 68. King, Hippocrates’ Women, 24–25; Franco, Shameless, 2–5, 121–53. 69.  Peter Brown has drawn attention to the role played by anger and its display in elite male status maintenance (Power and Persuasion). See also Blackburn, “‘Let the Men Be Ashamed.’” In general, however, Chrysostom does not use animal metaphors for gendered shaming. See my “Animal Passions,” esp. 190–94.

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The adjective shameless, however, carries the implication that the impulse of anger can be tamed, even as a dog can be brought to heel. Along with many philosophers, Chrysostom insists that rage can be restrained and that the difficulty of doing so decreases with practice, that self-­control becomes easier over time.70 To this end, he offers a number of strategies. The foremost of these is maintaining silence in the face of derogatory comments. Anger, he insists, is like fire: if it is not fed, it will go out. Thus it is no defense to say, “He started it!”71 A vivid analogy drives home the point: Has someone insulted you? Has he reviled you? Close your mouth. For if you open it, you will strengthen the wind. Do you not see how in houses, when two doors stand directly across from each other and there is a stiff wind, if you close one so that no cross draught is created, the wind abates and the greater part of its force is cut off? So also now, there are two doors: your mouth and that of the one who speaks insultingly and offensively. If you close yours and do not create a cross draught, you will stifle the wind completely; but if you open it, it will become ungovernable.72

But how can one shut the door and not respond? Chrysostom offers a number of behavioral strategies. At the first physiological signs of rage, namely an awareness of rising heat or pressure around the heart, one should fortify the breast by tracing a cross upon it.73 Then, if possible, one should walk away.74 Boxers, he further notes, often bite their lips to bear the pain of blows to the head.75 But if maintaining silence proves impossible, one should at least keep one’s voice low and avoid shouting.76 To ease the difficulty of this advice, Chrysostom offers a series of cognitive interventions. When unjustly insulted, one should consider that revenge might be best achieved by gentleness. When met with forgiveness, aggressors may feel ashamed 70.  Plutarch also comments on how habituation tames anger (Cohib. ira 11 = Mor. 459b). Galen draws an analogy with training domestic animals, such as horses and dogs (Aff. Pecc. Dig. 1.6, Kühn 27, in Singer, trans., Galen, 261); progress will be incremental (ibid., 1.4, 16–17, Kühn 20, 252–53, 255). 71.  Hom. Rom. 8.8 (PG 60.465–66). 72.  Hom. 1 Thess. 11.1 (PG 62.461). 73.  “If you see your heart becoming enflamed (φλεγμαίνουσαν), seal your chest, placing the cross upon it. . . . Has anyone insulted you? Place the sign on your chest . . .” (Hom. Matt. 87.2–3, 54.4 [PG 58.771–73, 537]) “. . .as a kind of bridle” (Hom. Act. 17.4 [PG 60.139]); Dav. 1.5 (CCGS 70.19–20). 74.  As when one flees from a wild animal or a mad person, withdrawal in these circumstances is not a sign of deference (Hom. Act. 31.3 [PG 60.232]); Plutarch agrees (Cohib. ira 5 = Mor. 455b). 75.  Hom. Act. 31.3 (PG 60.231). 76.  “Shouting is anger’s fuel” (Hom. Jo. 26.3 [PG 59.156]). “Shouting carries anger, as a horse its driver. . . . Trim the wings of anger (ὀργῆς), by removing shouting, and you will relieve the swelling of the heart” (Hom. Eph. 15.2, 3 [PG 62.108, 109]; see also ibid., 17.1 [PG 62.118]). Silence, or peaceable talk calms anger (Hom. Act. 31.3 [PG 60.231]; Dav. 3.7 [CCGS 70.70]).

36     Anger

and relent, just as attacking dogs quiet down whenever “someone throws himself onto his back and does nothing.”77 But even if an abuser feels no shame, the reaction of others will bite deeply, for they, Chrysostom asserts, will surely rebuke him. And what could be “more bitter than to behold himself reproached by all before his enemy’s face?”78 Further pain will come to him from the sight of onlookers applauding and admiring the restraint of the one he has wronged. Very rarely, he acknowledges the comfort that comes from reflecting on the fact that God will punish the abusive—­but immediately adds that he hopes that none of his ­listeners will feel this way.79 The pleasure of displaced revenge is a muted theme in his works and remains almost completely overshadowed by his other strategies. Drawing on the medical tradition, he suggests that his listeners view the enraged as someone suffering from an illness. Instead of feeling an urge to respond in kind with insults or even violence, they should feel sorry for the man, “because his heart has been ruptured by anger” and “bile is pouring out.”80 Like the sick or insane, he is suffering from an inability to maintain bodily control. Even if he causes annoyance or distress, the appropriate response is kindness and support: “If we see anyone troubled by bile and blinded by dizziness, straining to throw up this noxious humor, we stretch out a hand and support him as he retches; and even if we stain our clothing, we don’t focus on that but seek only one thing, how we may set him free from his terrible anguish. This then let us do also with respect to the angry, and support them as they vomit and retch.”81 A related simile feminizes anger. As attendants bear calmly with a woman in labor, even when she bites them, so we should sympathize with the enraged.82 Instead of imitating their bad behavior, we should maintain the authoritative and patient demeanor of a

77.  Hom. Eph. 16.3 (PG 60.115); see also Exp. Ps. 7.6 (PG 55.89). Aristotle also uses the image (Rhet. 2.3.6, 1380a). The same behavior is found among children: teasers stop when they see that the teased are not upset (Hom. Matt. 79.5 [PG 58.724]). 78.  Hom. Eph. 16.2–3 (PG 60.114–15); Hom. Matt. 61.5 (PG 58.595). The applause you will win from others will be more distressing to him than being stoned (Hom. Rom. 22.3 [PG 60.612]). 79.  Hom. Jo. 79.4, 48.3 (PG 59.430, 272); Hom. Rom. 22.2–3 (PG 60.612); Stat. 20.4 (PG 49.203). 80.  Exp. Ps. 7.6 (PG 55.89). Pity them because their disease is advanced and will quickly destroy them (Hom. Matt. 87.4 [PG 58.773]); they are “wounded by rage” (Hom. Rom. 8.8, 9 [PG 60.466]). See also Hom. Eph. 15.2 (PG 62.108); Hom. Act. 50.3–4 (PG 60.348–49). The wicked should be pitied rather than feared (Exp. Ps. 139.1 [PG 55.421]). 81.  Hom. Matt. 18.5 (PG 57.270); see also Hom. Matt. 51.4–5, 60.1 (PG 58.516, 584–85); Hom. Jo. 48.3 (PG 59.272); Ep. Olymp. 13.1c (SC 13bis.332). Concerning the blindness of rage, see Hom. Gen. 53.5 (PG 54.470); “anger is a darkness” (Ὄντως σκότος ἐστὶν ὁ θυμός) (Hom. Act. 39.3 [PG 60.280]). 82. Noted by Harris, Restraining Rage, 270. Clark collects texts that propagate this image (“Women, Slaves, and the Hierarchies of Domestic Violence,” 123–24).

Anger    37

doctor who understands that contraries heal, that one cures anger not with anger but with mildness.83 Quiet amusement is another reaction with inoculating powers. As adults laugh at children who fly into a rage, so Chrysostom recommends humor in the face of rage—­not open chuckling, which would be interpreted as an insult and thus add fuel to the fire, but interior, mental amusement.84 Such laughter insulates a person against anger’s contagious heat and marks the self-­controlled as truly mature.85 Equally effective is the recollection that the same words that trigger anger would make us laugh if they were spoken by friends who were joking, or even by small children.86 His listeners should also consider whether the apparent slight was in fact deserved. With Aristotle, Chrysostom maintains that no truth—­however unpleasant or poorly formulated—­can be a cause for anger. This conviction shapes his remarks on Cain. Had the older brother paused to assess his own actions honestly, he could have stemmed his murderous rage. He would have realized that God was fully justified in spurning his gift, since he had selected it haphazardly and offered it without gratitude. Indeed, from this perspective, the fact that God simply “left it lying” on the ground was not an insult but rather an act of divine generosity. Had Cain reasoned correctly, he would have felt not anger but contrition and would have confessed his fault instead of murdering his brother.87 Chrysostom’s listeners should do likewise. When slighted by others, they should focus on whatever failing brought them into disgrace, and instead of planning retaliation, be grateful for the correction.88 On similar grounds, Chrysostom praises the Canaanite woman. When Christ responded to her request by calling her a dog, she did not get annoyed at the apparently abusive term, nor was she deterred by “the haughtiness” of the reply. Instead, she assessed her situation, accepted the comparison, and pursued her request.89 As her humility insulated her from anger, so we can 83.  “If you strike [your wife] you aggravate the disease not heal it: for insolence is dissolved by gentleness, not by an opposing insolence” (Hom. 1 Cor. 26.8 [PG 61.223]). See also, Hom. Col. 4.4 (PG 62.330); Hom. Act. 6.4 (PG 60.61). 84.  Stat. 2.8 (PG 49.46); Hom. Jo. 79.3 (PG 59.430); Hom. Heb. 22.3 (PG 63.160); cf. Aristotle, Politica 7.13, 1334b20–24; ps.-­Aristotle, Problemata 8.20, 889a15, 10.45, 895b30. Galen also speaks of turning aside anger with laughter (Ind. 42, in Singer, trans., Galen, 90). 85.  Hom. 1 Cor. 26.8 (PG 61.223); Hom. Col. 4.4 (PG 62.330); Hom. Rom. 22.3 (PG 60.612). 86.  Dav. 3.7 (CCGS 70.71); Hom. Rom. 3.4 (PG 60.416). 87.  Hom. Gen. 18.7, 20.3 (PG 53.157, 170). 88.  Hom. 2 Cor. 4.6 (PG 61.426); Hom. Jo. 48.3 (PG 59.272). Honest self-­assessment and confession are thus also cures for anger (Hom. Gen 20.5 [PG 53.173]; Hom. Jo. 60.4 [PG 59.332]). 89.  Hom. Gen. 38.3 (PG 53.354); Hom. Matt. 52.2 (PG 58.520). It was a paradigmatic insult (Franco, Shameless, 75–120), as Chrysostom readily admits: “If anyone insults us, by calling us ‘dog,’ we are annoyed” (Κἂν μέν τις ἡμᾶς ὑβρίζων εἴπῃ, κύων, ἀλγοῦμεν) (Hom. Act. 34.5 [PG 60.250]; see also Hom. 1 Thess. 11.4 [PG 62.466]).

38     Anger

defuse even the most demeaning insults by reflecting on our nature. If we recite the scriptural refrain, “You are dust and ashes,” or “Why are dust and ashes arrogant?” we will stem our impulse to rage.90 Putting the insult into context is another means of mitigating anger. For even an extremely disparaging remark often becomes less wounding when set within the entire history of our relationship with that individual. We should consider whether the person offering insult is a friend or has ever been of help in the past, and conduct an honest review of our own behavior: How often have we behaved in exactly the same way, either by speaking slightingly or by listening gladly to derogatory comments made by others?91 The commitments of kinship must also be weighed.92 David’s response to his brothers’ contemptuous words, when he brought them food at the battlefront, provides a model of correct restraint. Instead of replying angrily, he spoke mildly and reminded them, “Isn’t it just a word?”93 One should also consider the intention behind the criticism. If it comes from a friend or a teacher, it may be prompted not by insolence, but by kindness and a desire for one’s betterment.94 Equally effective is careful consideration of the likely outcome of retaliation. If a verbal confrontation comes to blows, the repercussions could be serious: a person struck in anger may develop a swelling that will not heal, or a fever that results in death.95 In these situations, it is not always the stronger who prevails. For although Cain avenged an apparent insult by killing his younger brother, John asks, “Who actually died?” Was it Abel, whose blood spoke so powerfully from the ground that it convicted his killer, or rather Cain who, although still breathing, was struck speechless and convicted to live in fear and trembling? Who got what he wanted? Whereas Cain intended to diminish God’s love for his brother and the honor in which he was held, the opposite occurred. After Abel died, he was even more beloved and, instead of being subject to his older brother, he became his 90.  Hom. Jo. 48.3 (PG 59.272); see also Exp. Ps. 123.1 (PG 55.354). “If anger (θυμός) arouses our rage (ὀργήν), let us restrain its heat with the song of spiritual encouragements” (Hom. Gen. 28.6 [PG 53.260]). The humble man “can never be swept into anger or become enraged with his neighbor” (Hom. Gen. 9.6 [PG 53.81]). Lai argues that humility is central to Chrysostom’s understanding of David’s excellence (“John Chrysostom,” 98–105). 91.  Hom. Matt. 79.4 (PG 58.722); Dav. 3.4–5 (CCGS 70.59–63). Friends respond with silence to insults from other friends (Stat. 14.5 [PG 49.149]). Insults, Galen remarks, are less wounding when considered against a backdrop of widespread praise (Aff. Pecc. Dig. 1.8, Kühn 44, in Singer, trans., Galen, 274). 92.  “We often say these words to soothe those who are insulted: ‘He who insulted you is your brother, bear it bravely,’ or ‘He is your father,’ or ‘He is under divine protection’” (Hom. Jo. 79.4 [PG 59.430]). 93.  Hom. Gen. 46.3 (PG 54.425), citing 1 Sam 17:29. 94.  Hom. Heb. 4.10 (PG 63.45); De mutatione nominum 3.1 (PG 51.131–32). 95.  Hom. Jo. 4.5 (PG 59.52).

Anger    39

master: for this is what it means to inspire constant fear in another.96 Even if no lasting harm results from an altercation, ill-­disposed onlookers may gloat over the participants’ loss of control.97 Weighing the consequences of retaliation is especially important when the demeaning comment comes from one’s wife. Is its pleasure worth the unpleasantness it will cause in the household, or sweeter than reconciliation?98 Entering imaginatively into her situation and feelings provides yet another helpful context. When irked by complaints of neglect, a man should understand that these critical remarks stem ultimately from love—­from his spouse’s fear “that someone has stolen her marriage bed”—­and thus respond gently.99 A husband should never call his wife “by her name alone, but address her with admiration, honor, and much love.”100 This counsel has usually been understood as a means of appeasement directed at the faultfinding spouse, and it may have had this function.101 But it seems likely that Chrysostom viewed these tender epithets as exercising an equally significant influence on the speaker. By reminding him of the love and commitment he shares with his life partner, they should reduce his tendency to respond angrily, perhaps even violently, to the slighting comments of his wife.102 Scripture provides additional support. When confronted with unreasonable criticism, husbands should recall Abraham’s reaction, when Sarah accused him of having wronged her, despite the fact that she herself had devised the plan of Hagar’s surrogacy. Had Abraham been anyone else, Chrysostom marvels, “surely he would have been moved to anger” by her defiant words, “The Lord judge between you and me!” (Gn 16:5), and perhaps even “raised his hand against her.”

96.  Hom. Rom. 8.9 (PG 60.466–67). 97.  Hom. Jo. 4.5 (PG 59.52). 98.  Hom. Matt. 79.4 (PG 58.723); see also ibid., 87.3 (PG 58.773). No matter what offense a wife may have committed, nothing is as painful as being at strife with her (Hom. 1 Cor. 26.8 [PG 61.223]). 99.  Hom. Eph. 20.6 (PG 62.144). 100.  Καὶ μηδέποτε ἁπλῶς αὐτὴν κάλει, ἀλλὰ μετὰ κολακείας, μετὰ τιμῆς, μετὰ πολλῆς ἀγάπης (Hom. Eph. 20.9 [PG 62.148]). 101.  “How then should we speak with her? . . . Speak of your love for her; for nothing is as helpful in persuading a listener to accept what is said, as realizing that it is said with great love” (Hom. Eph. 20.8 [PG 62.146]). 102.  In his excoriation of domestic violence, he lists a range of typical excuses given by men for striking their wives: “My wife is too bold (θρασύνεται),” or “she is gossipy (φλύαρος), drunken (μέθυσος), and irascible (ὀργίλος)” (Hom. 1 Cor. 26.7–8 [PG 61.222–23]). Chrysostom’s opinion on beating enslaved persons is more equivocal: in the same homily he agrees that “the slavish race is unbearable if treated leniently,” but also decries degrading violence against enslaved women (Hom. Eph. 15.3 [PG 62.109]). See the remarks of Schroeder (“John Chrysostom’s Critique”) and Dossey, “Wife Beating,” esp. 7–11).

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But instead, the patriarch responded mildly and did as she requested: “before everything else, he set his love for his wife.”103 Even overtly belittling comments can be defused in this way. For example, if a man has married a wife whose financial resources are more extensive than his own, Chrysostom assumes that she will taunt him and sneer at his lack of financial acumen: “Unmanly coward, full of sloth and laziness and sleep! This other man, although low born and of humble stock, has made a great living, by taking risks and embarking on voyages. His wife is laden with gold and rides out on a pair of white mules. She is carried everywhere, and has a flock of domestic slaves and a swarm of eunuchs. But you! You have shrunk back and live without purpose.”104 If he protests that she spends too much on clothes, she may well retort, “I have not yet spent anything of yours. I’m still wearing my own things, from the dowry my parents gave me.”105 In response, Chrysostom urges the man to remind his wife of the basic premise of marriage, which entails the yielding up not only of possessions but even of one’s own body. This insistence on the unity of the couple seems designed to speak to both partners: to correct the wife’s arrogance, certainly, but also to mitigate the husband’s anger.106 Mildness is especially apparent in the imagined dialogue that follows. If she continues to say “mine,” Chrysostom advises her husband to respond: “What things do you say are yours? I have no idea what you mean; for I know that I have nothing of my own. How then can you say ‘mine’ when everything is yours? . . . I am yours!”107 Here the Pauline understanding of marriage as a relationship structured by mutual obligation provides a helpful context for defusing spousal anger. The strategy’s ability to reduce antagonism is, finally, secondary to Chrysostom’s purpose of developing the right disposition in the speaker. For once a person has learned not to take insults to heart, and indeed even to laugh at them, he has shown himself superior to the assault, and cannot be slighted.108 From this perspective, living with a sharp-­ tongued spouse—­ or indeed with insolent 103.  Hom. Eph. 20.6 (PG 62.144). Abraham’s mildness is a theme to which Chrysostom returns. Despite being repeatedly driven away from the wells that he had dug, the patriarch did not get angry or grumble, “Am I not entitled to enjoy even my wells? Have I become destitute of heavenly favor? Am I deprived of the Lord’s providence?”(Hom. Gen. 52.2 [PG 54.459]). 104.  Hom. Eph. 20.7 (PG 62.144). 105.  Hom. Eph. 20.9 (PG 62.147). 106.  “Let him not turn to insults and blows. . . . Let him never lay his hands on her” (Hom. Eph. 20.7 [PG 62.144]). 107.  Hom. Eph. 20.9 (PG 62.148). Chrysostom proceeds to quote 1 Cor 7:4. Wives who entered marriage with a large dowry were commonly perceived as less tractable and given to criticism (Treggiari, Roman Marriage, 210; Saller, Patriarchy, Property, and Death, 129). 108.  Insult is created (or defused) not by the intent of the insulter, but by the disposition of those who are insulted (Stat. 2.8 [PG 49.46]; see also Hom. Jo. 48.3 [59.272]; Hom. Matt. 79.4 [PG 58.723]).

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slaves—­can serve as a kind of helpful training program that, over time, builds excellence.109 This same reasoning informs Chrysostom’s advice to parents on how to raise their sons. A child’s father, brother, playmates, and household slaves should all deliberately provoke him, “so that he may learn in every situation to master his temper.” Insults from inferiors, rather than from respected elders, form a particularly trying and therefore valuable exercise.110 In addition to slights, the boy should become accustomed to accepting damage to his prized possessions—­ the loss of a silver stylus or the breaking of his new writing tablets—­and to ceding precedence to his younger brother, or even his slave, without becoming angry or abusive.111 By deliberately presenting him with stimuli that would typically cause him to get angry, family members encourage him to practice self-­control. Because they teach equanimity, the people offering insult should be understood not as enemies, but rather as benefactors.112 Such revaluing of slights represents another cognitive strategy designed to reduce anger. The force of example provides a final, powerful aid. No matter how public the insult, how derisive the mockery, or how painful the physical blow, one can reflect that Christ endured far worse without ever responding angrily.113 Paul, too, suffered much from the insults of “mean and contemptible persons,” such as 109.  “Your wife can be for you a training school and gym” (παλαίστρα καὶ γυμνάσιον) (Hom. Act. 15.5 [PG 60.126]). Men are advised: “Even if your slave talks back to you, be philosophical” (Hom. Act. 15.5 [PG 60.126]). Hannah was schooled in patience by the taunts of Peninnah (Anna 2.4 [PG 54.64]). 110.  Provocation by a slave was particularly valuable (Inan. glor. 31.426–30 [SC 188.122]). “For if his father provoke him, it is no great test; for the name of father, taking first possession of his soul, does not permit him to rebel” (Inan. glor. 68.819–28 [SC 188.166–68]; see also Hom. Jo. 79.3–4 [PG 59.430]). Harris notes that the father-­son relationship, as represented in literature, was marked by tension (Restraining Rage, 296–99). In his treatise on child rearing, Chrysostom takes for granted that a father might threaten a wayward son with disinheritance, but the remark seems philosophical. The portrait of fathers and sons, as it emerges from Chrysostom’s voluminous writings, is consistently respectful and even warm. In this, he seems to follow biblical or Jewish precedent. 111.  Inan. glor. 73–74 (SC 188.174–76). “Mold his aggressive spirit (thymos), so that it begets only gentle thoughts. When he is not excessively attached to anything, when he tolerates loss and does not need for it to be remedied, when he does not resent honor shown to another, what source is left for anger?” (Inan. glor. 75 [SC 188.176]). 112. “Those who honor make the unwatchful more vain; but those who insult and contemn (ὑβρίζοντες καὶ καταφρονοῦντες) render those who pay attention to themselves stronger” (Hom. Matt. 87.3 [PG 58.773]). “Reproof is an opportunity, a salutary and useful thing” (Comm. Prov. 9.8 [Bady, “Commentaire,” 270]). Plutarch also advised making one’s enemies into one’s benefactors (Inim. util. 87c–d, 89b–d); Galen too recommends having someone who will reveal “everything done incorrectly” (Aff. Pecc. Dig. 1.5, Kühn 21–22, criteria for such a person given at 1.6, Kühn 30, in Singer, trans., Galen, 264). 113.  Chrysostom urges his listeners to recall the crown of thorns, the purple cloak, the reed, the buffets, the blows to the cheeks, the spitting, and the ridicule. “These, if continuously pondered, are sufficient to diminish all anger. . . . It was for this reason that [Christ] endured all these things, so that we, walking in his footsteps, might endure scoffing, which of all insults most drives us wild” (Hom. Jo.

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Alexander the coppersmith, yet did not retaliate. He recommended evasive action—­that Timothy should avoid him—­but he did not say, “Revenge, punish, expel him.”114 Even God is held up for emulation. Although slighted every day by unbelievers and believers alike, the deity does not retaliate. He has not “extinguished the sun, or stayed the course of the moon, . . . crushed the heavens, or uprooted the earth, . . . dried up the sea, . . . or confounded the air.” To the contrary, day after day, he makes the sun rise and the rain fall—­doing good to all those who insult him—­and “not for one day or two, but for their whole life.” “Imitate him,” Chrysostom urges. To the implicit puzzle of how exactly one might do so, the preacher clarifies: “Are you unable to make the sun rise? Do not slander. Are you unable to send rain? Do not revile. Are you unable to cause food to grow? Do not insult. These gifts from you are enough. God’s loving kindness to his enemies is shown by his works. You, do the same, at least by words: pray on behalf of your enemies.”115 Parents can teach their children to imitate divine forbearance by their own example. When a father restrains himself from responding angrily on behalf of his son who has been insulted, he is teaching the boy how to be philosophical. He can reinforce the lesson by recalling Christ’s words to his followers, prohibiting them from getting angry, even on his own account.116 The deliberate recollection of scriptural examples and the use of the sign of the cross are distinctively Christian, but otherwise much of this advice is traditional. Many of the same recommendations can be found in the writings of Seneca, Galen, Plutarch, or Basil. One effect of this strong continuity, however, is to draw attention to some interesting omissions. Unlike these other authors, Chrysostom does not urge delay, the deliberate interposition of time between insult and reaction. Reflection upon context or scripture might take some time, but we do not find him explicitly advising a person suffering provocation to wait a day before responding. Nor, apart from his comments on child-­rearing, where he envisages the surveillance of a pedagogue, does he recommend the services of a companion who might serve as a check and guide upon behavior.117 Nor, perhaps most surprisingly of all, given his ascetic commitments, does he routinely enjoin an abstemious lifestyle as a way of avoiding anger. His similes likening the enraged 84.3 [PG 59.458]). See also Hom. Matt. 15.10, 18.4, 61.5, 87.2–3 (PG 57.236, 270; 58.595, 771–72); Hom. Act. 31.3, 39.4 (PG 60.231, 280); Exp. Ps. 44.6 (PG 55.192); Catech. 1.31 (SC 50.124). 114.  Chrysostom understands Paul’s words, “The Lord reward him according to his works,” not as a curse, but as a prophecy (Hom. 2 Tim. 10.1 [PG 62.656–67]). The insertion of counterfactual discourse is typical of Chrysostom’s exegesis (Kecskeméti, “Exégèse chrysostomienne”). 115.  Hom. 1 Tim. 6.3 (PG 62.533). God has excellent grounds for anger, since he is insulted every day by slackness in prayer and by zeal for material rather than spiritual goods (Exp. Ps. 7.10 [PG 55.96–97]). 116.  Hom. Act. 15.4 (PG 60.125). 117. Plutarch, Cohib. ira 1 = Mor. 453a, 453c; Galen, Aff. Pecc. Dig. 3.4–5, 5.6–8, 6.10, 6.12–13, 7.1; Harris, Restraining Rage, 385–87.

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to drunks might imply that avoiding wine could be helpful in curtailing anger, and he occasionally makes this recommendation overt, but these passages are relatively rare.118 Taken together, these omissions suggest that the majority of his listeners were not drawn from the elite. Some may have been of higher status, but most did not come from the social fraction that would enjoy the privilege of delay, marshal the resources for a philosophical companion, or confront the temptation of too-­abundant drink. The fact that Chrysostom addresses the feelings not only of the enraged but also of those who watch the angry confrontations of others supports the notion that he addressed a broader demographic.119 Onlookers, he acknowledges, might typically feel a blend of emotions—­fear, perhaps, and envy for the sheer ability to display social power—­but their predominant sensation seems to have been pleasure. Chrysostom complains, lengthily and repeatedly, about the enjoyment taken in such spectacles: “When we see people coming into conflict and quarreling with each other, we stand around, enjoying the bad behavior of others, forming a circle around that devilish spectacle. What could be crueler than that? You see people being reviled, bursting [with anger], ripping clothing, pummeling each other’s faces, and you remain standing around quietly? . . . Don’t be a spectator; break it up! Don’t enjoy it; correct it! Don’t attract others to the disgraceful scene, but drive off and disperse those who have gathered.”120 The pleasure of the spectators derives from their disengagement, from the fact that they are neither directly involved in the confrontation nor emotionally attached to the participants. It is a form of street theater.121 In these situations, Chrysostom’s advice is overtly practical. His listeners should intervene directly to calm down the participants. Even if they have to pay out money or risk getting hit themselves, they should not hesitate. These urgent actions spring from a consistent program that recasts the enraged as pitiable and displays of anger as disgusting. Fellow feeling should trigger a desire to help those suffering from anger, while similes of excrement and vomit contaminate any pleasure in the spectacle and urge withdrawal. 118.  Hom. Matt. 70.3 (PG 58.658–59). Seneca, to the contrary, overtly urges an abstemious lifestyle as a way to avoid anger (Ira 2.20); much of this advice seems derived from Plato (Leg. 7.791c–793a). The Stoics also seem to have focused their attention on the sage’s ability to control his anger, not that of his disciples or patients, as Harris observes (Restraining Rage, 371, citing Seneca, Ira 3.38.1, 3.38.2). 119.  For an analysis of the diversity of Chrysostom’s various congregations, see Mayer, “Audiences for Patristic Social Teaching,” 89–94; “Who Came to Hear John Chrysostom Preach?”; “John Chrysostom: Extraordinary Preacher.” 120.  Hom. Matt. 15.10 (PG 57.236). 121.  Bystanders are also presumed in Hom. Jo. 4.5 (PG 59.51–52). Chrysostom complains about buffoons who are hired to amuse dinner guests by insulting and hitting each other (Hom. Matt. 48.4 [PG 57.495]). See Blowers, “St John Chrysostom on Social Parasites.”

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The strength and repetitiousness of these denunciations might lead us to believe that Chrysostom consistently condemns anger and believes that it plays no role in the virtuous life. But this is not true. He remains convinced that anger has a place and can be used rightly. A N G E R’ S I M P E R AT I V E

In making this case, he mobilizes two kinds of arguments. The first is ontological: because anger has been implanted in our nature by God, it must have a proper use. It cannot have been “placed within us in vain and without reason.”122 In these passages, the type of anger he has in mind is usually thymos, which can also be translated as spirit or courage. This is the same term used by Plato in his famous image of the tripartite soul. Of the two horses that draw the chariot, one is thymos, a supremely useful force, but one that is headstrong and must be held carefully in check. The model became widespread, and Chrysostom also imagines the soul as made up of the spirited, appetitive, and rational parts.123 It was because God recognized the necessity—­as well as the difficulty—­of restraint that he localized the thymos in the heart, where it would be held back by the encircling ribs and protected by the buffering lungs.124 But Chrysostom, as we have noted, does not make a careful distinction between the terms for anger, and he can invoke orgē to describe the same invigorating function. The second type of argument is scriptural. From his reading of the Bible, he concludes that reacting angrily is not necessarily wrong.125 There are three closely related types of occasions in which anger is useful. None of them have anything to do with personal insult. First, when others are being wronged, anger can rightly motivate us to come to their defense.126 In just this way, Moses was roused to kill the Egyptian who was oppressing the Hebrew. Offenses against himself he passed over “with great fortitude,” but “those against others, he avenged.”127 Peter l­ikewise 122.  God “placed the vigorous emotion of anger in our mind in the same way that we add steel to iron, so that we might employ it suitably” (Laud. Paul. 6.13 [SC 300.288], trans. Mitchell, Heavenly Trumpet, 480). “He did not altogether take away this thing, first, because it is not possible, since we are human, to be freed from passions: one can control them, but to be altogether without them is impossible. Second, because this passion is actually useful, if we know how to use it at the proper time” (Hom. Matt. 16.7 [PG 57.248–49]). 123.  Phaedr. 246a–254e; Tim. 69d. Bosinis, “Two Platonic Images.” 124.  Inan. glor. 65 (SC 188.162–64). 125.  “Anger is often useful” (Hom. Heb. 2.4 [PG 63.25]); Hom. Matt. 16.7 (PG 57.248–49). 126.  Anger “was implanted in our nature .  .  . so that we might go to the aid of those treated unjustly” (Hom. 2 Cor. 23.6 [PG 61.563]); “to rescue others” (Hom. Act. 17.4 [PG 60.140]; Inan. glor. 69.840–41 [SC 188.168]). 127.  Exp. Ps. 131.1 (PG 55.379–80, on 380); see also ibid., 44.6 (PG 55.192); Hom. Act. 17.4 (PG 60.140), referring to Ex 2:22.

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sprang to the defense of Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane. The impulse was misguided—­the disciples, after all, were not yet perfect—­but neither was it culpable, since it was undertaken to protect another.128 Chrysostom admits to feeling this kind of anger: at “the memory of wicked men and of what they have done,” he feels his heart swell.129 Instilling this spirited reaction is one of the goals set forth in his manual on child-­rearing. When raising their sons, fathers are to steer a middle course, neither seeking to eliminate the spirited drive nor allowing it free rein. Boys must learn to tolerate being unjustly treated themselves, “but if they see someone else being wronged, to strike out boldly and help the afflicted in an appropriate way.”130 The model of this kind of vigilant protection of the community is the sheepdog, which knows how to preserve the flock by driving off hostile intruders. As long as it obeys the shepherd’s commands and barks against wolves and robbers, but not against sheep or friends, it is a valuable ally and deserves to be fed. But if it goes rogue and turns violent, “making a meal” out of the sheep it should protect, then it must be immediately destroyed.131 For Chrysostom, anger should be treated likewise: if rightly trained, it can be fed. Second, when demons attack, anger can effectively drive them off. In this instance alone, one need not worry about mitigation or measure: “If you want to be enraged, don’t be angry with your kinsman, but with the evil demon. Now there you have an outlet for your passion! Never be reconciled with that one. Expend your rage and use it up on him! Set a trap for him, and never get tired of making war on him.”132 Again, the image is often that of the disciplined guard dog, which can be a powerful aid against hostile intrusions as long it remains correctly focused.133 Often these attacks are covertly waged: they arise from within as wicked thoughts or sinful urges. When directed against these promptings, anger can further ethical growth. If someone is irascible by nature and given to sharpening his tongue on others, he can direct the impulse against his own failings, for “this is 128.  Peter bore his subsequent sufferings with great mildness (Hom. Jo. 83.2 [PG 59.449]). 129.  Sac. 6.12.17–19 (SC 272.342). 130.  Inan. glor. 66.800–803 (SC 188.164). 131.  Hom. Act. 17.4 (PG 60.139). Dogs were generally associated with savage hunger. If this veered into destructive madness (lyssa) and they began to maul the sheep, they had to be put down (Plato, Resp. 416a1–7; Demosthenes, Or. 25.40.8, Aristog. 1). Chrysostom occasionally draws attention to the savagery of dogs: the frightening quality of their baying that makes people run from them, or throw food at them to calm them (Hom. 1 Cor. 13.5 [PG 61.113–14]). More dangerous than fiercely barking dogs, however, are those that seem gentle, but then bite unexpectedly (Hom. Eph. 15.4 [PG 62.111]). 132.  Exp. ps. 123.1 (PG 55.354). 133.  Hom. Act. 17.4 (PG 60.139); for war against demons, see Exp. Ps. 143.4 (PG 55.462). In the context of martial imagery, lions also occur. When Romanos perceived that the devil had succeeded in deterring Christians from standing up to persecution, he took decisive action: “[H]e expelled cowardice, he drove out anguish, he instilled courage, he made them zealous instead of cowardly, instead of gazelles and deer, he turned them into lions” (Rom. Mart. 2 [PG 50.609]).

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the benefit of anger.”134 Its value in these circumstances stems not only from its aggressive, but also from its stimulating properties. For the greatest hindrance to virtue in Chrysostom’s mind is a kind of inertia or carelessness that saps a person’s will to make an effort and to do what is required. Against lassitude, or the demonic voices that fuel indolence by whispering, “Why bother?” anger proves an invaluable ally. At the first signs of an intruder, it should spring up barking and rush out to attack.135 A third occasion represents a combination of the first two situations, namely the correction of others. In this context, Chrysostom is drawn to utilitarian metaphors: anger is like a tool that can be used either well or poorly. The type of implement he has in mind has a sharp edge, usually a scalpel. Sometimes one must cut deeply to effect a lasting cure.136 In his commentary on the verse of Psalm 4, “Be angry, and do not sin,” Chrysostom mingles all three of these functions. [The psalmist] does not do away with anger (orgēn), for it is useful, nor does he cut off wrath (thymon), for this can be helpful in dealing with wrongdoers and the indolent, but rather unjust anger and irrational wrath. . . . For anger has been instilled in us for a reason: not so that we would sin, but so that we might prevent others from sinning, not so that it would become a passion and a disease, but so that it would become a remedy (pharmakon) for passions. . . . This is the kind of thing anger (orgē) is, a useful instrument (organon chrēsimon) for arousing our drowsiness, for instilling vigor in the soul, for making us more vehement in censuring others on behalf of those who have been treated unjustly, for punishing those who plot evil.137

As a means of correcting sinners and arousing the negligent within one’s own community, “this vigorous emotion” is supremely useful, as Paul, above all,

134.  Τοῦτο τῆς ὀργῆς τὸ κέρδος (Hom. Eph. 2.4 [PG 62.21]; Hom. Matt. 51.6 [PG 58.517]). 135.  Hom. Act. 17.4 (PG 60.139). Anger is like a hearth fire, which must be guarded from gusty winds and kept far from straw, linen, and wooden panels, but is invaluable for kindling light (Hom. Act. 50.3 [PG 60.349]). 136.  Anger should be used as a surgeon uses a scalpel: if he does not cut when it is required, or cuts when it is not needed, he destroys everything (Hom. Act. 17.4 [PG 60.140]). See also Exp. Ps. 131.1 (PG 55.380); Laz. 6.2 (PG 48.1030). Peter’s rebuke of Ananias and Sapphira is an example (Hom. Act. 12.2 [PG 60.101]). The metaphor may derive from Aristotle, whom Seneca quotes as saying that “[some] passions serve as weapons” (Seneca, Ira 1.17.1). 137.  Exp. Ps. 4.7–8 (PG 55.50–51). If used correctly, anger can be a healing medicine (Exp. Ps. 148.4 [PG 55.491]). The appropriate time for anger is “not when we are defending ourselves, but when we are resisting the unruliness of others or reforming the indolent” (ῥᾳθυμοῦντας) (Hom. Matt. 16.7 [PG 57.248]). Anger is never appropriate “when we are shouting on our own behalf; but if it is necessary to correct others, then it certainly ought to be used to rescue others” (Hom. Act. 17.4 [PG 60.140]). See also ibid., 50.3 (PG 60. 348); Hom. Eph. 2.4 (PG 62.21).

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showed.138 As proof, Chrysostom points to the apostle’s interaction with the Corinthians over the man found to be living with his stepmother. Anger first impelled Paul to intervene. Had it not, he might have been deterred by the egregiousness of the transgression, the willful intransigence of the offender, and the complacent disregard of the community. But as it was, his feelings did not allow him to hold back. He did not say to himself, “What good would it do? What would be the use? He committed incest; he has sinned; he does not want to give up his licentious ways; he is arrogant and proud and has made his wound incurable. So let’s give up on him and leave him on his own.”139Instead, he was impelled to act. Like a physician who attends most closely to patients when they fall sick, he mobilized his anger “to deliver the Corinthians from a great outrage.”140 First, he sharply rebuked them for their slackness and failure to correct the sinner; then, he focused on the offender. The words he uttered were “full of anger,” and cut deeply.141 He told them “to hand this man over to Satan for the destruction of the flesh.” But the intent prompting the action was remedial: “so that his spirit might be saved in the day of the Lord” (1 Cor 5:5).142 Because Chrysostom understands Paul to be referring to the same person in 2 Cor 2:6, he is confident that this harsh treatment produced the desired outcome. After a period of repentance, the sinner was accepted back into the community at the apostle’s urging: “the punishment that was inflicted by the many is sufficient for such a person.”143 The incident, as a whole, proves that wrathful interventions can be beneficial and that Paul’s “frequent use of this emotion” reveals not an inclination toward harshness, but rather a loving personality.144 138.  Laud. Paul. 6.13 (SC 300.288). Paul is “the man-­to-­man fighter (μονομάχον), the lion . . . the hunting dog that brings down lions” (κύνα τὸν θηρατικὸν, τὸν λέοντας ἀναιροῦντα) (Hom. Act. 25.1 [PG 60.192]). Moses’s slaughter of Dathan and Abiram represents another apposite example. Chrysostom cites it against those who protest, “If he [i.e., Moses] was mild, who then was irascible and harsh?” (Exp. Ps. 131.1 [PG 55.380]). 139.  Adv. Jud. 8.3 (PG 48.931). 140.  [Λ]ύμης (Hom. Matt. 16.7 [PG 57.248]; Paenit. 1.2 [PG 49.280]). 141.  Hom. 1 Cor. 14.1 (PG 61.115). “See his anger” (Ὅρα θυμόν) (ibid., 15.2 [PG 61.123]); De mutatione nominum 3.1 (PG 51.132). 142.  Exp. Ps. 9.10 (PG 55.136–37); “Paul wounded (ἐτραυμάτισεν) the incestuous man among the Corinthians, but he saved him (ἔσωσε)” (De mutatione nominum 3.1 [PG 51.132]). The fact that Paul ordered that he be “handed over (as for instruction)” (Παραδοῦναι), rather than “given into Satan’s hands” (Ἐνδοῦναι), shows an intent to correct. Like the painful actions prescribed by a doctor, “the gain is greater than the punishment” (Hom. 1 Cor. 15.2 [PG 61.123–24]; see also Laz. 3.5 [PG 48.998]). 143.  Theod. laps. 8 (SC 117.116). Chrysostom cites the story as proof that some people are punished only in this world and not hereafter (Laz. 6.4 [PG 48.1031]). 144.  Theod. laps. 8 (SC 117.116); Ep. Olymp. 8.2c–3a (SC 13bis.162–66). Even Paul’s severity was remedial: “He did not cease frightening him, threatening him, punishing him both through his own efforts and through those of many others. He did everything and kept at it, until he brought the man to

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This stress on positive motivation sometimes leads Chrysostom to redefine the emotion. The conflict between Peter and Paul in Antioch is a case in point. Although Paul openly admits that he “opposed [Peter] to his face” (Gal 2:11), and rebuked him in front of everyone for having behaved hypocritically, Chrysostom does not describe him as motivated by anger. Nor does he attribute wrath to Peter. Although publically charged with having acted “in a cowardly and unmanly way” by someone of inferior status (and who had previously behaved in a similar manner), he kept silent and said nothing.145 But if the dynamics of the interchange hew closely to the classic model of anger arousal, Chrysostom resists analyzing it in these terms. To do so would be to find fault with one of the apostles: for if Paul was right to get angry, then Peter was at fault for dissembling, and if Peter behaved virtuously by reacting mildly, then Paul was wrong to accuse rashly. Instead, he presents the situation as a scripted teaching moment. Both apostles were motivated by a desire to correct the “Judaizing customs” practiced by the believers from Jerusalem, but realized that members of that group would not accept reproof from either one of them. They would have found Peter hypocritical (given his prior words and actions), and Paul unconvincing (given his reputation). Thus, instead of rebuking the delegation from James directly, the two apostles formed a plan. Peter arranged with Paul ahead of time that Paul should reprove him “in an exaggerated fashion and attack him, so that this fabricated rebuke might offer a . . . pretext” for correcting the Jewish believers.146 Peter’s silence was an essential part of this strategy: by implicitly accepting Paul’s critique, he conveyed their common understanding. Through this ingenious explanation, Chrysostom turns a situation that appeared to be one of heated confrontation into one of apostolic concord. Instead of feeling passion, Paul simulated anger “in order to correct” others. It was an instance of “good management.”147 recognize his sin, to perceive his transgression. And, finally, he freed him from every stain” (Adv. Jud. 8.3 [PG 48.931]). As Margaret Mitchell has shown, Chrysostom modeled himself on Paul (Mitchell, Heavenly Trumpet); see also Brottier, L’Appel des “demi-­chrétiens,” 119–26. Occasionally, he notes that he has gotten swept away by his feelings and shown too much anger—­even when preaching on gentleness! (Hom. Matt. 30.5–6 [PG 57.369]). 145.  [Δ]ειλὸς . . . καὶ ἄνανδρος (In illud: In faciem ei restiti 4 [PG 51.375]). Yet, in his first letter to the Corinthians, Paul boasted that he made it a practice to accommodate his actions to others (1 Cor 9:19–23). Not only did Paul reprove Peter in front of the community, but he also recorded the verbal attack in his letter to the Galatians, “as though inscribing it in letters on a column” (In illud: In faciem ei restiti 3 [PG 51.374]). 146.  My understanding of Chrysostom’s view of this quarrel as well as my summary is indebted to Margaret Mitchell’s concise formulation (“Peter’s ‘Hypocrisy’ and Paul’s,” 232, quoting In illud: In faciem ei restiti 17 [PG 51.385]). 147.  “He spoke words full of anger, not himself feeling this way (i.e., incensed), but in order to correct them” (Hom. 1 Cor. 14.1 [PG 61.115]). “I would not say that it was anger, pure and simple, but rather

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Jesus’s cleansing of the Temple forms another example of this strategic use of anger. The placement of the incident, Chrysostom observes, differs among the gospel accounts. Instead of coming directly before the Passion, as in Matthew, John locates the episode early in Jesus’s ministry, immediately after Jesus performs the first of his signs in Cana. On the basis of this different chronology as well as some lexical variation, Chrysostom concludes that Jesus cleansed the Temple twice.148 But instead of taking this reiteration as an invitation to linger on its importance, Chrysostom discusses the episode only in his homilies on John and then with notable brevity. A straightforward reading of the gospel account would suggest that Jesus felt anger, and from the preacher’s own remarks, it seems that he expected his congregation would understand the passage in precisely this way: “‘And why,’ one of you will ask, ‘did Christ act in this way and show a kind of vehemence (sphodrotēti) against these people that he seemed to show nowhere else—­even when insulted and reviled (hybrizomenos, loidoroumenos) by others, and called a Samaritan and a demoniac? Nor was he satisfied with words alone, but grabbing a whip, he drove them out with it.’”149 The question they raise is not whether Jesus felt angry—­since this seems obvious from the attack on the merchants—­but why his anger was triggered by this situation and not, as they would have expected, by insult. But even while acknowledging this puzzle, Chrysostom sidesteps it. Instead of using one of the usual words for anger (orgē or thymos) to describe Jesus’s feelings, he substitutes the more ambiguous term vehemence, which, while retaining a connection to the heat of anger, gestures toward the verse from Psalm 69 (“Zeal [zēlon] for your house will consume me”), with which the evangelist glosses the account. The meaning of the incident, he concludes, is pedagogical: by showing zeal for the Temple, Jesus preemptively corrected any suspicion that he acted in opposition to God or to the Law when he later healed on the Sabbath. Although his actions may have appeared angry to onlookers, this interpretation was faulty: he was simply strongly impressing upon them a particular lesson. Displays of divine anger—­such as earthquake, famine, pestilence—­function in a similar manner.150 To those who understand their message, they convey the right thinking, solicitude and good management” (ἀλλὰ φιλοσοφίαν, καὶ κηδεμονίαν, καὶ οἰκονομίαν) (Exp. Ps. 4.7 [PG 55.51]). 148.  The lexical variation concerns the description of the Temple (“a den of thieves” [σπήλαιον λῃστῶν] in Mt 21:13, or “a house of business” [οἶκον ἐμπορίου] in Jn 2:16), and the reaction of the Jews (silence, or asking for a sign). In his homilies on Matthew, Chrysostom comments on the episode: “John says this too, but at the beginning of his Gospel, whereas this one [i.e., Matthew] towards the end. Hence, it is likely that this was done twice, and at different times” (Hom. Matt. 67.1 [PG 58.631]). 149.  Hom. Jo. 23.2 (PG 59.140). 150.  Hom. Rom. 3.1 (PG 60.411); Laz. 6.2 (PG 48.1030).

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offensive nature of sin and God’s power to exact vengeance. But unlike humans, who strike back in the heat of passion, intending to injure and humiliate, God’s wrath is benevolent and aims only to correct; his punishments are driven by concern and a desire to repair a relationship and restore closeness.151 This positive spin on divine anger seems not to have been wholly convincing to Chrysos­ tom’s audience. They protested that God’s nature was to be merciful rather than wrathful.152 But modern studies of anger would side with Chrysostom; they point out that anger usually occurs not among strangers but among those bound closely together and typically signals a desire not to damage the relationship but rather to improve it by drawing attention to an issue that needs to be addressed.153 This firm belief in the potentially positive role of anger informs John’s household advice. In order to correct and discipline subordinate members of the household, such as children and slaves, anger may be necessary, but its aid should always be invoked correctly—­that is, with restraint and the intent to help others improve.154 C O N C LU SIO N

We see, then, that although Chrysostom rejects anger as a response to an undeserved slight, he is prepared to grant it a role in the protection of the community. When properly directed, its vigorous energy can impel a person to drive off hostile attacks and correct internal problems. This redefinition of the social logic of anger is captured in a shift in metaphor. The image of the heroic lion, which had perfectly expressed the elite, honor-­loving warrior with a hair-­trigger sensitivity to insult, yields to that of the dog: a subordinate servant to the shepherd. As long as the dog’s aggression is kept tightly controlled and focused on the welfare of the flock, it can be a valuable ally, but if it is allowed to run wild and wreak havoc, it must be destroyed. It is the residual wildness of dogs, their propensity to revert to savagery, that explains Chrysostom’s use of the adjective “shameless,” and justifies his application of the image to anger. 151.  Stat. 7.2 (PG 49.94); Laz. 3.5 (PG 48.998). Because the divine nature is passionless, “even if [God] punishes, even if he takes vengeance, he does this not out of anger, but out of loving kindness and great concern” (Theod. laps. 4 [SC 117.94–96]). 152.  Hom. Rom. 25.4–5 (PG 60.632–35). Natural catastrophes “are unworthy of divine providence” (Stat. 7.3 [PG 49.94]). For Chrysostom’s response to earthquakes, see Roosien, “Liturgical Commemoration,” esp. 112–29. 153. Oatley, Passionate Muse, 138–39, citing Averill, Anger and Aggression. 154.  Fathers and slave owners “often need the help that comes from anger” (thymos) (Inan. glor. 69.835–37 [SC 188.168]). Because fathers do not wish to punish their children, “they assume [the appearance of] anger through their words” (Exp. Ps. 7.12 [PG 55.99]; see also Stat. 7.3 [PG 49.94]; Adv. Jud. 8.6 [PG 48.937]).

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The vast majority of Chrysostom’s energy, however, is devoted to allaying rather than to championing anger and to this end he presents arguments and strategies whereby his listeners can tamp down their own rage and calm the wrath of others. For him, as for Aristotle, anger is almost completely defined by its social logic. Like the philosopher, he typically locates the cause of anger in an undeserved slight and accepts that a slight can feel undeserved not only when it is untrue, but also when it comes out of the mouth of a social inferior. He too recognizes that the pain of being slighted depends largely on interpersonal context. An insult delivered in private stings little, but one flung in public, before a large or honorable audience, bites deeply. As a remedy, he advocates some behavioral strategies, such as silence, ritual gestures, and withdrawal, all of which have a strongly social impact. But much more often, he recommends cognitive approaches. Contextualizing slights by placing them within the broad spectrum of social opinion or within the sweep of a given relationship is especially effective. Another useful context to consider is that of the person offering insult. Especially in quarrels with one’s wife, it is helpful to try to enter into her narrative perspective and imagine her feelings. Scripture offers a final kind of contextualization. One can diminish any slight, no matter how public or unjust, by comparing it with the insults endured by Christ in his passion or the blasphemies hurled at God every day. The pleasure of anger is also deeply social. It springs from the prospect of revenge as well as from the assertion, implicit in any open display of rage, that one has the status and power to redress insult. Chrysostom’s advice for calming rage targets this pleasure. In its place, he occasionally offers the pleasure of reconciliation, but he seems to have recognized the limitations of this appeal. Far more often, he diminishes the attractiveness of anger by evoking disgust and pity for the enraged. He directs this strategy not only toward those who had the social standing to indulge their rage, but also toward those who lacked the standing but desired to acquire it, as well as those who simply enjoyed watching the angry confrontations of others. As a social program, it was deliberately broad. It aimed at reforming not only the few elite but also the many non-­elite members of his community. The approach is rational and considered. But emotions, especially those that have long enjoyed cultural approbation and to which pleasure is attached, tend to resist reformation. Chrysostom’s central task is thus to make mildness appear attractive. Blanket assertions, such as “vanquishing enemies does not make rulers so glorious as conquering wrath and anger,” attest to this effort.155 But on their 155.  Stat. 6.3 (PG 49.84). “Humans resemble God” when they do not respond angrily to insult, contempt, or scorn (Hom. Rom. 3.4 [PG 60.416]). In a homily on Matthew, John lists four benefits accrued by reacting meekly to insult: first (and greatest), deliverance from sin; second, endurance and patience; third, gentleness and loving kindness; fourth, continual cleansing from anger (Hom. Matt. 61.5 [PG 58.594–95]).

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own, they lack force; thus he turns to stories. These flesh out and make memorable the cognitive arguments against rage, but they also do more. To explain this added benefit, Chrysostom returns to the image of a mirror. This, as we recall, was a common trope in anger management literature: as an aid in curbing wrath, people were urged to imagine the sight of their own face disfigured by rage. In Chrysostom’s hands, the mirror still reveals deformity, but it does so only indirectly. By showing the beautiful image of self-­control, it evokes longing. In his words: In this case too there is a spiritual mirror (katoptron . . . pneumatikon) and a much better and more useful one [than the one at a barber’s shop]. For it not only shows deformity, but it also changes it into inconceivable beauty—­if we are willing. This mirror is the memory (mnēmē) of good men, and the story (historia) of their blessed life; the reading of Scriptures, the laws given by God. If you are willing to look only once on the portraits of those holy men, you will see the ugliness of your own disposition and, having seen this, will need nothing else to be set free from that disgraceful conduct. For the mirror is useful for this also: it makes change easy.156

The images in this mirror are distillations of stories. Sometimes they are captured only fleetingly—­as in his brief remarks on Hannah or on Cain and Abel, but at other times, the portrait is studied and prolonged.157 One of the finest instances of this technique occurs in his homilies on David and Saul. There he presents what is, in effect, a counter-­narrative to that of Achilles. In place of the lion-­like warrior, whose rage triggered by Agamemnon’s slight fueled the action of the Iliad, he presents David, who, despite multiple incitements to anger, resisted the temptation to revenge. Inscribing the Lesson: David and Saul These homilies were delivered during a particularly tense time in the city of Antioch. In the spring of 387, rioting had broken out in reaction to a new tax levy. During the melee, statues of the imperial family had been toppled and dragged in the dust. A grave insult to Emperor Theodosius, this action had potentially catastrophic results. Thus, as soon as calm had been restored, local officials took action to blunt the force of the emperor’s anticipated ire. They summarily executed a handful of culprits and dispatched couriers to inform the emperor. Bishop Flavian also set off for the capital to intercede on behalf of the citizens. Those left behind in Antioch could do little other than await the outcome. It is in this context that Chrysostom preached his most famous sequence of homilies, On the Statues. But before concluding this series, he turned to the story 156.  Hom. Matt. 4.8 (PG 57.49) 157.  Mitchell first noted Chrysostom’s fondness for verbal portraits, both simple and elaborated (Heavenly Trumpet, 69–93).

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of David and Saul, as related in 1 Samuel: 18, 24, and 26. These three homilies are devoted explicitly to the topic of anger and, in particular, to the virtue of David, who, despite repeated and intense provocation resisted its pleasure. Certainly, the message was topical.158 But it was also universal. Like all good preachers, Chrysostom seized a powerful political moment to drive home his message. He announces his theme from the outset and states his intention to pursue it “pedagogically.” By this, he means that he will develop it gradually over several days and not move on to a new point until he is certain that the previously covered material has been grasped.159 This is, of course, exactly the approach he urged fathers to adopt when teaching their children. His technique will be that of a grammarian, who teaches by drawing a model for students to copy. Through his words, he will provide “a kind of archetypal image” for his listeners to imitate.160 In order to present David’s impressive mildness most clearly, Chrysostom must first sketch Saul’s mounting rage. Thus he begins by recounting the warriors’ return from battle, when women came out to greet them, “dancing, singing, and saying, ‘Saul smote them [i.e., the enemy] in his thousands, and David in his tens of thousands.’” At this perceived slight to his honor, Saul’s anger was aroused. Immediately, Chrysostom challenges the rational basis of this reaction. Even if the women’s words had been unjust and unfairly diminished Saul’s prowess, he could have avoided a hostile reaction by recalling his long experience of David’s good will and labors on his behalf—­that is, by setting the remark in context. But since the comparison was actually generous, the king should have reflected on the truth of the situation. He would then have felt grateful that thousands had been attributed to him, when he had, in fact, stayed home in fear and trembling. Indeed, if anyone should have felt irked, it was David, who had to share the glory of victory, when he had done everything himself. And even if the women had spoken falsely, it was surely they who deserved blame, not David, who had neither composed the song nor persuaded them to sing it. But Saul forgave the women and proceeded against David. Such animosity would have been reasonable, John concedes, had 158.  Hill has argued that the homilies formed a powerful, if indirect, appeal to Theodosius to stay his wrath and to exercise clemency (St. John Chrysostom, Old Testament Homilies: Homilies on Hannah, David and Saul, 6–7). How exactly this message might have reached the emperor, however, and whether it did so remains unclear. The only sure audience for this message was the congregation assembled before John Chrysostom. 159.  Teachers do not move on to discuss syllables until they see that children have correctly learnt the form of the letters (Dav. 1.1 [CCSG 70.3–4]). 160.  Building on the work of Mitchell, Lai has explored Chrysostom’s use of “exemplar portraits.” His interest, however, is largely rhetorical and consists of identifying progymnasmatic elements. Thus, although his second chapter discusses David, he is not concerned with anger or with the uses of narrative. The observation that “the Israelite king is more often than not presented as an exemplary lay person par excellence,” however, is well founded (“John Chrysostom,” 111).

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David taken advantage of the situation and exploited the praise to insult Saul and “spit on his kingship.” But David was not conceited. He continued to defer to Saul and “in everything gave way and was obedient.”161 When Saul subsequently devised a novel form of bride price in order “to expose him to the enemy on the pretext of marriage,” David still “judged the affair from the viewpoint of his gentleness.” He initially declined the marriage not out of animosity or fear, but rather out of humility. Later, after marrying Michal, when Saul again tried to kill him by throwing a spear at him, he simply “got out of the way.” “Would anyone,” Chrysostom expostulates, “even the most philosophical, not be moved to anger by this, and . . . do away with the unjust schemer?” But David did not retaliate or plot revenge. Instead, he chose to flee into exile. His desire was not to take vengeance but to effect a cure: by withdrawing himself from Saul’s sight, he sought “to bring down the swelling, check the inflammation and allay the malice.”162 At this point, Chrysostom interrupts the story to draw the appropriate moral. In this case, it is not about anger—­since Saul was never insulted by David, his hostile reaction cannot be ascribed to this emotion—­but rather about hatred: an entrenched state of animosity. He exhorts his listeners directly: Let us not only hear this, but also imitate it, and let us continue doing and suffering everything so as to rid our enemies of their hatred towards us. Let us investigate not whether they feel hatred towards us rightly or wrongly, but this alone: how they might no longer be at enmity with us. For the doctor aims at this: how to free the sick person from his illness, not whether he brought the sickness on himself rightly or wrongly. You, then, are the doctor of your aggressor. Seek one thing only: how you might remove his ailment.163

Instead of responding to hostility in kind, they should regard insults as symptoms of illness. Like a doctor, they should remain calm and focus on effective treatment—­that is, reconciliation. How are they to do this? By internalizing the example of David, who despite repeated provocation, not only remained in control of his temper, but also “chose to flee, to be exiled from his ancestral home, to become a wanderer and a fugitive,” rather than avenge himself on Saul.164 John is not unrealistic about the success of this course of action. The story itself testifies to the fact that gentleness is not always effective in allaying anger. Instead 161.  Dav. 1.2–3 (CCSG 70.9–12). 162.  Even in exile, he continued to show goodwill, and when he learned of Saul’s death in battle, he lamented bitterly (Dav. 2.5 [CCSG 70.43]). 163.  Dav. 1.4 (CCSG 70.14–15) 164.  Dav. 1.4 (CCSG 70.14). The same point is made in Hom. Gen. 52.2 (PG 54.459), citing Rom 12:19, “Yield ground to anger.”

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of calming down, Saul continued to pursue David, but in doing so, he fell into his hands. When the king turned aside to relieve himself, he chose the cave where David was hiding with his men. The soldiers, seeing their enemy helpless, urged David to take vengeance. They pointed out to him, “Here is the day, just as the Lord said, ‘I will give your enemy into your hands, and you shall do with him what is pleasing in your sight.’” Scripture gives no indication of their thoughts, but Chrysostom takes the opportunity to unfold the reasons prompting their thirst for vengeance. Although silent, they were surely thinking: We have become wanderers and fugitives, and have been exiled from our homes and country and everything else, and have shared all your difficulties. Are you, having in your hands the cause of all of these misfortunes, really considering releasing him, with the result that we shall never have rest from these afflictions? Are you so eager to save your enemy that you would hand over your friends? How is this right? Even if you have no regard for your own safety, spare our lives. Are you not pained by what has happened? Do you not remember the terrible things that you suffered at his hands? For the sake of the future, destroy him, so that we may not suffer greater and worse evils.165

They foreground their current suffering in order to make a case for the future: they argue that leniency will only encourage further aggression. Not only was this a widespread sentiment, but they were soldiers: “trained in waging war, made desperate by their many toils, longing to rest a little, and aware that complete release from their troubles lay in the murder of their enemy at that time.”166 Implicit in their appeal is an accusation that for David to spare Saul would be to devalue their suffering, and even to hold their lives cheap. They try to fan his anger by recalling past injuries and offenses. Many among his listeners, Chrysostom knows, do the same: they harbor resentment and hold on to grudges.167 But by far the most insidious aspect of their appeal lies in their attempt to influence David by invoking divine judgment. Instead of dwelling on the evils that he himself had suffered from Saul, they remind him of his obligation to serve God. They said, “God has surrendered him,” but they meant, “Surely you will avenge yourself.”168 This narrative expansion once again underlines the social logic of anger. It shows how readily and plausibly others can exacerbate anger and promote revenge. By recalling Saul’s acts of gratuitous aggression, predicting that this behavior will continue in the future, and suggesting that God himself would approve of violent 165.  Dav. 1.4 (CCSG 70.16). 166.  Dav. 1.5 (CCSG 70.17). 167.  Hom. Matt. 79.4 (PG 58.722); Dav. 3.3 (CCSG 70.56–58). 168.  Μὴ γὰρ σαυτὸν ἐκδικεῖς; (Dav. 1.5 [CCSG 70.18]).

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resolution, the soldiers are aiming to stoke David’s anger. The fact then that David was not swayed by the soldiers’ malice toward Saul, or by his own fear that they might kill him for sparing the enemy, is another aspect of his remarkable virtue. Withstanding social pressure is far from easy, as Chrysostom knew well. “It often happens that we ourselves have decided to put aside our anger and forgive someone their offenses, but when we see people stirring up our anger and egging us on, we reverse our decision, having been influenced by their words.”169 The more the men said, however, the more David remained resolute and focused on “the crown of forbearance.” He triumphed over the “double obstacle” of his own anger as well as the efforts of his men to incite him to vengeance. The effect of this description is to enhance the nobility of gentleness, to make non-­retaliation a sign of victorious combat rather than of social weakness.170 Chrysostom pauses to drive the message home by addressing his congregation directly: “In your case, then, when you see your enemy fall into your hands, consider it to be an occasion not for punishing but for saving.” The moral is powerful, but the ­homily does not end on this note. Instead, the preacher imagines his listeners rejecting his narrative analysis on the grounds, first, that David did not have Saul securely in his power, and thus deserves no credit for sparing him, and second, that he cannot really serve as a model for them, because he did not experience the kind of emotions “normally felt” in such a situation. These objections allow Chrysostom to revisit the situation, and to explore David’s inner thoughts and feelings. As he lists the factors urging David to retaliate against Saul, it is hard not to appreciate their compelling force. They include not only the thoughts and circumstances that he has already discussed, such as “Saul’s lack of helpers, the soldier’s urging, the recollection of past events, and the fear of what would happen,” but also new considerations, such as the thought that killing his enemy would not be held against him in the future, and that he could later atone for the murder by surpassing all the requirements of the Law.171 That David resisted these thoughts makes his restraint more meritorious, but it also raises the question of whether his mildness was attributable to insensibility. Was he simply cool by nature and less prone to anger? In response, Chrysostom emphasizes the depth of David’s feelings by returning to his preferred metaphors for anger: an internal raging conflagration, a frenzied bucking horse, and a ship buffeted by billows of anger and tossed by a great tempest of thoughts.172 As evidence of his inner turmoil, 169.  Dav. 1.5 (CCSG 70.17). 170.  “Note the contest, the victory, the crown: that cave was an arena” (Dav. 1.4 [CCSG 70.16]); “he wrestled and won and was crowned” (ibid., 2.1 [CCSG 70.30]). On this point, see also Hom. Matt. 42.2, 62.5 (PG 57.454, 58.602). 171.  Dav. 1.5 (CCSG 70.19). 172.  Dav. 1.5, 2.2 (CCSG 70.19–20, 33–34).

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­ hrysostom points to the aggressive act of cutting off a corner of Saul’s cloak. C To his mind, this proves conclusively that “anger had struck” David, and that he reacted accordingly. “For how much difference is there between a person’s body and his clothing?”173 But as soon as David committed this act, he regretted it and reined in his anger with the words, “The Lord forbid.” Chrysostom marvels over these words. Who would say such a thing, when everyone’s first instinct is to call on God for vengeance? But instead of invoking curses, this man “made his prayer in a completely opposite way.” By saying, “The Lord forbid that I should raise my hand against him,” he asked God not to allow him to avenge himself.174 To prayer, David added reflection. Seeing Saul asleep, he considered how quickly anger passes: it is wiped away by sleep, and even more surely erased by death—­an event that swiftly overtakes everyone.175 To these thoughts, he added excuses. He could not defend Saul on the grounds that he had not been wronged or suffered abuse, since the soldiers knew otherwise, so instead he cited Saul’s status as “the Lord’s anointed.” As officers of the emperor deserve respect, no matter how vicious they may be, because of the dignity of the one commissioning them, so Saul merited honor because God had chosen him.176 With these words, he calmed the men and gentled their rage. He imposed discipline on them not like a military figure, Chrysostom concludes, but like a priest or a bishop. And after delivering this “homily,” he offered a sacrifice, not of an animal but of something much more valuable: “having set up votive gifts to God of gentleness and mildness, he sacrificed irrational anger and slaughtered rage.”177 David’s respectful words allow Chrysostom to draw another lesson. Whereas most people, when enraged, omit polite forms of address and add insults such as “depraved,” “crazy,” “insane,” “madman,” and “destroyer,” David used Saul’s title, calling him “anointed” and acknowledging him as his own lord.178 He honored him, despite the fact that Saul referred to him as “son of Jesse,” a Hebraic idiom that Chrysostom interprets as an intentional slight revealing personal enmity and a desire to damage the young man’s reputation by recalling his undistinguished background. David’s response was a model his listeners should follow: “You then, beloved, emulate this man, and learn first never to call your enemy by abusive names 173.  [Ἐ]πύκτευε δὲ ὁ θυμὸς (Dav. 1.4 [CCSG 70.16]); Καίτοι πόσον τοῦ σώματος ἦν καὶ τοῦ ἱματίου τὸ μέσον; (ibid., 1.6 [CCSG 70.20]). 174.  Dav. 1.6 (CCSG 70.21). Hannah is also praised for not praying for vengeance on Peninnah (Anna 1.6 [PG 54.641]). 175.  Dav. 2.2 (CCSG 70.34). 176.  Dav. 1.6 (CCSG 70.22). 177.  Dav. 2.1 (CCSG 70.31–32). 178.  [Τ]ὸν μιαρὸν, τὸν μαινόμενον, τὸν ἐξεστηκότα, τὸν παραπαίοντα, τὸν λυμεῶνα (Dav. 1.6 [CCSG 70.23]). “Becoming enraged in reviling and insults, we disparage our enemies as filth and vile filth” (μιαροὺς καὶ παμμιάρους) (Hom. Act. 50.3 [PG 60.348]).

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but by respectful ones. For if your mouth is accustomed to calling the aggressor by a name that is respectful and soothing, the soul, on hearing this, will learn from the tongue and, as it becomes accustomed by it, will accept reconciliation with him. Words themselves will be the best remedy for an inflamed heart.”179 Proof of this assertion lies in the end of the story. Even after David was forced into exile because of Saul’s implacable rage, he continued to speak well of the king, and when news of his tragic death reached him, he lamented bitterly over him.180 Deferential language can also cool the anger of others. When David wanted to correct the false rumors fueling Saul’s anger, he called out after him, “My lord King.”181 He then supported this verbal declaration of loyalty by adducing concrete evidence of his goodwill. “See the border of the cloak in my hand, which I removed, without killing you.” The proof was incontrovertible because Saul himself had provided it.182 At this, the king’s anger cooled and he spoke gently, “Is this your voice, my child David?”183 Such an ability to calm the frenzy of others, John notes, is even more admirable than controlling one’s own anger. And it is on this familiar point that he concludes the short homiletic series. Instead of simply marveling at David’s actions, his listeners should imitate them. When they have an enemy in their power, they should focus not on retribution or revenge, but on how they could “heal him . . . and bring him back to gentleness.”184 Ideally, they would not wait for that moment, but show initiative in seeking reconciliation: “Having gone out and tracked down our enemies, one by one, let us seek to be reconciled with them and make real friends of them. Even if it is necessary to apologize and ask their forgiveness, let us not refuse to do so—­even if we are the ones who have been wronged.”185 Chrysostom’s interpretation of this biblical story is notable for its concerted attention to the interpersonal dynamics of anger. He enters the minds of the characters, unfolds their feelings, and explains their causes. In his retelling of the 179.  Dav. 1.6 (CCSG 70.23–24). 180.  Dav. 2.5 (CCSG 70.43). He did not say anything slanderous about him, “even though the person who was insulted would not have heard him” (In illud: Si esurierit inimicus 7 [PG 51.185]). 181.  Dav. 2.3 (CCSG 70.36). 182.  “Of these things [i.e., that I have been slandered and falsely accused], I call as witness none other than you yourself, that you have been well treated by me” (Dav. 2.4 [CCSG 70.40]; In illud: Si esurierit inimicus 7 [PG 51.185]). The fact that David did not become conceited because he had conferred a favor on Saul is a further mark of his virtue, given that most people, “despise and hold in contempt those to whom they have rendered services, as though they were slaves captured in war” (Dav. 2.3 [CCSG 70.36–37]). 183.  Dav. 3.5 (CCSG 70.63–64). 184.  Dav. 3.7 (CCSG 70.69). “It lies within us, not the enraged, both to quench and to cause their anger to burn with a brighter flame” (ibid., [CCSG 70.70]). 185.  Dav. 3.9 (CCSG 70.77). For the language of friendship in these homilies, see Verhoeff, “Seeking Friendship with Saul.”

Anger    59

narrative, we find compressed much of the advice (restraint, reflection, prayer, deference, and retreat) that he labors elsewhere. Vivid narrative details flesh out the spare biblical account, sharpen the conflict, and make it memorable. The true power of the story, however, lies not in its illustration of certain forms of behavior but in its imaginative quality. For most people, Chrysostom notes, “judge others on the basis of their own behavior.”186 They need help imagining different kinds of reactions. Narratives, if convincingly told, can do just that. In Chrysostom’s day, the dominant narratives were still those of the classical canon, and few stories were more deeply embedded than that of the anger of Achilles, who remained determined to silence the laughter of his enemies and avenge every insult to his honor. In order to replace these deeply internalized values, Chrysostom had to dislodge the narratives. His retelling of the story of David presents, in fact, a striking contrast with the legend of Achilles. Neither man was honored appropriately for his military accomplishments by his commanding officer. But whereas Achilles reacted immediately with hot anger, David restrained himself and responded mildly. Both men retreated, although their motives for doing so differed. The former stoked his rage by reciting his grievances and rebuffing the conciliatory efforts of others; the latter repeatedly resisted invitations to remember offenses and tried to soothe the hostility of his men. When they were each presented with the opportunity to help the person who had slighted them, Achilles famously refused. But David acted always for Saul’s benefit. These points of convergence show how consistently Chrysostom overwrote a traditional narrative and with it an entrenched system of beliefs and values. In so doing, he proves that emotions are malleable rather than fixed.187 Anger is not the inevitable result of an intentional, undeserved slight. The story also helped in overcoming one of the primary difficulties in combating anger. This was not simply its social support—­the fact that most people believed that it would be stupid and shameful not to take vengeance on an aggressor if given the opportunity—­but also from its pleasure, a sensation rooted in the prospect of revenge. In order to effect change, Chrysostom has to convince his ­listeners that they want to react differently. He needs to evoke their desire, and he does so by telling a story. In order to be effective, it must be well told. It must seem not only plausible, but also delightful, because pleasure is the means by which it can benefit its listeners. By giving delight, it elicits approval, prompts identification, and courts desire. The first of these three intertwined steps is awakening admiration: getting listeners to approve of David’s actions 186.  Dav. 2.4 (CCSG 70.39). “Having once been seized by anger, therefore, this man [i.e., Saul] would not readily believe that a person could so prevail over this feeling that not only would he not harm, but he would actually save the person who had mistreated him.” 187.  Gross, “Emotion Regulation,” esp. 505–6.

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and commend his forbearance.188 Thus Chrysostom stresses David’s nobility, courage, self-­control, and easy dominance over his men. The second is arousing fellow feeling: reducing the perception of difference between their situation and that of David. In Chrysostom’s retelling of the story, we see him deliberately pulling his listeners into the narration, inviting them to imagine the scene and enter into the character’s feelings. These he heightens by passages of inserted dialogue and reported thoughts. His aim, in the first instance, is the powerful re-­creation of a feeling state, and thus he immerses his listeners in a scenario of revenge. No one listening to Chrysostom’s retelling can think that they suffer more provocation than David, or that David was unusually insensible and less inclined to anger. But then he disrupts the expected sequence and traces a story of forgiveness. At the same time, he invites his listeners to recall their own interpersonal conflicts and to reassess them in light of the narrative: Let no one say to me, I have a depraved, evil, corrupt, and incorrigible enemy. Whatever you say, he cannot possibly be worse than Saul, who, although saved once—­ twice—­multiple times—­by David, personally laid countless plots against him and then, despite having been shown kindness in return, remained obdurate and persisted in his wickedness. What charge can you bring, after all? That [your enemy] partitioned your land? That he harmed you with respect to your fields? That he transgressed the boundaries of your household? That he stole a slave? That he insulted and defrauded you, and drove you into penury? But he hasn’t yet taken your life, which that man made every effort to do. And if he has made an effort to take your life, he dared to do it perhaps once—­not twice or thrice or many times over, as that man did. And if he did try it once and twice and thrice and many times, he was not shown kindness to the same degree: he did not fall into your hands once or twice and have his life spared. And even if this did happen, David still has very much the advantage.189

Through the story, he encourages people to reencounter their own experiences of anger and hatred, even as his commentary forces them to step back from their emotional engagement and analyze the situation. By challenging their thinking while they experience the emotion, he hopes to transform them. The third step is arousing emulous desire, stirring in them a longing for the same disposition and reward. To this end, he casts the struggle against anger in heroic terms. In triumphing over the desire for revenge, David achieved a far greater and more conspicuous victory than when he slew Goliath.190 Kingly and priestly metaphors buttress the point that Saul’s hostility—­far from harming 188.  Dav. 2.1 (CCSG 70.29). 189.  Dav. 3.3 (CCSG 70.56). 190.  He crushed his anger not with the help of a slingshot and stones, but by thought alone, and his trophy was deposited not in Jerusalem, but in heaven; it was acclaimed not by women, but by angels (Dav. 2.2 [PG 54.688–89]).

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David—­brought him glory and undying praise.191 It provided the arena in which his resolve could be tested and proved, and from which he could emerge with “a crown of forbearance.” The metaphorical language gains from the known outcome of the story. Because Chrysostom’s listeners know that David ascended an actual throne, amassed staggering wealth, and enjoyed widespread renown, the preacher’s promise that they too can accrue honor and benefit by reacting mildly to insult seems more real.192 Whereas the concept of a role model can seem rather static, Chrysostom stresses the dynamic process by which his listeners should assimilate David’s likeness and behavior. They should engrave the narrative upon their inner selves and continually refresh it. Chrysostom announces this inscriptive goal at the outset of his first homily and returns to it at the end: “Let each of us, therefore, paint (zōgrapheitō) this story on our own hearts, continually engraving (hypographōn) in our thoughts, as if by hand, the double cave, Saul sleeping inside, as though held in the shackles of sleep, exposed to the sword hand of the man whom he had greatly wronged, David standing over the sleeping figure, the soldiers standing near, urging him on to slaughter, that blessed man reasoning rightly and restraining his own anger (thymon) and that of the men, and defending the person who had acted so offensively.”193 The scene is striking both for its arrested motion and for its vivid visual quality. In one frame, it distills the entire narrative arc and sums up the preacher’s message that a person need not react angrily to insult. In its pointed economy, it recalls an amulet, an inscribed object with protective p ­ owers, and Chrysostom certainly stresses its prophylactic benefits. At the moment when a person is slighted and feels the desire to retaliate, this image, once fully internalized, will come to mind and effectively gentle wrath. In the third homily, he revisits the calming powers of the story, invoking a different therapeutic image: “Just as those with ailments of the eyes hold on to sponges and rags of dark blue cloth, and by looking at them constantly derive from that color some alleviation of their sickness, so you too, if you keep the image of David before your eyes, and stare at it continually, even if anger (thymos) troubles and disturbs the eye of your intellect a thousand times, by looking at that stamp (charaktēra) of virtue, you will receive perfect health and pure right thinking.”194 The soothing function of the image recalls Chrysostom’s advice that listeners should trace the sign of the cross upon their chest at the first signs of rising anger. Taken as an isolated 191.  Dav. 3.3–4 (CCSG 70.58–59). 192.  If the denigrating comments are false, they will receive a martyr’s crown. If true, they can still benefit, by using them to amend their faults (Dav. 3.3–5 [CCSG 70.58–61]; see also ibid., 2.3, 3.7 [CCSG 70.36, 71]). Plutarch makes the same argument (Inim. util.); but Chrysostom’s acquaintance with Plutarch is now disputed (Roskam, “Plutarch’s Influence”). 193.  Dav. 1.7 (PG 54.686). 194.  Dav. 3.2 (PG 54.698).

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gesture, that action might also seem apotropaic or even medical in nature, but when read in context, its link to biblical story is overwhelmingly apparent. The sign of the cross calms anger and allays vengeful wrath because it recalls the narrative of Christ’s extraordinary gentleness under a barrage of abusive actions and reviling words.195 Nothing, John believes, is as efficacious as stories. “It is impossible,” he insists, “impossible, I say, for a soul nourished on these stories ever to manage to fall victim to passion.”

195.  Hom. Matt. 87.1–3 (PG 58.769–73). The name of Jesus and the power of the cross is a powerful incantation against the devil and the passions (Hom. Rom. 8.7 [PG 60.463]).

2

Grief

Greek, like English, has a rich and nuanced vocabulary for sadness. In addition to the general word for grief (lypē), which can refer to physical as well as mental suffering, it includes technical terms for mourning (penthos) and melancholy (melancholia), as well as names for related feeling-­states, such as anguish (agōnia), and despair (apognōsis). Chrysostom uses all of these words, sometimes interchangeably, but his most characteristic term is athymia, a term that combines the notion of sadness with that of a lack of spirit.1 “Despondency” is the closest idiomatic rendering, but its antiquarian tone fails to capture the affect’s undeniable intensity. Thus, despite the risk of inconsistency, I have chosen to translate it variously not only as despondency, but also as grief, sadness, depression, and sorrow. Athymia is not a biblical word and, as Ulrich Volp points out, is rarely used by other contemporary Christian authors.2 Libanius makes frequent use of it, however, so it is possible that Chrysostom adopted it from his teacher.3 In any case, he certainly made it his own, employing it over eight hundred times.

1.  Unlike other eastern ascetic writers (such as Evagrius), Chrysostom does not reserve penthos to describe sorrow over sin: “When we, or others, sin, then only is it a good thing to grieve (λυπεῖσθαι, not πενθεῖν); but when we fall into human misfortunes, despondency (ἀθυμίας) has no beneficial effect” (Hom. Jo. 78.1 [PG 59.419]). Ulrich Volp suggests that acēdia carries a stronger sense of reproach (“That Unclean Spirit,” 281–83); a view repeated by Liebeschuetz (Ambrose and John Chrysostom, 159). See also Brottier, “Un Jeu de mots intraduisible.” 2.  Volp, “That Unclean Spirit,” 281. 3.  Jonathan Wilcoxson informs me that the only other author who makes abundant use of athymia is Libanius (pers. com.). Wright notes that the term is also used by the Stoic philosopher, Chrysippus

63

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The realities of pastoral care were no doubt partly responsible for focusing John’s attention on sorrow, and his remarks shed light on the contours of everyday life and its typical losses, as well as on his response to human suffering. Of particular interest is his keen awareness of the role of desire and envy in the creation of sadness, his sympathetic treatment of the sorrow that arises from infertility, and his nuanced approach to the grief caused or aggravated by illness. In each of these situations, his view of the emotion is wary, and his recommendations geared to its alleviation. At other times, however, he speaks warmly about the benefits of grief, and even recommends its cultivation. This apparent ambivalence seems somewhat perplexing and has attracted attention, if not satisfactory resolution.4 It can be largely resolved by appreciating the particular interest sorrow holds for an ethicist. Because grief is triggered by the perception of significant loss, it clearly exposes a person’s deepest commitments. It thus offers the preacher an ideal opportunity to confront the values and beliefs of his listeners. When these are well founded, the grief to which they give rise is laudable: tears in these situations can scarcely be too fervent or too frequent. But when sorrow stems from misplaced values and faulty beliefs—­as Chrysostom finds is often the case—­it must be corrected. In his efforts to mitigate sorrow, John makes use of a variety of standard philosophical techniques. He employs rational argumentation, urges the use of maxims, and recommends the cultivation of positive affects. But once again it is his reliance on the consoling properties of narrative that is most striking. Within the rich array of biblical figures he invokes, it is Job who provides the best model for controlling grief. For the patriarch’s experience was not limited to one or two kinds of suffering, but was uniquely comprehensive. Among the first of these, was the loss of his possessions. THE SADNESS OF THINGS

When Satan at a single blow destroyed all of Job’s vast holdings, the patriarch did not repine. This response was as rare as it was admirable. Most people, Chrysostom notes, grieve over the loss of possessions. Because they believe that material goods are essential to a happy life, they accord them significant value, and react with sorrow to their diminishment or loss. To them, poverty seems “the basis of all suffering” and deep reserves a cause for joy.5 Against this faulty view, (Fr. mor. 414.24 [Von Arnim, Stoicorum Veterum Fragmenta 3.100]) (“Between Despondency and the Demon, Stageirios,” esp. 358). The term occurs in Galen, but he seems to prefer δυσθυμία. 4.  Leduc, “Penthos.” 5.  Diab. 2.5 (SC 560.194); Hom. 2 Cor. 1.5 (PG 61.389). The destitute are “suffocated by despondency” (Laz. 6.5 [PG 48.1033]).

Grief    65

­ hrysostom offers a corrective picture of the rich person as subject to unhappiC ness. His argument has several strands. Wealth, he contends, instead of ensuring freedom from care, actually causes mental anguish; it is the root of “unexpected depression and deep insecurity.”6 The more goods a person has, the more she is liable to grieve. It is an argument that is not unique to Chrysostom, but rather relies on an established philosophical conviction about the unity of the emotions. This belief is well explained by Martha Nussbaum: “All emotions share a common basis, and appear to be distinguished from one another more by circumstantial and perspectival considerations than by their grounding beliefs. What we fear for ourselves we pity when it happens to another; what we love and rejoice in today engenders fear lest fortune should remove it tomorrow; we grieve when what we fear has come to pass.”7 Thus it is precisely because the wealthy have so many things in which they delight—­their numerous splendid houses, abundant slaves, heaps of gold and silver, chests of clothing, and groaning tables—­that they are more vulnerable to suffering. If any of their numerous goods is damaged—­if even “some trifle” is stolen—­they are plunged into deepest gloom and “think life unlivable.”8 Often, this sadness is mixed with a sharp sense of unfairness. Because they assume that they hold their goods durably, as property rather than as transitory possessions, they react to any loss with outrage as well as grief. When this apparent injustice cannot be attributed to a particular person or situation, but arises from natural causes, blasphemy is a typical response. Not surprisingly, Chrysostom strongly condemns this reaction and invokes various strategies to combat it. He begins by emphasizing the contingent nature of possessions. Repeatedly and insistently, he makes the same points: their substance is essentially ephemeral; their value is socially ascribed, and no one ever holds them for long. Because all matter ends in decay, it is foolish to care about material things or to invest in them a sense of self-­worth. To underscore the point, he praises maggots, moths, and worms. Agents of decay, these insects teach detachment and work against our tendency to care about things. They help us understand that we hold our goods provisionally, that we have been entrusted with them 6.  Possessions cause “unbearable despondency” (ἀθυμία ἀφόρητος) (Hom. Col. 12.7 [PG 62.390]); despite his cheerful outer appearance, a man living in luxury is “full of dejection . . . sorrowful, gloomy, and distressed” (Hom. 1 Tim. 13.3 [PG 62.568]). The sentiment is very frequent: for further examples, see Hom. Gen. 50.2, 59.2 (PG 54.449–50, 515); Hom. Matt. 53.4 (PG 58.531). When someone is already depressed, money and possessions cannot lift his spirits (Comm. Prov. 3.24 [Bady, “Commentaire,” 196]). 7. Nussbaum, Therapy of Desire, 370. Chrysostom overtly expresses a similar belief: “It is clear that the man who is free of anger is also released from the despondency (ἀθυμίας) that arises from that source . . . for the one who does not know how to be roused to hatred (ἀπεχθάνεσθαι), does not know how to grieve (λυπεῖσθαι) (Hom. Matt. 61.5 [PG 58.594–95]). 8.  [Ἀ]βίωτον τὸν βίον ἡγουμένους (Hom. Gen. 59.2 [PG 54.515]).

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as stewards only.9 Once the wealthy understand the true nature of all physical things, they will no longer be saddened or surprised by their diminishment and will not react to loss with blasphemy. But it is not only actual loss that triggers sadness. People can feel intense sorrow at even the thought of any decrease in their goods. Because the rich have so many valuable goods, they live in constant fear of theft. To thwart potential robbers, they hide them away in chests and behind locked doors—­an expedient, John points out, that results in their forfeiting the pleasure of having them.10 And yet, despite these precautions, they still suffer daily alarms and unpleasantness. They worry about accidents and fret about lamps: “lest a spark somewhere set the house on fire.”11 Apprehension drives them to increase their holdings and leads them to embark on hazardous journeys and enter into ruinous lawsuits.12 The urge to accumulate increases until no amount of goods seems enough: they are always “yearning and thirsting after other people’s property.”13 Their insatiable greed poisons familial relations: it can make men long for the demise of their fathers, devise the death of their children, and actively pursue infertility.14 No one in the grip of this rapacious desire can feel happiness. Nor do goods, even when securely held, yield the pleasure that they seem to promise. Despite their sumptuous trappings, the rich fret about their appearance: they worry that it is not fine enough, that they will be found wanting in comparison with their peers. They live in bondage to their own ostentation. If they cannot go out riding on well-­decorated mules and surrounded by a flock of slaves, they 9.  By seeing how quickly humans perish and “dissolve into worms and putrefaction,” a person “learns to practice philosophy” (Scand. 7.36 [SC 79.128]); to amass clothing is to supply food for worms (Hom. Jo. 59.4 [59.327]; Hom. Matt. 23.10 [PG 57.320]; Theod. laps. 21 [SC 117.210]; Anna 5.5 [PG 54.575–­ 76]; Hom. Act. 27.3 [PG 60.208]; Hom. Heb. 29.4 [PG 63.207]; Hom. 2 Cor. 10.4 [PG 61.472]). See my “Locating Animals,” esp. 282–84. The notion that the wealthy are only stewards of their goods is a major theme in Chrysostom’s preaching, and one that has been explored in detail. For an overview of the topic and bibliography, see Mayer, “Poverty and Generosity.” 10.  “Silver . . . awakens envy” (Laz. 1.8 [PG 48.973]); the woman who has garments woven with gold fears so constantly for their safety that she cannot enjoy them (Hom. Heb. 20.2–3 [PG 63.145–6]); the affluent fear that they may be subject to violence (Gen. 50.2 [PG 54.449–50]; Oppug. 2.5 [PG 47.337]; Hom. Act. 51.4 [PG 60.357]). They are bound like a dog to a tomb (Hom. Matt. 20.3 [PG 57.290]); even when dead, they fear grave robbers (Hom. 1 Cor. 35.6 [PG 61.304]). 11.  Hom. Matt. 69.4 (PG 58.653). 12.  Hom. Matt. 9.6 (PG 57.183); Hom. Rom. 7.7 (PG 60.451). The biblical assertion that “money is the root of all evil” allows Chrysostom to dilate on this theme (Hom. 1 Tim. 17.2–3 [PG 62.592–5]). 13.  Their thirst for property is insatiable (Laz. 2.1 [PG 48.981]; Hom. Matt. 63.3 [PG 58.606–7]; Hom. 1 Cor. 14.4–5 [PG 61.118–22]); the avaricious spend their time negotiating for properties, which they will never own, and building splendid houses, in which they will never live (Hom. Matt. 20.6 [PG 57.294]); they pray for drought and famine, so that they can make money (Hom. 1 Cor. 39.7–8 [PG 61.343–44]; Hom. Matt. 80.4 [PG 58.728–29]). 14.  Hom. Matt. 28.5 (PG 57.356); they snarl at everyone (Hom. 1 Tim. 17.3 [PG 62.595]).

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feel compelled to stay at home. Even when they fulfill the expectations of their rank and are honored for spending lavishly on the city, their experience is tinged with sadness and distress. True, a rich benefactor may feel elated when he is initially acclaimed in the theater as “protector and ruler” of the city, and his lavish munificence compared admiringly “to the copious waters of the Nile,” or even to the endless ocean. But as the days pass and the crowds thin and the eulogies diminish, his pleasure dims. In the end, he is left only with bills and regrets: “As often as he examines the accounts in his household and reflects on the extravagant outlay, he laments.” If it were possible, Chrysostom asserts, he would forego the adulation to recover a small fraction of the money he outlaid.15 Even quotidian luxuries, such as cakes and aromatic wines, fail to delight the person who comes to the table without appetite or thirst. Instead of pleasure, rich fare brings indigestion, troubled sleep, and a host of serious illnesses.16 Anyone who goes to a doctor’s office for a consultation, Chrysostom promises, “will discover that all the causes of disease derive from luxurious living.”17 Thus he insists that riches lead only to unhappiness and that the wealthy “carry around in their soul a furnace of despondency (athymias).”18 Simply by detailing these griefs and woes, Chrysostom is already beginning a process of cognitive restructuring. He is convinced that rational arguments can tarnish the appeal of things and awaken a desire for change.19 But where greed is entrenched, inertia can be a problem. As a first step, people must believe in the possibility of change. Here biblical figures such as Zacchaeus or Matthew can play a helpful role. For who, Chrysostom asks, “could be more fond of money than a publican?” The fact then that both men overcame covetousness proves that people can triumph over greed. Equally motivational are the stories of those who persisted in their love of riches, such as Ahab, Judas, and Ananias and Sapphira. The terrible ends suffered by these figures give their tales a bracing quality: they are designed to rouse people from the indolence of despair.20 Once a desire for change has been stimulated, the program can begin in earnest. Chrysostom recommends a graduated approach, similar to that followed by 15.  Inan. glor. 6.102–11, 11.158–65 (SC 188.80, 86–88). For a recent analysis of this treatise in light of ancient patronage, see Roskam, “John Chrysostom on Pagan Euergetism.” 16.  Hom. Matt. 57.4–5, 69.3 (PG 58.564–65, 653); Stat. 2.8 (PG 49.45); Hom. Col. 7.4 (PG 62.348). To the poor, all food tastes delicious, and to the parched, water gives supreme pleasure; slaves, who have been run off their feet all day, sink gratefully into a deep and satisfying sleep (Stat. 2.8 [PG 49.44]). 17.  Hom. Jo. 22.3 (PG 59.137–38), where he also repeats the adage, “A cheap and frugal table is the mother of health.” 18.  [Κ]άμινον ἀθυμίας (Exp. Ps. 4 [PG 55.55]). See also, Hom. 2 Tim. 1.3 (PG 62.604); Hom. Philip. 2.4 (PG 62.196–97); Hom. Act. 13.3 (PG 60.110). 19.  Hom. 1 Cor. 11.4 (PG 61.93). 20.  Hom. 1 Cor. 11.5 (PG 61.94); also mentioned in Hom. Jo. 65.3 (PG 59.363).

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medical practitioners.21 As doctors soothe their fevered patients with promises and excuses when they demand things that are not in their best interest, so his listeners should treat those who are sick with greed. At the beginning, they should prescribe short adages, such as “things are worthless,” or “wealth is an ungrateful runaway slave that surrounds those who possess it with innumerable evils.” These sayings, if continually recited, will prove efficacious.22 Gradually, one can introduce arguments. For example, if people say, “We want to be rich,” listeners should not retort immediately that wealth is an evil thing. Instead, they should agree with the speakers and say that they also desire it—­but at the appropriate time—­and add that the wealth they want is “the real kind,” the sort that gives lasting pleasure and that can be passed on to others. In effect, they should drive out one desire by introducing another spiritual one.23 After this appeal to self-­interest, they can go on to adduce the precariousness of wealth as well as the grave responsibility of the wealthy for the distress and oppression of the poor. To this cognitive program, John adds practical, behavioral recommendations, such as the adoption of a simple lifestyle and the practice of almsgiving. Just by reducing the number of their possessions, people will decrease the causes of despondency. Having fewer goods to lose, they will grieve less. Giving things away will also foster detachment: as they become accustomed to letting things go, they will relax their grip even on those things that they choose to keep. At the same time, their sense of contentment will increase. They will derive joy from the fact that they are accruing lasting wealth: laying up treasure in heaven, where no robber despoils or accident destroys and where interest steadily accrues.24 They will rest easy in their minds about their children and no longer fret that their carefully amassed wealth may pass to others.25 They will assess their appearance and reputation with satisfaction: that the angels—­and even God himself—­see and honor their almsgiving, and that this good regard—­unlike that of the fickle populace—­is steadfast and secure. Who was the intended audience for this advice? Certainly, the types of goods and accumulated worries suggest the elite, but on demographic grounds alone, it seems improbable that Chrysostom spoke only to the wealthy. His several 21.  Mayer, “Medicine in Transition”; “Shaping the Sick Soul”; “Persistence in Late Antiquity.” 22.  The verb is to sing (ἐπᾴδωμεν) (Hom. 1 Cor. 11.5 [PG 61.93–94]). For the curative properties of music, see Kotanski, “Incantations and Prayers”; Sorabji, Emotion and Peace of Mind, 258–60. For its quasi-­medical use in Chrysostom, see my “Etiology of Sorrow,” 375–76. 23.  Ἂν ἕτερον εἰσαγάγῃς ἔρωτα, τὸν τῶν οὐρανῶν (Hom. Matt. 9.6 (PG 57.183). There are many passages extoling the superior pleasure of spiritual wealth; see, for example, Paralyt. 1 (PG 51.49). 24.  Hom. Matt. 23.10 (PG 57.320); Hom. Rom. 7.9 (PG 60.453); Stat. 2.5 (PG 49.41); Hom. 1 Tim. 11.2 (PG 62.555). 25.  Children are often cited as the reason for amassing wealth (Hom. Jo. 65.3 [PG 59.364]; Hom. Matt. 59.6 [PG 58.582]; Hom. Heb. 33.3 [PG 63.222]).

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congregations may have included a few members of the truly rich, but the great majority would have been of middling to modest means.26 He himself admits as much, and occasionally speaks directly to the concerns of members of the artisanal classes. He identifies, for example, their desire to better themselves, noting how they too strive to dress as finely as possible and to acquire expensive tableware. He knows that a man in such a position may buy a slave “not because he needs him, but so that he may not appear dishonorable because he looks after himself.”27 And he sighs over the fact that they happily recite the adage that “the appearance of a gold coin helps even the eyes.”28 Although having less than the rich, and thus fewer occasions for experiencing sadness, these people often feel a sharper attachment to the things they do possess and react bitterly to relatively minor losses. To them too he recommends the adoption of a simpler lifestyle and a regular practice of almsgiving. It is indeed especially important for them to give away some of their goods and not excuse their own lack of generosity by citing the meanness of others: “That guy has so, so many talents of gold, and [yet] he gives nothing away.”29 On the basis of these comments, as well as on demographic grounds, it seems likely that Chrysostom’s exposés of the unhappy rich were directed not primarily at the truly elite, but rather at the much more numerous people of limited means, who held tightly to whatever they had managed to acquire and who firmly believed that they would be happier and more content if only they had more. It was they who could be heard sighing, “I deserve tears, because I have nothing.”30 It was a large group. Even the destitute poor are not immune to the sorrow that comes from material goods. “Everyone,” Chrysostom asserts, “from scavenger to king, grieves that he does not have more.”31 It is in order to stem this pervasive desire that he labors the sadness of things. Scholarship has often been harsh in its assessment of this agenda, condemning its apparent complicity with social stratification. But a case can be made for the redirection of desire “from below” as an essential step in promoting social change. As anthropologists of corruption have argued, it is not enough to correct the excesses of those who currently benefit from the unfair distribution of resources, since even the equitable redistribution of goods is not, in and of itself, sufficient 26.  Mayer, “Who Came to Hear John Chrysostom Preach?” 27.  Inan. glor.13.177–79 (SC 188.90). They fret that they do not have a multitude of slaves (Hom. Phil. 2.5 [PG 62.197]). 28.  [Κ]αὶ ὀφθαλμοὺς ὠφελεῖ νόμισμα χρυσοῦν φαινόμενον (Hom. Matt. 9.6 [PG 57.184]). 29.  Ἀλλ’ ὁ δεῖνα, φησὶ, τόσα καὶ τόσα ἔχει τάλαντα χρυσίου, καὶ οὐδὲν προΐεται” (Hom. Matt. 64.5 [PG 58.615]). Nor should they suggest that the priests should be more charitable. 30.  Δακρύων ἄξιος ἐγὼ ὁ μηδὲν ἔχων (Hom. 1 Cor. 39.7 [PG 61.343]); Ἐγὼ δακρύων ἄξιος (Hom. Phil. 2.4 [PG 62.195]). 31.  Hom. 1 Cor. 38.6 (PG 61.330). Covetousness affects “kings, magistrates, unskilled workers, poor people, women, men, children” (Hom. 1 Tim. 17.3 [PG 62.595]).

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to bring about lasting change. For that to happen, the people who are currently disadvantaged must cease wanting to reap the benefits of the same corrupt system. Otherwise, their eagerness to join the ranks of the haves will, if gratified, simply reinstate the same inequitable system.32 The redirection of desire, moreover, unlike pervasive social change, is an achievable outcome that lies within everyone’s power, as ancient philosophers of every school affiliation observed. When a desire for things mixes with a potent sense of unfairness—­the conviction that the current allocation of goods is unjust—­other painful emotions arise: these include envy, and its close cousins, malice and indignation. This range of emotion, according to Chrysostom, yields a sharper sadness. Envy, Malice, and Indignation Envy differs from simple desire by its focus not on the goods themselves, but rather on their possessor, and in particular, on his lack of desert. It is this implicit element of comparison that gives envy its social interest. Aristotle defined it as “a disturbing grief (lypē . . . tarachōdēs) directed against the good fortune of one who is our equal and like.” Because the emotion depends upon social proximity, it tends to arise among neighbors, members of the same profession, and people who share a common background. Chrysostom agrees with this observation. He too notes that people typically envy not those who are distant, but rather those whose social status is only slightly higher than their own.33 Aristotle further observes that envy is closely connected to several other emotions that also hinge upon an assessment of fortune and desert. Carefully, he distinguishes envy from indignation (pain felt at the good fortune of inferiors) and malice (pleasure experienced at the misfortune of others). Chrysostom, however, typically blurs these distinctions. In his experience, a person who is prone to feeling grief at the good fortune of another is likely to rejoice in that same person’s misfortunes.34 He thus elides envy and malice, considering them as two aspects of the same emotion.35 Nor does he preserve the distinction between envy and indignation. In his description of the feelings of a laborer watching an actor on stage, one emotion slides easily into the other. Because both men belonged to the lower 32. Smith, A Culture of Corruption, esp. 53–87. 33.  “We are accustomed to envy not those who are far above us, but those who are just a little ahead of us” (Hom. 1 Cor. 30.2 [PG 61.252]). One envies a friend (Stat. 15.2 [PG 49.156]), or neighbor (Hom. Gen. 52.1 [PG 54.458]), or fellow cleric (Sac. 5.6 [SC 272.298–300]), or even a brother, as we see in the stories of Abel and Joseph (Hom. Gen. 61.1 [PG 54.526]). See also de Wet, “John Chrysostom on Envy.” 34.  Hom. Matt. 40.3 (PG 57.442). 35.  This elision may reflect widespread belief in the evil eye (βασκανία), in which envy was perceived as an active agent of harm (Exp. Ps. 110.9 [PG 55.279]). Chrysostom often uses envy (φθόνος) and the evil eye (βασκανία) interchangeably.

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fraction of society, the laborer might readily envy the actor’s unmerited luxury; but because an actor’s status was technically even more dishonorable than his own, he was even more prone to feel indignation. Stung by the opulence of the stage, he might mutter: “children of cooks and shoemakers, and often even of domestic slaves live in such luxury, while I, a freeman of free ancestors, choosing honest labor cannot even imagine such things in a dream.”36 The covert hostility of such musing seems patent, but Chrysostom underscores the grief caused by these ruminations. He imagines the feelings of another poor man, who, pierced by the sight of actresses surrounded with gold, compares their rich trappings not with his own lack of adornment but with that of his wife: “wailing and groaning” at his wife’s deprivation, he leaves the theater “feverish with grief” (athymia).37 It is with this sadness that Chrysostom begins his program against envy. He focuses on the distress caused by the emotion, in part, to sensitize people to the gravity of the sin. He knows that his listeners underestimate its negative impact. Many, he observes, think quite well of themselves even if they are “infinitely envious.”38 Against this mistaken view, he insists that envy is a grave moral failing, fully as consequential as fornication or adultery. Indeed, in several places he characterizes envy as “more deadly than all other passions” and urges his listeners to commit themselves to eradicating it from their souls.39 To help them do so, he crafts an argument that appeals to their self-­interest. Belief in the power of the “evil eye” was widespread in late antiquity, and Chrysostom accepts the longstanding conviction that envy is primarily an ocular phenomenon. He agrees that envious glances cause serious harm, but insists that it is not the person who is envied who suffers, but rather the envier, who “wastes away as though consumed by unseen jaws.”40 When a man looks enviously at the holdings of another, it disorders his vision. Like drunkenness, it clouds the clarity of his thinking: previously prized possessions lose their value, and cherished relationships no longer bring contentment.41 In his imagination, Chrysostom follows the laborer as he leaves the theater, poisoned with envy. Arriving home, he finds fault with everything he sees. He criticizes his wife, takes no enjoyment in his

36.  Hom. Matt. 68.4 (PG 58.645). 37.  Ibid. See also, Lucian. 1 (PG 50.521). Attending an opulent banquet arouses the same feelings (Stat. 15.2 [PG 49.156]). 38.  As long as they “fast and give a little silver to a poor man” (Hom. Matt. 40.3 [PG 57.443]). 39.  Envy brought sin and thus death into the world (Hom. Gen. 46.5 [PG 54.427], referring to Wis 2.24). To be grieved by the benefits enjoyed by others is a demonic vice (Hom. Matt. 40.3 [PG 57.442]). 40.  Hom. Gen. 46.5 (PG 54.427). In the end, it was not Joseph, who was harmed by envy, but his brothers, who suffered famine and peril (Hom. Matt. 40.3 [PG 57.443]). For the traditional view of the evil eye, see Limberis, “The Eyes Infected by Evil.” 41.  Hom. Gen. 46.4 (PG 54.427).

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children, and “feels annoyed even at the sunshine.”42 Unlike other culpable passions such as anger, envy has no associated pleasure that might offset its intrinsic pain.43 Avoiding it is thus clearly in his listeners’ best interest.44 He also exposes the folly of envying others for their possessions, power, and influence. These are essentially disappointing not only because they are ephemeral, but also because they cannot yield the happiness they seem to promise. Familiar scenarios of the distress brought by wealth buttress the point.45 Indeed, he points out that the rich are so buffeted by fear, confusion, and anguish that they frequently envy those who have less. It often happens that “you see the person who has ten thousand talents of gold hidden away calling blessed the man who stands in the workshop and procures his food by the work of his hands.”46 He follows up these general remarks with some very specific observations about the unenviable results of luxurious living. Overfed bodies, in addition to being prone to illness, emit disgusting sounds and smells: they excrete and vomit excessively. Habitual overeating leads to a loss of tone and proportion: as their bodies become slack and flabby, women lose their beauty and men their manliness.47 Dragging their bellies about like pregnant women, rich men sigh for the virile bodies of the poor and envy the robust physique of the laborer. In these scenarios, the sadness of the wealthy is quickly displaced by the disgust of the viewer. The problem with this argument, of course, is that the wealthy do not seem oppressed by their vast holdings, nor do they seem ashamed of their opulent physiques. To the contrary, they appear perfectly, indeed enviably, content. This is a source of scandal to those who have little: seeing the apparent maldistribution of goods, they question providence and find fault with God. To correct this tendency, Chrysostom repeats some of the arguments discussed above. He refutes the erroneous belief that wealth is a sign of divine favor and blessing.48 But instead of emphasizing the anxiety of acquiring, owning, or displaying possessions, as he did when addressing simple greed, he invites those who would envy others to 42.  Hom. Matt. 68.4 (PG 58.645). 43.  It is “a many headed wild beast” (τὸ πολυκέφαλον θηρίον) (Hom. Matt. 40.4 [PG 57.443]). 44.  Chrysostom does not try to deny the pleasure in malice—­such an effort would be futile, since pleasure in the misfortune of others defines the emotion—­but he discredits it by comparing those who indulge in it to ignoble animals (such as pigs) who delight in foulness, or to demons, who are malicious by nature. Those who slander others are like beetles, crawling over the filth of others and carrying excrement in their mouths (Hom. Act. 31.4 [PG 60.233]; Hom. Matt. 40.3 [PG 57.442]; Hom. 1 Cor. 44.6 [PG 61.381]; Exp. Ps. 49.10 [PG 55.256]). See my “Refuse, Filth, and Excrement.” 45.  Hom. Matt. 20.5, 40.4–5 (PG 57.293, 444–45); Hom. Phil. 2.4 (PG 62.195–96). 46.  Hom. Gen. 50.2 (PG 54.450); see also Laz. 1.11–12 (PG 49.979–80). 47.  Hom. Act. 27.2–3, 35.2–3 (PG 60.207–9, 256); de Wet, “The Preacher’s Diet.” 48.  For this reason, people slandered Lazarus (as well as Job and Paul): “If this man were dear to God, God would not have allowed him to live in poverty and be distressed by other ills” (Laz. 1.10 [PG 48.977]; see also, ibid., 1.12 [PG 48.980, 981]).

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look beyond external appearances and consider the internal turmoil the wealthy suffer: the suffering that comes from guilt. For in a world of limited resources, Chrysostom remains utterly convinced that no one achieves luxury without the gross exploitation of others.49 From this perspective, an ostentatious lifestyle is not a sign of security or blessing, but the basis of condemnation. Even if the crimes by which the rich acquire their goods pass undetected by others, they cannot escape the conscience of their possessors. Knowing that they, like robbers, have hidden in their houses, “as in caves or holes,” goods that they have stolen from others, they live in sadness and fear, like prisoners awaiting trial.50 Their distress sharpens with the approach of the day “on which they are to be led out to the very doors of the judge.” To convey the point, Chrysostom turns to the Lukan story of Lazarus and the rich man. The gospel account makes no mention of the rich man suffering from an uneasy conscience; indeed, it seems to suggest the opposite. But this does not deter Chrysostom from elaborating the point.51 If Dives’s internal anguish is not enough to convince his listeners of the folly of envying the wealthy, they need only read on. After he died, he learned the inconsequence of material possessions: none of his fine things—­not the silver-­inlaid tables, couches, rugs, tapestries, sweet oils, perfumes, huge quantities of undiluted wine, great varieties of food, rich dishes, cooks, parasites, body-­guards, or household slaves—­had any real value.52 In an instant, he found himself “so poor that he was master of not even a drop of water, but had to beg for it, and even then did not obtain it by begging.”53 The crimes, however, by which he had procured his luxury goods, were not shadowy: they had indelible reality and led to his everlasting anguish. Meditating continually on this outcome, John promises, will allow a person “to throw off the heavy burden of despondency.”54 Chrysostom also directs his listeners’ gaze away from the rich man to the person of Lazarus. He emphasizes the poor man’s distress by enumerating the various ills that he suffered. Prominent among these, is his placement at the door of the rich man’s house, which would have sharpened his sense of affliction, “because 49.  For this theme, see especially, Laz. 2.4–5, 6 (PG 48.987–88, 991–92). 50.  Laz. 1. 11–12 (PG 48.979–80). Even now, they experience the cold fear felt by prisoners, “standing before the bar” (ibid., 2.2 [PG 48.985]). The fact that some people suffer so terribly in this life is proof of the fact that vengeance and punishment await others in the next world (Hom. Matt. 76.5 [PG 58.702]). 51.  He reads the passage in concert with the condemnation of Cain related in Genesis: even if Dives seemed to escape punishment during his lifetime, he nevertheless lived “groaning and trembling on the earth” (Laz. 1.11 [PG 48.979]; cf. Hom. Gen. 20.3 [PG 53.170]). 52.  Laz. 2.3 (PG 48.985). See also, Hom. Matt. 76.5 (PG 58.700–01); Comp. reg. 4 (PG 47.392). 53.  Laz. 2.4 (PG 48.987). 54.  [Τ]ὸ βαρὺ τῆς ἀθυμίας φορτίον. Thus “he has been chanting it [the refrain] continually” to Olympias (Ep. Olymp. 5c [SC 13bis.122–24]; see also ibid., 11.2a [SC 13bis.310]).

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we all have been brought up to perceive our own misfortunes more acutely in light of the successes of others.”55 He specifically invites his listeners to enter into Lazarus’s feelings. “Imagine Lazarus, what it was like to be him,” seeing the bustle and merriment outside the rich man’s house.56 But he explicitly rejects the notion that the poor man envied the rich man.57 On this point, Chrysostom is adamant: precisely because Lazarus was subsequently taken into the bosom of Abraham, he could not have felt envy. He did not say to himself what many people say: “What is this then? This guy, although living in wickedness, cruelty, and inhumanity, and enjoying everything beyond need, experiences no sadness (athymian) or anything else untoward . . . but enjoys pure pleasure; whereas I cannot get my share of even necessary sustenance. Everything flows to him as if from a fountain, although he spends all he has on parasites, flatterers, and drunkenness; whereas I lie here, an example for onlookers, a source of shame and laughter, wasting away with hunger. How is this the work of Providence? Does any justice oversee human affairs?”58

Once again, Chrysostom uses counterfactual discourse to highlight a biblical character’s feelings.59 Lazarus felt grief, and felt it sharply, but “he did not give up in despair, blaspheme, or become indignant.”60 Even in the midst of his great ­troubles, he gave thanks; and because of this virtue, he knew “a pleasure that is pure, steadfast, and unwavering.” He felt joy.61 In the afterlife, this joy was amplified. Urging his listeners to “reap some advantage from the story,” Chrysostom holds up the poor man for emulation.62 Instead of hankering after the goods of others, they too should cultivate contentment by focusing on what they already have. In doing so, they will discover that it is not material riches, but rather thanksgiving (eucharistia) that is “a great treasure and large wealth.” And unlike tangible possessions, this treasure is readily available and “cannot be taken away.”63 55.  Laz. 1.10, 2.4 (PG 48.976, 987). 56.  [Ἐ]ννόησον τὸν Λάζαρον, οἷον εἰκὸς ἦν εἶναι (Laz. 1.10 [PG 48.977]). 57.  [Ο]ὐκ . . . βάσκανος (Laz. 1.10 [PG 48.976]). Chrysostom concedes that another poor man, even one who had more than Lazarus, might well have envied the rich man (Nemo laed. 10 [SC 103.96], cited by de Wet, “John Chrysostom on Envy,” 256). 58.  Laz. 1.9 (PG 48.975). 59.  As Kecskeméti has shown, these words remain “ouvertement fictives, oblitérées par un signe de négation” (“Exégèse chrysostomienne,” 147). 60.  [O]ὔτ’ ἀπεδυσπέτησεν, οὔτ’ ἐβλασφήμησεν, οὔτ’ ἠγανάκτησεν (Laz. 1.9 [PG 48.975]); In illud ­Isaiae: Ego Dominus Deus feci lumen 4 (PG 56.147). 61.  [E]ὐχαρίστησε (Laz. 2.1 [PG 48.981]); Hom. Rom. 2.1 (PG 60.401). ἡδονὴν ἔχοντες καθαρὰν, βεβαίαν, ἀκίνητον (ibid., 1.11 [PG 48.979]); χαρὰν (ibid., 1.12 [PG 48.81]). 62.  [Z]ηλώσωμεν τὸν Λάζαρον . . . καρπωσώμεθα τὴν ἐκ τοῦ διηγήματος ὠφέλειαν (Laz. 1.12 [PG 48.981–82]). 63.  Stat. 1.11 (PG 49.32); see also Hom. Phil. 14.1 (PG 62.283–84).

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The story of Lazarus, as Chrysostom develops it, combats envy in several ways. It strenuously corrects the misapprehension that wealth is an indication of blessing, and poverty a sign of divine disfavor. Most people, he knows, assume when they see an indigent person that he is being punished for his wickedness. For this reason, Chrysostom is certain that among his numerous sufferings, Lazarus endured the casual slander of passers-­by, who presumed that “if this man were dear to God, he would not have allowed him to live in poverty and be distressed by the other ills.”64 The parable’s outcome corrects this mistaken view by revealing Lazarus’ true worth and exposing the anguish—­and disgust—­of riches: if dogs licked the wounds of Lazarus, “demons licked the sins of the other man.”65 By refuting faulty logic, the narrative removes the impulse both to blaspheme and to envy. Lazarus’s demeanor reinforces the lesson: it teaches that gratitude serves as a prophylactic against painful envy.66 The story also tempers despondency. For our own misfortunes dwindle in significance, when compared to the sufferings endured by that poor man. The fact that he was able to bear his trials patiently proves that we can endure our own much lighter troubles.67 The outcome of the tale conveys, furthermore, the comforting message that suffering is not meaningless.68 But even if we knew nothing about Lazarus’s heavenly reward, his story would still be cheering in that it reassures those who suffer that they are not alone. Chrysostom identifies the sense of isolation—­that he knew of no other “Lazarus”—­as one of the most acute forms of suffering that the poor man endured. His story brings us comfort because we find therein “a companion in our sufferings.”69 Given the remarkable protective and therapeutic properties of this story, people should do everything in their power to fix it in their minds. They should read it at home and talk about Lazarus everywhere they go: in the councils, at home, in the marketplace. It will protect them against both sorrow and envy.70

64.  Laz. 1.10 (PG 48.977); “Let us not say that if God loved so-­and-­so, he would not have allowed him to become poor” (ibid., 1.12 [PG 48.980]). 65.  Laz. 1.11 (PG 48.980). 66.  Ghormley makes a similar argument with respect to Chrysostom’s commentary on the psalms in “Gratitude.” 67.  Laz. 7.5 (PG 48.1052–53); cf. Hom. 1 Thess. 11.3 (PG 61.465). 68.  As Lazarus received from God a double reward, so others can find consolation in the fact that their trials will prove beneficial (Stat. 6.4 [PG 49.86–87]). 69.  [K]οινωνοὺς . . . τῶν οἰκείων κακῶν (Laz. 1.10 [PG 48.977]). “For this reason, Christ set him forth clearly: so that whatever misfortune we encounter, seeing in him an extraordinary degree of suffering, we might take from his wisdom (φιλοσοφίας) and patience sufficient comfort and consolation” (ibid., 1.12 [PG 48.982]). 70.  Laz. 1.12, 3.1, 3.2 (PG 48.982, 991–93). Elsewhere, he attributes these properties to scripture reading in general (Lucian. 1 [PG 50.522]).

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In addition to this narrative program, Chrysostom offers some practical suggestions for fostering contentment. Because envy stems from comparison, he advises his listeners to avoid the types of sights that are liable to trigger it. It is thus always a mistake to attend the theater. Instead of going to the shows, people should visit the monks.71 The sight of them will cheer up anyone who looks at them.72 Specifically, spectators will gather comfort from the fact that, no matter how impoverished their own circumstances, these men are even poorer: their clothing is worse than that of “the lowliest farmers;” they go barefoot and sleep on the ground.73 And they will learn from them the source of true happiness. Precisely because they dress simply, live in the most rudimentary shelters, have no possessions, and eat and drink sparingly, monks escape sorrow, grief, distress, and envy.74 They “cannot become dejected.”75 Seeing their contentment and listening to their hymns of thanksgiving, spectators will applaud their manner of life and seek to imitate it. The example of the monks points to another means of consolation, one that is as powerful as it is rare. This is the cultivation of affection, which can offset envy by mitigating the impulse toward resentment and hostility.76 Fellow feeling does not come naturally, however, but must be deliberately nurtured. As Chrysostom remarks, “It is not extremely easy to share in the joy of those who are rejoicing;” we must “practice being glad with those who are highly esteemed.”77 Chrysostom’s program to diminish the despondency that comes from things is thus quite straightforward. He recommends a reduction both in goods and in attachment to them. The former can be achieved by almsgiving and the adoption of a simpler lifestyle, the latter by a sustained program of ethical pedagogy. To combat envy and greed, he builds an argument largely based on self-­interest, stressing the sadness of wealth and the grief of invidious comparison. “Let us not think, beloved, that we own anything,” Chrysostom urges, “and we shall not suffer” (ouk algēsomen).78 For support, he turns both to his listeners’ experience and to scriptural stories, especially to that of Lazarus. For him, these two kinds 71.  Hom. Matt. 68.3, 4–5 (PG 58.643, 646). 72.  Hom. Matt. 68.4–5 (PG 58.646). As with the angels, “there is no disparity, nor do some live in prosperity and others in extreme misery” (Oppug. 3.11 [PG 74.366]). 73.  Oppug. 2.2 (PG 47.333, 334). And yet the monk envies no one (Comp. reg. 1–2 [PG 47.388]). 74.  Hom. Matt. 68.3 (PG 58.643). 75.  Οὐκ ἔστιν . . . ἐν κατηφείᾳ γενέσθαι (Hom. Matt. 69.3–4 [PG 58.651–54], quotation at 69.4 [PG 58.653]). 76.  “Such is the power of love: it makes those who are not enjoying good things rejoice equally with those who are, and persuades them to think that that they share in the goods of their neighbors” (Stat. 19.1 [PG 49.187–88]). 77.  Rom. mart. 1 (PG 50.607). 78.  Comm. Job 1.25 (SC 346.146).

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of proof are mutually illuminating. As further evidence, he adduces the monks, whose uncluttered lives he depicts as notably joyful. Their example, however, may have had limited utility for his audience, who, according to Chrysostom, often objected that they could not be expected to live like ascetics. They had to amass possessions and care about them precisely because they had the responsibility of raising a family and running a household.79 Job, as we will see in greater detail below, forms a crucial response to these objections.80 For although he was married and the father of ten children, and had extensive holdings, he was not attached to things; and when they were suddenly taken away, he did not repine. The death of his children, however, brought him undeniable sorrow. G R I EV I N G OV E R T H E D E A D, T H E SIC K , A N D T H E BA R R E N

Chrysostom is adamant that it was part of Job’s merit that he mourned his children.81 This conviction might seem unremarkable were it not for the strong Stoic position that condemned any display of grief as irrational and thus unbecoming to a virtuous person. In this context, it is always Anaxagoras who is cited. When told that his son had died, he replied, “I knew he was mortal when I fathered him.”82 Since death is a natural phenomenon, the Stoic sage should accept it with equanimity. But John does not wholly agree. On one hand, he does say that the naturalness and inevitability of death should be a source of consolation to right-­thinking people.83 And he can cite approvingly the temperate reactions of 79.  Hom. Matt. 2.5 (PG 57.30); Laz. 3.1 (PG 48.992–93). The responsibility of providing for one’s children (and heirs) is a frequently cited reason for amassing possessions. “But someone protests, ‘A group of children surround me, and I want to leave them well off’” (Hom. Rom. 7.8 [PG 60.452]). 80.  Abraham is another often-­cited exemplar; see, for example Hom. Gen. 48.1 (PG 54.435). 81.  Comm. Job 1.21, 23, 3.1 (SC 346.136, 140, 198). The death of his children was “of all things the most intolerable” (Hom. Eph. 10.3 [PG 62.79]). For an excellent survey of early Christian reactions to the death of children, see Doerfler, Jephthah’s Daughter, esp. 23–43. 82. Diog. Laert. 2.31, quoted in Konstan, The Emotions of the Ancient Greeks, 253. A treatise ascribed to Seneca advises a man who lost his sons: “You’re a fool to weep over the mortality of mortals” (ps.-­Sen. Rem. fort. 13.1). 83.  “You did not give birth to an immortal; if he had not died now, he would have submitted to it a little later” (Hom. Matt. 31.5 [PG 57.376]). “If we consider that . . . it was a mortal husband or son that we had, we shall quickly feel consoled. To feel indignation is the response of someone expecting something above and beyond nature. You were born human and mortal. Why, then, do you grieve that something has happened according to nature? You do not grieve that you are nourished by eating . . . act in the same way also towards death” (Hom. Jo. 62.5 [PG 59.348]). “If you grieve for the dead, feel pain also for those who are born; for as the latter event is natural, so too the former is natural” (Stat. 6.4 [PG 49.86]; see also ibid., 5.4 [PG 49.73–74]; Hom. Act. 21.4 [PG 60.168]). “Why grieve over death? Surely it is not unexpected? Surely it is not disappointing? Its coming was in season, and its happening

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e­ xemplary pagans: the father, who calmly carried on his sacrifice after learning that one of his sons had fallen in battle, or the mother who greeted the news of the death of her son with the question, “But how fares the city?”84 He can suggest to bereaved parents that they should take comfort in the thought that their child might not have persevered in virtue, and that his early death might therefore have forestalled greater suffering.85 And he points out the futility of lamentation, which cannot remedy the loss or help the person who has died.86 But on the other hand, he insists that mourning is rational because it accords with our human nature and correctly ascribes value. “It is impossible,” he acknowledges, “not to show grief ” at the loss of loved ones, because we miss their daily company and conversation. The death of a child, in particular, occasions “inconsolable sorrow.”87 He knows that a parent, who has lost her child, wants to lay him out: to touch his limbs one by one, to kiss his hands, to close his eyes, and to shut his mouth.88 She wants to cry and to bewail her great loss in all its specificity: “This mouth no longer speaks, these eyes no longer see, these feet no longer walk, but all are going to corruption. . . . He has died and will be no more.”89 A father will lament that, with the death of his son, he can no longer claim the title of “father.” These established rituals of mourning, Chrysostom concedes, promise relief and are often helpful.90 inevitable. As for sudden death, is it also in some way perhaps timely?” (Comm. Eccles. 3.2 [CCGS 4.73], trans. Hill, Commentaries on the Sages, 2.173). 84.  Hom. Jo. 62.4 (PG 59.347); Hom. Matt. 31.4 (PG 57.375). The story is a reference to Xenophon; see Plutarch, Moralia 241C 7; Diogenes Laertius 26, Xenophon 54. 85.  Hom. Matt. 31.5 (PG 57.376). 86.  Far more effective is “giving alms, performing good works, or rendering services” (ἐλεημοσύνας ποιῶν, εὐεργεσίας, λειτουργίας) (Hom. Jo. 62.5, 85.5–6 [PG 59.348, 466–68]). 87.  Hom. Jo. 62.4 (PG 59.347); Hom. Phil. 8.4 (PG 62.245); Ep. Theod. 5 (SC 117.70); mothers feel grief even when all their children are not present for a meal (Stat. 9.2 [PG 49.104]). For an overview of Chrysostom’s thought, see Wang, “John Chrysostom on the Premature Death of Children.” Even the Stoics accepted that the virtuous person would feel a sense of “contraction” at the death of loved ones (Graver, “The Weeping Wise,” citing Seneca, Ep. 99.15). 88.  Ep. Olymp. 17.2b (SC 13bis.374); Paralyt. 8 (PG 51.62); Hom. Phil. 8.3 (PG 62.242). At least once, however, Chrysostom suggests that it is less wrenching to hear about a beloved person’s death than to stand by and watch him die (Melet. 3 [PG 50.519]). 89.  Hom. 2 Cor. 1.6 (PG 61.390). See also Hom. Matt. 31.5, 69.3 (PG 57.376, 58.653); Virginit. 56.1.6– 15, 57.4.78–5.83 (SC 125.304, 312). 90.  If women who have lost beloved children were forbidden to mourn and shed tears and wail, “they would burst and perish; but if they do everything that grieving people do, they feel relieved and consoled” (Stat. 18.2 [PG 49.184]). Being allowed to talk can be consoling (Comm. Job 8.1 [SC 346.290]). This wisdom is conventional: Plutarch writes, “[T]he surrender of mourners to weeping and wailing carries away much of their grief together with their tears” (De cohib. ira 455C Moralia 6 trans. Helmbold, 107). John refers to other customary funerary practices, such as making images of the dead (Melet. 1 [PG 50.516]), and funeral banquets (περίδειπνον) (Hom. 1 Cor. 28.3 [PG 61.235]).

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They are therapeutic in that they acknowledge reality, which is, in the first instance, one of loss. But the impulse to catalog these losses must be carefully controlled, since the danger of sorrow lies in its tendency to excess. Grieving people typically “go on and on.”91 Women are especially prone to this kind of immoderation.92 They must check themselves and not allow their grief over the death of a person to spread into lamentation over their loss of financial security.93 They must learn to temper their mourning or risk exacerbating their sorrow.94 As a case in point, Chrysostom cites the case of the young widow Artemisia, whose crushing sadness and unceasing tears ended up destroying her sight.95 It is permissible to cry over the dead, but we should weep as for those departing on a journey: not venting despair, but “bidding farewell.”96 For an appropriate model, we can look to Christ, who wept over Lazarus, but did so “gently.”97 Moderation can be hard to achieve in the first bitter moments of bereavement or when the loss is sudden or unexpected.98 In order to temper its severity, Chrysostom notes that it is customary to give wine to those who are in mourning.99 The company of others also offers powerful solace. It had long been customary 91.  Already noted in Homer (Hom. Il. 24.513). “It is common for those who are grieving (τοῖς ἀλγοῦσι) to talk endlessly” (Comm. Job 3.4, 6.1. [SC 346.206, 258]), and to speak rashly (ibid., 9.16 [SC 346.312]; they even want people in the future to hear of their sadness (ibid., 19.11 [SC 348.46]). Recent widowers cling to their grief, and get annoyed at people trying to distract them from it (Virginit. 37.2 [SC 125.220]). 92.  Women are “somewhat more easily affected and prone to despondency” (Coemet. 1 [PG 49.394]). John writes to Olympias, “Sorrow, but set a limit to your grief” (Ep. Olymp. 8.1d, 8.2c [SC 13bis.160, 164]). 93.  Hom. 1 Thess. 6.2 (PG 62.430). 94.  Hom. Matt. 31.3 (PG 57.374); Hom. Jo. 62.5 (PG 59.348). 95.  Vid. 4 (SC 138.132). Chrysostom notes that marital woes, especially a husband’s adultery, lead some women to suicide (Virginit. 52.7, 57.7 [SC 125.296, 314]). 96.  Hom. Jo. 62.4 (PG 59.347); Hom. Matt. 78.4 (PG 58.716); Hom. Phil. 8.4 (PG 62.245). “‘How,’ you ask, ‘is it possible not to suffer (ἀλγεῖν), given that we are human?’ I do not ask this. I would not do away with grief (ἀθυμίαν), but with excessive grief (ἐπίτασιν τῆς ἀθυμίας). . . . Grieve, cry, but do not despair. Do not rant; do not become enraged” (Laz. 5.2 [PG 48.1019]). 97. “Again, establishing a measure for grief (λύπης μέτρα), when it was necessary to lament (θρηνῆσαι), he [Christ] wept gently (δακρύει ἠρέμα), everywhere setting rules (κανόνας) for us” (Hom. Matt. 66.2 [PG 58.628]; Hom. Jo. 62.4, 63.2 [PG 59.347, 350]; Laz. 5.2 [PG 48.1019]). 98.  When the body of Meletius was brought back to Antioch, the city “mourned and wailed loudly” (Melet. 3 [PG 50.519]). 99.  Laz. 6.7 (PG 48.1038); see also Hom. Gen. 29.2 (PG 53.263). Wine was given to cheer us and to correct physical weakness (Hom. Matt. 57.5 [PG 58.564]; Hom. Eph. 19.1 [PG 61.128–29]). Athymia can thus lead to drunkenness, as it did with Noah (Hom. Gen. 44.4 [PG 53.411]). Drunkenness, in turn, frequently causes despondency; only with moderation is wine “the best medicine” (Stat. 1.4 [PG 49.22]; Hom. Tit. 4.1 [PG 62.682]). Galen and Rufus of Ephesus commented on the therapeutic properties of wine in treating grief (Galen, QAM 3, Kühn 777; Oribasius, Coll. Med. 5.7.1–2); see Jouanna, “Wine and Medicine in Ancient Greece.” Chrysostom also notes the curative properties of sleep for treating sorrow, especially the sorrow caused by death (Stat. 8.1 [PG 49.97–98]; Laz. 6.6 [PG 48.1038]).

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to summon neighbors, or even hire professional mourners, to lament with the bereaved. These women, like the members of the household, would be dressed in black and disheveled in appearance. In addition to raising and sustaining public lament, they would tear their hair, sprinkle their heads with ashes, and lacerate their arms and cheeks with their nails.100 Chrysostom understands the urge to join in the grief of others and acknowledges that it can be an act of mercy; the apostle Paul had, after all, explicitly ordered Christians “to weep with those who weep” (Rom 12:15). He knows that the presence of others comforts the bereaved by assuring them that they are not alone and that others have experienced similar suffering.101 The reassurance increases when these others are known to have sustained even greater losses. Comparison also helps those who come to share the grief of others. Reminded of the transitory nature of all things, they feel the weight of their own sorrows diminished; they leave the house of mourning with a “lighter and more buoyant” heart. Shared lamentation also focuses communal attention and mobilizes support. Thus, from time to time when Chrysostom wants to draw attention to the gravity of some misfortune and rally people to his side, he can call rhetorically for a chorus of mourners.102 But, in general, his response to ritualized mourning is strongly ambivalent. He frets about the lack of modesty and decorum—­the sight of women’s garments ripped and their arms bared in public—­and suspects them of deliberately courting attention.103 And he worries that the cries of others may stoke rather than alleviate grief.104 Modern studies concur that voicing despair tends to broaden its reach and 100.  Described in Hom. Jo. 62.4 (PG 59.346); Hom. Matt. 31.3 (PG 57.374); Hom. Phil. 3.4 (PG 62.203); Laz. 5.2 (PG 48.1020); Oppug. 2.2 (PG 47.334); Stat. 15.2 (PG 49.155). Doerfler, Jephthah’s Daughter, 119–20. 101.  John notes that “despondency (ἀθυμία) dissipates more readily, when one person’s burden is shared by all” (Oppug. 3.11 [PG 47.366]); encountering a friend dispels “all sorrow” (Serm. Gen. 6.1 [SC 433.280]). He believes that the disciples were comforted by the fact that Jesus was aware of their “excessive sadness” at the prospect of his imminent departure (Hom. Jo. 78.1 ([PG 59.421]). He comforts Theodore by reminding him of those who share his suffering (Ep. Theod. 1.4 [SC.117.66]). He himself found consolation in the presence of “fellow sufferers” (συναλγοῦντας), who accompanied him as he went into exile, “shedding torrents of tears and wailing” (Ep. Olymp. 5.1a [SC 13bis.120]). 102.  Quod reg. 2–3, Dumortier, Les cohabitations suspectes, 101–3; Theod. laps. 1.2 (SC 117.88); Stat. 2.2 (PG 49.36). 103.  A crucial component of ancient mourning was its public nature (Cairns, “Weeping and Veiling”; Alexiou, Ritual Lament, 24–35. Chrysostom accuses some women of engaging in these behaviors to get attention: either to garner honor (Hom. Jo. 63.1 [PG 59.349]; Hom. Phil. 3.4 [PG 62.203]), or to attract the eyes of men (Hom. Jo. 62.4 [PG 59.346]). 104.  “When a soul is pained and overwhelmed with sorrow (ἀθυμίας), nothing is more likely to depress it than continually repeating saddening words” (Hom. Jo. 79.1 [PG 59.425]). It was one of the chief faults of the friends who came “to console” Job that instead of comforting him, their words deepened his athymia (Comm. Job 4.1, 8.2, 19.1 [SC 346.218, 292–94, SC 348.38]).

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deepen its hold. But above all, John fears that collective grieving, by amplifying the bereaved person’s sense of misfortune, may embolden her to rail against God or deny divine justice and mercy, that it may foster the temptation to blaspheme.105 Thus he often warns specifically against calling in professional mourners. Instead, the bereaved should summon scriptural companions. These offer all the advantages and none of the dangers of collective mourning. To pastoral concerns about excessive grief, he adds theological worries. It was understandable that “in the beginning there was beating of breasts and wailing over corpses.” It was appropriate that the ancient Israelites wept over Jacob and Moses. For at that time, death was final. But with the coming of Christ, “the sinews of death have been broken.” Now, immoderate grieving suggests a lack of faith in the resurrection. If pagans hear Christian women keening and crying, “I will never see you again; I will never have you back again,” they will swiftly conclude that Christian “teachings are illusions, deceptions, and tricks.”106 Thus John marshals arguments to stem grief. The fact that we die is a source not of sorrow but of thanksgiving, since “from decay, we receive a basis for prizes.”107 Even the name of the burial place offers its own corrective: it is called a “cemetery” because the people there are only sleeping.108 Instead of exacerbating their grief by lamenting the corpse of their child, bereaved parents should catalog his newfound faculties in heaven: “These lips shall speak better and these eyes see greater things, and these feet shall mount upon the clouds; this body that now rots shall put on immortality and I shall receive my son back more glorious.”109 A man should think not that he has lost the title of father, but that he now retains it forever, since his child enjoys eternal life. There should be signs of festivity, such as hymn singing, prayers, and psalms—­not lamentations.110 In these passages, gratitude and thanksgiving are no longer simply means of assuaging grief but are 105.  “Wail: I do not forbid it. But neither say nor do anything blasphemous” (Hom. Col. 8.5 [PG 62.360]). 106.  [X]λεύη . . . ἀπάτη καὶ συσκευή (Hom. Jo. 62.4 [PG 59.347]). Lamentation is a pagan practice, like the observance of days or of arrivals and departures (Hom. 1 Cor. 12.7 [PG 61.106]). See also Hom. Matt. 31.3–4 (PG 57.374–75); Hom. 1 Thess. 6.2 (PG 62.430–31); Laz. 5.2 (PG 48.1020); Hom. Heb. 4.5 (PG 63.42–43); Paralyt. 8 (PG 51.62). 107.  [Ἀ]πὸ τῆς φθορᾶς ἐλάβομεν ὑπόθεσιν τῶν βραβείων (Mart. 1 [PG 50.707]), trans. Mayer, Cult, 219. Now, “death is only a name . . . nothing more than a sleep, a journey, a migration, a rest, a tranquil haven” (Stat. 7.1 [PG 49.92]; Laz. 5. 1–2 [PG 48.1018–19]; Paralyt. 8 [PG 51.62]). If you weep over the death of a child, you should also weep over its birth: “for the former is, in fact, also a birth” (Hom. Act. 21.4 [PG 60.168]). 108.  Coemet. 1 (PG 49.394); Laz. 5.1 (PG 48.1018). 109.  Hom. 2 Cor. 1.6 (PG 61.390–91). 110.  Hom. Jo. 62.5 (PG 59.348); Hom. 2 Cor. 1.5 (PG 61.390); Bern. 3 (PG 50.634); Laz. 5.2 (PG 48.1020); Hom. Heb. 4.5 (PG 63.43).

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actually their replacement. Death is not a source of sadness, but “a matter associated with pleasure.”111 Closely allied to mourning is the sorrow occasioned by the illness of others. Chrysostom acknowledges this reaction. It was because Mary and Martha wished to arouse Christ’s grief that they told him, “The one whom you love is sick.”112 Sympathetic distress can be felt by anyone: even bystanders witnessing a surgery must combat feelings of pain, sorrow, and depression, as they watch the incision being made, the gore spilling out, the wound being cauterized, and hear the patient shrieking.113 But it is the anguish felt by parents when their children fall gravely ill that John explores in greatest detail. Mothers are especially affected: if they could, they would take upon themselves their children’s fevers; even hearing the news that one of her children is sick is enough to make her stomach churn.114 Fathers are also grief-­stricken. Often, when someone has five or six sons and daughters, if one them falls sick, the father does nothing but pace around the bed kissing the eyes and holding the hands of the child. He reckons the day as night and the light as darkness—­not changing the heavenly bodies, but taking no delight in them because of the bitterness of grief (tē aēdia tēs lypēs). Soft beds have been made up, and doctors have been called in—­for many attend the indisposed. Through all of this, the father wastes away. Even if he has a superabundance of goods, they are detestable to him. Even if he has a multitude of concerns, he drives them all away: drunk with grief (ek tēs lypēs methyōn), he cannot sober up. The whole world is to him an incurable evil. In a similar way, the mother paces about, riven in two, inflamed, and laid bare, seeking a way to share the suffering (ton ponon), or rather to take it entirely upon herself, so that she might relieve her afflicted child of its sickness. For her, the present life is nothing, the future nothing: she considers that taking all the sickness of her child upon herself is more important than everything else. I do not know how to describe such suffering (pathos).115

As they watch their children suffer and weaken, they feel despair. This sharp awareness of parental grief animates Chrysostom’s exegesis. Commenting on Hagar’s decision to abandon her suffering child under a fir tree so 111.  [Ἡ]δονὴν ἔχει τὸ πρᾶγμα (Bern. 3 [PG 50.634], trans. Mayer, Cult, 165). Thanksgiving is “a consolation, a medicine that heals grief and misfortune, and every painful thing” (Hom. Phil. 14.1 [PG 62.283–84]). “If we give thanks, we shall not grieve” (Hom. Jo. 62.5 [PG 59.348]). 112.  Hom. Jo. 62.1 (PG 59.343). 113.  [Ὀ]δύνην καὶ λύπην . . . ἀθυμίαν (Paralyt. 4 [PG 51.55]). 114.  Macc. 1.2 (PG 50.620); Bern. 6 (PG 50.639). A mother, seeing her young son burning with fever, and standing by, while he chokes and burns, “often wails and says to her sick child, ‘O my son, if only I could take on your fever and draw its flame to myself’” (Stat. 13.5 [PG 49.142]). 115.  De beato Abraham 2 (PG 50.740), trans. Tonias, Abraham in the Works of John Chrysostom, 190. This work has often been regarded as spurious, but Tonias makes an argument for its authenticity based on its language and style (ibid., 184–86).

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that she would not have to watch him die, Chrysostom lingers over her feelings: “[H]er heart was breaking, she was tormented with pain and love for the child.”116 But when it comes to describing Abraham’s feelings as he prepared to sacrifice Isaac, Chrysostom professes himself to be wholly at a loss. How, he wonders, did the patriarch find the strength “not to collapse under the anguish.”117 He invites “whoever is a father or a mother” among his listeners to come forward and help him find the words to describe Abraham’s feelings when Isaac addressed him as “father.” “How did his knees not shatter? How did his limbs not seize up? .  .  . How did his hand not become numb? . . . How did he not completely fall apart and break into pieces? How was he able to stand? . . . How did his sinews obey him?”118 By encouraging his listeners to help him understand Abraham’s anguish, Chrysostom honors their experience as parents and fosters in them a sense of fellow feeling for the patriarch.119 But the point of the exercise is not solidarity. For Abraham, as Chrysostom repeatedly emphasizes, was burdened with the grief not of watching his child suffer illness and die, but of actively causing his death. By focusing on this horrific trial, Chrysostom aims once again to arouse gratitude: the thankfulness that comes from comparison, from the realization that, however bad a situation is, it could be far worse.120 Whatever the extent of their grief, ­parents in his congregation should know that they do not and will never shoulder the anguish borne by the patriarch. But the trial they face is a difficult one. Watching the wasting illness of their children, they confront the danger of grief, which is, once again, its tendency to excess. Under its influence, parents may be tempted not only to rail against God and decry divine providence, but also to turn to illegitimate sources of healing. Chrysostom never faults parents for calling on doctors, but he repeatedly and insistently warns against any resort to folk healers or to traditional practices such as incubation and amulets.121 To shore up their resolve, he compares their anguish at watching their child being ravaged by illness to the extravagant sufferings endured 116.  Hom. Gen. 46.2 (PG 54.424). Chrysostom’s comments on the disciples’ reaction, in the gospel of John, to Jesus’s predictions of his coming death convey an understanding of the grief felt by children at the prospective death of their parent. “Like nursing infants,” they initially pestered him with questions, asking continually, “Where are you going?” But when he told them, they fell silent, “overcome with the tyranny of despair and grief” (Ep. Olymp. 10.4b [SC 13bis.256]). 117.  Hom. Gen. 47.2 (PG 54.431); he stilled “the sympathy of nature” (Hom. 2 Cor. 3.5 [PG 61.412]). 118.  De beato Abraham 2 (PG 50.740); Hom. 2 Cor. 3.7 (PG 61.415–16); Scand. 10.8–10 (SC 79.154–56). 119.  Many hearing the story, even though they know the end, break down and weep—­even those who are not parents (Hom. 2 Cor. 3.7 [PG 61.415–16]). 120.  Hom. Col. 8.5 (PG 62.359–60). People typically think that whatever they suffer is the worst: that there is nothing else so painful (Hom. 2 Tim. 1.3 [PG 62.604–5]). 121.  Adv. Jud. 8.7 (PG 48.937–38); see also Hom. Col. 8.5 (PG 62.357–58); Hom. 1 Thess. 3.5 (PG 61.412– 13); Catech. illum. 2.5 (PG 49.240). For a discussion of these practices, see my “‘Keep Me, Lord,” esp. 83–88.

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by the martyrs. This is a bold and resourceful move. It forcefully acknowledges parental agony: as hagiographical literature lingers over every laceration, burn, and dislocation, so Chrysostom catalogs the parent’s inner torment. At the same time, it recasts their suffering as a contest of faith. Just as the resolve of the martyrs was tested, so is the faith of the parents. They must resist repeated temptations to alleviate suffering by denying their faith, either explicitly by giving voice to blasphemy or implicitly by performing illicit practices. The logic of the analogy does not dispute the effectiveness of traditional remedies. In the same way that martyrs could put an end to their anguish by a simple gesture, so parents could presumably relieve their suffering by seeking out unauthorized healers or by making use of proscribed remedies. But it insists that to do so is a form of apostasy. Parents who do not value their child above their faith will share in the glory of martyrdom. But it is not only parents who grieve over children; those who have never given birth can also experience profound sorrow.122 Among all of the early Christian writers, Chrysostom shows an unusual sensitivity to the pain felt by those who have miscarried or who have never been able to conceive. The sadness felt by the infertile is compounded by social sigma, and it is this suffering that Chrysostom addresses first. Conception, he insists, is not “a natural process,” but rather the result of a divine gift. From this, it follows that no woman should feel proud because she has borne many children, nor should anyone be blamed for infertility.123 With vehemence, he resists the notion that barrenness is necessarily the result of sin. The sterility of the patriarchs’ wives teaches us otherwise.124 No one seeing “a man and a woman living virtuously and yet experiencing childlessness,” should find fault with their life or reproach God.125 This line of argumentation resembles his response to the scandal caused by the sight of good people living in poverty. In both situations, Chrysostom focuses on minimizing the impulse to blasphemy, and offers essentially the same advice. Instead of acrimony, the correct response is gratitude. Gratitude, he promises, will alleviate sorrow and may even bring about the desired good. Because Eve was grateful for the birth of Abel, “she enjoyed the 122.  “Not all married couples have children. Do you not then acknowledge another cause for despondency?” (Virginit. 57.5 [SC 125.314]); “the man who has no children thinks nothing is so terrible as being childless” (Hom. 2 Tim. 1.3 [PG 62.605], see also Ep. Theod. 5 [SC 117.70]; Anna 4.5 [PG 54.674–75]). 123.  Children are the result of God’s will, not simply the product of marriage (Virginit. 15.1 [SC 125.144]). See also Hom. Gen. 18.4 (PG 53.153–54); Anna 1.4–5, 2.1 (PG 54.638–39, 643); In illud: Ne timueritis 1.7 (PG 55.509). 124.  Pecc. 6–7 (PG 51.359–60); Sarah was “more barren than a stone” (πέτρας ἀγονωτέραν) (Scand. 10.1 [SC 79.150]). Their barrenness served, in part, to prepare people for belief in the resurrection. 125.  Hom. Gen. 49.2 (PG 54.445); Anna 3.2 (PG 54.655). The right response, whether to sterility or fertility, is “to thank God for everything.”

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good fortune of the second.”126 This reassurance may strike us as ill considered and likely to backfire, but it coheres with his general approach to mitigating sorrow. In a similar way, he urged bereaved parents to recall the virtues and excellences of their deceased child as a stimulus to thanksgiving. Instead of bitter sadness, they should express gratitude to God for giving them such a child.127 With respect to mourning, many of Chrysostom’s recommendations are deeply traditional; much of the same advice can be found in consolation literature. There too, mourners are advised to limit their grief, to recall the good times with gratitude, to take comfort in the thought that death is natural and that their child has been spared future suffering, and to find consolation in the knowledge that others have suffered worse.128 His attention to the grief of infertility is quite novel, however, even if the solution he proposes, namely the cultivation of gratitude, is not. When he turns to the sorrow that arises from personal illness or debility, however, his approach seems more influenced by medical knowledge. L A M E N T I N G P E R S O NA L D E B I L I T Y

Chrysostom knows that sorrow often accompanies sickness and that it does so in two distinct ways. It can arise as a result of bodily sickness (either as a reaction or a symptom), or it can be the cause of physical illness. In either situation it can lead to blasphemy or turn into dangerous depression if left unaddressed. Successful intervention is key.129 Like most of his contemporaries, Chrysostom subscribed to the pervasive medical theory of the four humors.130 According to this model, bodies were compounded of four elements: the warm (blood), the dry (yellow bile), the moist 126.  Hom. Gen. 18.4 (PG 53.154). From the story of Hannah, “sterile women can learn how to become mothers” (Anna 3.1, 3.4 [PG 54.653–54, 658]; see also Hom. Eph. 24.3–4 [PG 62.173]). See Ghorm­ley, “Gratitude.” 127.  Watching one’s child die, one should, like Job, “give thanks to God, who is benevolent” (Hom. 2 Cor. 1.5 [PG 61.389]). 128. Gregg, Consolation Philosophy. Scourfield, “Towards a Genre of Consolation.” 129.  In his advice to those wrestling with the sadness of illness, we can see especially clearly that Chrysostom understood himself in the tradition of the medico-­philosophical healer. See Mayer, “Medicine in Transition”; “Shaping the Sick Soul”; “The Persistence in Late Antiquity”; Wright, “Between Despondency and the Demon”; “Brain and Soul in Late Antiquity,” especially chapter 3; Leyerle, “Etiology of Sorrow.” 130.  The first clear explanation of the four humors occurs in the collection of medical writings attributed to Hippocrates, the fifth century BCE Greek doctor. In the Nature of Man, we read: “The body of man contains blood, phlegm, yellow bile and black bile. This is what constitutes the nature of the body; this is the cause of disease or good health” (Hippoc. Nat. hom. 4, quoted in Jouanna, “At the Roots of Melancholy,” 229–30). The fundamental work on the theory of the four humors remains Schöner, Das Viererschema.

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(phlegm), and the cold (black bile). Illness was the result, if any element became excessive.131 Various factors might lead to humoral unbalance. Because the specific blend of humors varied from person to person, some individuals were simply more susceptible to certain illnesses. The time of year was also a factor, since each humor was associated with a specific season, with which it shared essential qualities. Sadness was directly linked to a preponderance of the fourth element, namely, that of black bile, from which the term “melancholy “ derives.132 This particular humor was linked to autumn and thought to flourish at that time of the year and, by analogy, to predominate in “the autumn” of a person’s life—­that is, during the years of maturity, from age twenty-­five to forty-­two.133 The nature of bile, as “the most viscous” of all the bodily humors made the diseases with which it was linked (paralysis, stroke, and madness) especially tenacious.134 Chrysostom assumes that sadness often arises as a response to physical debility. He notes that when we get sick, “We don’t handle it well”; we get irritable and gloomy and “think that life is unlivable.”135 No other kind of suffering is as difficult to bear.136 Many find the impulse to blasphemy irresistible. It was thus a particular mark of the virtue of the paralyzed man in John 5 that, despite the fact that he had struggled with an incurable infirmity for thirty-eight years, “he was not bad tempered, he did not utter a blasphemous word, he did not accuse his Maker, . . . he did not curse the day on which he was born.”137 “How do we know this?” Chrysostom asks. It is clear from his reaction to Jesus, who was, after all, a stranger to him and seemed to be an ordinary man. When Jesus asked him, “Do you want to be 131.  Stat. 10.2 (PG 49.113); Hom. Act. 51.5 (PG 60.358). The “world is constituted of the same elements” (στοιχεῖα) as our bodies (Stat. 10.3 [PG 49.114]). “When the elements inside bodies are in conflict with each other, they cause illness by their excess or deficiency; similarly in the soul, an imbalance in emotions ruins its health” (Virginit. 17.3 [SC 125.152]). 132.  Stat. 10.2 (PG 49.113); Hom. Jo. 22.3 (PG 59.137–38). A preponderance of this humor could cause a range of illnesses from fevers and joint pain, to weakness and paralysis (Hippoc. Morb. 1.3, ed. Wittern, Die hippokratische Schrift, 8). See Jouanna “At the Roots of Melancholy,” 230–32. 133.  The influence of climate on health is stressed in the much more practically oriented Hippocratic treatise, De aere, aquis, et locis. Here, too, we find the first instance of the word melancholiai. The fact that its symptoms are not described suggests that it was an already well-­known disease (Aer. 10). Chrysostom’s description of his own recent bout of sickness as “brought on by some atmospheric condition” (ἐκ τῆς τοῦ ἀέρος καταστάσεως) indicates a robust belief in the seasonal basis of illness (Ep. Olymp. 17.1b [SC 13bis: 368–70]). 134. Hippoc. Nat. hom. 8, 15. 135.  Mart. 2 (PG 50.709), trans. Mayer, Cult, 222. “Many often beg for death, after succumbing to bodily illness” (Comm. Prov. 3.22a [Bady, “Commentaire,” 195]). 136.  Nothing, John insists, not being stripped of goods, or falling into dishonor, or exile, or imprisonment, or insult, or the loss of one’s children, or even death “is as oppressive as bodily illness” (Ep. Olymp. 17.2a–b, 17.3b [SC 13bis.372, 378]). 137.  Paralyt. 1 (PG 51.49); Hom. Jo. 37.1 (PG 59.207).

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made well?” it would have been natural to respond bitterly: “Do you see me lying here like this, paralyzed for so long, and ask me if I would like to be healed? Have you come to crow over my sufferings, to revile and mock me, to make a comedy of my misfortune?”138 But instead, he responded gently: “Yes, sir.” Given that most invalids tend to grow more irascible and despondent the longer their sickness lasts, this mild reply proves, to Chrysostom’s mind, that he had endured his illness with patience and “much thankfulness” (eucharistias).139 Elsewhere, Chrysostom makes this response a prescription. If anyone, under the pressure of chronic illness—­or indeed of just headache—­cannot keep silent, he can speak out; but, like Job, his words should be ones of thanksgiving not of blasphemy.140 Sadness can also be a symptom of an underlying pathology or a sign that an illness has entered a new stage. Diseases that have their origin in the body can “spread to the soul, torturing and wasting it with pain and great despondency.”141 Thus he tells his beloved friend Olympias that he will not believe that she has been cured of her sadness until she writes to him that she has shaken off her illness.142 In order to be cured of her despondency, she must consult doctors and take medicine for her underlying illness. He even recommends a specific treatment, a pharmakon that their mutual friend Synclēticon had sent him. This, he testifies, greatly helped him during a recent bout of illness: it had relieved his inflammation, brought out sweat, infused strength, and awakened an appetite for food.143 Elsewhere, he praises sleep for its powerfully curative properties against mental as well as physical diseases, noting especially its ability to heal sorrow.144 These positive outcomes suggest a belief that melancholy can be alleviated by treating physical symptoms.145 138.  Paralyt. 1 (PG 51.49). See also Hom. Jo. 37.1 (PG 59.207). 139.  Paralyt. 1 (PG 51.50). He did not give up, although despondency about the past as well as hopelessness for the future, “were sufficient to strain his resolve” (Hom. Jo. 37.1 [PG 59.207]). This reaction also proves, to John’s mind, that the man had not sought out illicit means of healing, such as amulets or charms (Adv. Jud. 8.6 [PG 48.936]). Lazarus was “crowned” for bearing bodily infirmity nobly, “with thanksgiving” (Ep. Olymp. 14.1c [SC 13bis.352]; endurance in suffering is “the queen of good things” (ibid., 17.2a [SC 13bis.372]). 140.  Laz. 3.7 (PG 48.1001); Hom. Eph. 19.2–3 (PG 62.130–31); Exp. Ps. 127.2 (PG 55.368). In his final letters to Olympias, John writes that he has followed his own prescription and in the midst of suffering has never ceased saying, “Glory to God for all things” (Ep. Olymp. 4.1b [SC 13bis.118]); he recommends this practice to her (ibid., 7.3a [SC 13bis.142]). 141.  Stag. 3.13 (PG 47.491). The diseases he mentions here are elephantiasis and cancer. 142.  Ep. Olymp. 17.4d (SC 13bis.386). 143.  Ep. Olymp. 17.1c (SC 13bis.370). 144.  Stat. 8.1 (PG 49.97–98). 145.  Earlier, he has described despondency as “a hidden fever, burning more hotly than any other flame” (Ep. Olymp. 10.2b [SC 13bis.248]).

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As an ascetic widely known for her abstemious use of food, Olympias’s sickness could not be traced to overindulgence.146 But dietary immoderation was commonly believed to foster humoral imbalance. Chrysostom routinely links illnesses to excessive eating, repeating the well-­known adage that “a cheap and frugal table is the mother of health.”147 Such passages show how the grief caused by greed, which we examined above, has a tangible, physical dimension: the excessive consumption of rich foods triggers a range of physical diseases “that surpass the skill of the doctors themselves.” These illnesses include gout, tumors, pains in the hands, trembling, paralysis, stroke, jaundice, headaches, weak vision, and prolonged high fevers.148 At the same time, overindulgence also gives rise to “diseases of the soul.” Chief among these is sadness.149 In such cases, the remedy is clear: according to the established medical practice of treating contraries by contraries, a more abstemious lifestyle will lead to happiness as well as to good health.150 The vital interdependence of body and soul, however, also means that grief can increase a person’s vulnerability to sickness or even bring it about by promoting imbalance or weakening the body’s defenses. Chrysostom takes as a self-­ evident fact that despondency can produce fevers and, in extreme cases, lead to death.151 In another letter to Olympias, he overtly asserts that “sorrow causes sickness”—­a belief that she apparently also shared, since she had previously 146.  Chrysostom’s advice that she avoid “harsh and excessive penances” might suggest that he held her strict regime partly responsible for her illness (Ep. Olymp. 17.4b [SC 13bis.384]). 147.  Hom. Jo. 22.3 (PG 59.137–38). 148.  Paenit. 5.4 (PG 49.312); Anna 5.4 (PG 54.674); Stat. 5.5 (PG 49.78); Hom. Matt. 44.5 (PG 57.470). 149.  Need is the mother of health” (Paenit. 5.4 [PG 49.312]; Hom. Jo. 22.3 [PG 59.137]). Sadness is the worst affliction (Stat. 5.5 [PG 49.78]). The other “diseases” we would more likely classify as character faults: greed, indolence, melancholy (μελαγχολίαι), laziness, self-­indulgence, and every kind of folly (Hom. Jo. 22.3 [PG 59.137–38]). 150.  “All doctors give directions to cure contraries by contraries. . . . Does anyone fall sick from sadness (ἀθυμίας)? They say that cheerfulness (εὐθυμίαν) is the most effective cure” (Stat. 5.5, 5.6 [PG 49.78]; see also Exp. Ps. 9.1 [PG 55.122]). By the same reasoning, gloomy words are likely to depress a person further (Hom. Jo. 79.1 [PG 59.426]). The principle of allopathic treatment is fundamental to both Hippocratic and Galenic medicine (Nutton, Ancient Medicine, 98). John’s confidence that depression, like other humoral illnesses, can be treated by dietary regulation, finds abundant support in ancient medical theory. Galen also insists that grief can be positively influenced by changes in climate and dietary practices (QAM 4, Kühn, 802–3, 805, 807). Hankinson, “Galen’s Anatomy of the Soul”; Sorabji, Emotion and Peace of Mind, 257–60. 151.  “[M]any fevers derive from despondency” (Virginit. 57.7 [SC 125.314]; see also Res. Chr. 1 [PG 50.434]; Stat. 5.6 [PG 49.78], and the spurious In principium jejuniorum [PG 62.745]); despondency weakens the soul (Sac. 5.4 [SC 272.288]); and can cause death (Hom. Jo. 62.5 [PG 59.348]; Vid. 4 [SC 138.138]). It “imitates the poisonous worm” that ravages both the flesh and the soul (Ep. Olymp. 10.2b [SC 13bis.246]). Galen seems also to have believed that grief can cause sickness, when combined with humoral and seasonal factors (MM 10, Kühn 686); King, “Galen and Grief,” 260–67).

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written to him that “her ailments were born from despondency.152 He offers his own letters as therapeutic agents: they will heal her body, by lifting her spirits.153 But how exactly will they do this? Chrysostom believes that they will operate on several levels. First and perhaps most obviously, the letters will serve as proxies for Chrysostom’s own presence.154 This will be curative because the onset of her severe sorrow dated to the bishop’s own sufferings (his demotion, exile, and increasingly fragile health), and her inability to ameliorate his situation, and above all, to the blunt fact of their separation.155 Reading the letters, she will seem to hear his voice and sense his vigorous presence. Second, the letters offer a form of cognitive therapy. They lay out an argument, supported by copious scriptural citation as well as personal testimony, for the providence of God and the insignificance of temporal adversity.156 In so doing, they reinforce the argument of the treatise that Chrysostom has already sent her on the subject that “No one can harm the man who does not injure himself.” This, she should “review constantly,” for it will prove an effective medicine. 157 He knows that Olympias has not been a compliant patient: instead of following his advice, she has been aggravating her condition by ruminating on past woes and by conjuring imaginary scenarios that intensify her distress.158 She must now take an active role in her own healing and recite his words aloud as much as her health permits.159 Speaking the words aloud will amplify their persuasive power. Not only will Olympias hear them as if spoken directly to her, but she will hear herself speaking them. By reciting them, she will take a step closer to appropriating them. 152.  Ποιεῖ μὲν γὰρ νόσον καὶ ἀθυμία (Ep. Olymp. 17.2b.17 [SC 13bis.368]; for Olympias’s self-­ assessment, see ibid., 17.1d, 17.4d [SC 13bis.370, 386]). These ailments were numerous (ibid., 8.4d [SC 13bis.174]). In his twelfth letter, he notes that she had been close to death (ibid., 12.1b [SC 13bis.318]). 153.  He styles them as both “drugs” (φάρμακα) and healing “incantations” (τὰ . . . ἐπᾳδόντων) (Ep. Olymp. 17.1e [SC 13bis.370–72]; see also ibid., 7.1a, 8.1b [SC 13bis.132, 158]). In a similar fashion, his homilies on the Statues are “compresses” designed to soothe “the spiritual wound of athymia” (Stat. 6.1 [PG 49.81]). 154.  Ep. Olymp. 8.13c 8.11.a–b (SC 13bis.216, 204). The sentiment is commonplace (Stowers, Letter Writing in Greco-­Roman Antiquity, 67). John notes that Paul “comforted Timothy, who was distressed at his absence, by a letter in place of a visit” (Hom. 2 Tim. 1.1 [PG 62.600]), and suggests in a treatise to a young widow that dreams of her dead husband may console her “in place of letters” (Vid. 3 [SC 138.132]). 155.  Ep. Olymp. 9.1a, 17.4a (SC 13bis.222, 382). 156.  For the centrality of Providence in Chrysostom’s thought, see Edwards, “Divine Providence and Biblical Narrative.” 157.  [Φ]άρμακον (Ep. Olymp. 17.4c [SC 13bis.384]). 158.  Ep. Olymp. 9.1a, 9.4b, d (SC 13bis.218, 232, 234). 159.  To herself and to her companions, she should chant: “Raise your thoughts above all [present things] and marshal your resistance, so that your crown of virtue will be doubled, tripled—­ multiplied—­by your sufferings” (Ep. Olymp. 11.2a [SC 13bis.310]).

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Third, the scriptural figures he invokes will comfort her. Their stories will lend support to the argument that those who suffer patiently will be rewarded, and will provide her with a sense of companionship.160 Remembering their trials, she will feel less alone in her suffering. In this function, they resemble the scriptural figures that Chrysostom invokes to support those in mourning, and his use of Lazarus, in particular, to cheer those in distress. Olympias’s grief seems, however, to have been largely resistant to these interventions. She writes that, despite her desire and repeated efforts, she has not been able “to dispel the clouds of despondency.” Her athymia has deepened and she has fallen into true despair, even to the point of actively desiring death.161 Another ascetic who fell into dangerous sorrow and to whom Chrysostom wrote at great length was Stagirius. Shortly after entering the ascetic life, the young man had been afflicted with a range of physical symptoms that, as scholars have noted, strongly resemble Galen’s description of epilepsy.162 Chrysostom details the young man’s physical symptoms: the twisted hands, the distorted eyes, the foaming mouth, the indistinct and terrible cries, and the bodily tremors. Along with seizures and blackouts, he was troubled by depression and impulsive thoughts of self-­harm.163 Modern commentators have tended to assume that his feelings of despair arose directly from his medical problems;164 and Galen also believed that there was a connection between epilepsy and melancholy. But Chrysostom does not agree.165 Nor does he accept the young monk’s suggestion that his condition

160.  Ep. Olymp. 7.2a–5d (SC 13 bis.136–54); from the sufferings of these biblical figures “the fabric of the church was woven” (ibid., 7.5c [SC 13bis.154). See Broc, “L’évocation des personnages bibliques.” Volp argues that Chrysostom’s letter to Stagirius effectively creates a “virtual space” populated not only “by the letter’s author and addressee, but also by figures of the biblical tradition which make it a place of stable and long-­standing relationships” (“That Unclean Spirit,” 286). Johnston argues that a common result of well-­told fiction is the formation of “parasocial relationships,” in which fictional characters can elicit the same cognitive and emotional responses as actual people (Story of Myth, esp. 81–91). 161.  Ep. Olymp. 8.1c (SC 13bis.160); ibid., 17.3a, 3e (SC 13bis.376, 382). 162. Hippoc. Morb. sacr. 7, 6.372.5, Flat. 14. Jouanna, “Hippocratic Medicine and Greek Tragedy,” 72–74. 163. [Τ]ὴν στρέβλωσιν τῶν χειρῶν, τὴν διαστροφὴν τῶν ὀφθαλμῶν, τὸν ἀπὸ τοῦ στόματος ἀφρὸν, τὴν ἀποτρόπαιον καὶ ἄσημον ἐκείνην φωνὴν, τὸν τοῦ σώματος τρόμον, τὴν ἀναισθησίαν τὴν ἐπὶ πολὺ (Stag. 1.1 [PG 47.426]; see also ibid., 2.1 [PG 47.448]). 164. Samellas, Alienation, 160–86; Liebeschuetz, Ambrose and John Chrysostom, 158–61. 165.  “Melancholics (μελαγχολικοί) tend to become epileptic in the majority of cases, and epileptics are prone to becoming melancholic. Each of these two states arises, according to the direction the disease takes; if it turns towards the body, people are epileptic; if it turns towards the mind, they are melancholic (μελαγχολικοί)” (Galen, Loc. Aff. 3.10, Kühn, 8.180). The connection was well established already in the Hippocratic corpus (Aph. 7.40, Morb. 1.3, Epid. 6.8.31, 5.354.19–356.3). Jouanna, “At the Roots of Melancholy,” 235–36.

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is the result of demonic possession.166 Suicidal despair, he insists, is caused not by demons or by pathology, but by despondency. The statement is clear, but the reasoning seems circular. What does he mean? The resolution hinges on the double meaning of athymia as not only sadness but also a lack of vital energy. Chrysostom’s point is that although people often hold demons responsible for their ills, “we suffer even more from our own contempt and indifference.”167 To illustrate the point, he appeals to the example of Cain, who was led to murder his brother not by the seductions of a demon, but by his own failure to resist evil thoughts.168 Like Cain, Stagirius has acquiesced to harmful thoughts—­in particular, to erroneous ideas about the meaning of suffering. He thinks that he is being punished by God. His observation that other monks who suffered similarly from low spirits swiftly recovered from their depression after they abandoned the ascetic life, married, and had children has deepened his despair and sharpened his sense of unfairness. Chrysostom’s treatment follows logically from this diagnosis, and much of it is very familiar. First, he attacks the underlying cognitive errors. Citing story after biblical story, he disproves the young man’s mistaken belief that suffering is always a mark of condemnation. To the contrary, God often sends trials as means of promoting discipline or of making virtue more apparent, and thus of increasing one’s reward. Even when suffering is imposed as a response to sin, its nature is essentially curative and corrective, and thus no reason for despondency.169 These arguments have therapeutic potential. If Stagirius adopts them, he can rebuff “the assaults of sadness,” even as Job refuted his wife’s invitations to despair.170 Once the young man views his physical afflictions in this light, they will no longer depress him; on the contrary, he will be grateful for their intervention. At the same time, John addresses Stagirius’s habit of comparing his lot with that of others. Again, he prescribes a cognitive approach: the young man must 166.  Demons, he concedes, have caused the young man’s physical symptoms, but the depression is a separate issue: “[E]ven if some among those [who have destroyed themselves] were demon-­possessed, their destruction must be attributed not to the devil, but to the force and tyranny of athymia” (Stag. 2.1 [PG 47.449]). Wright argues that Chrysostom attributes Stagirius’s suffering to vainglory (“Between Despondency and the Demon”). 167.  Stag. 1.4 (PG 47.434); see also Theod. laps. 21 (SC 117.210); “the tyranny of despondency can darken love” (Ep. Olymp. 10.4b [SC 13bis.258]). 168.  Stag. 1.4 (PG 47.434). Elsewhere, Chrysostom asserts that the devil “became such as he is, because he first despaired” (Theod. laps. 17 [SC 117.188]; Paenit. 1.2 [PG 49.279]). 169.  Stag. 1.8–9 [PG 47.444–46]); sometimes God does send despondency as a punishment (Ep. Olymp.10.4b [SC 13bis.256]). Scripture contains a remedy appropriate to every trouble including depression (Hom. Gen. 29.2 [PG 53.262]; see also Stat. 15.2 [PG 49.156]). 170.  Stagirius, like the Corinthians, can take comfort in Paul’s assurances that God does not allow people to be tested beyond their strength (1 Cor 10:3) (Stag. 3.14 [PG 47.494]).

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retrain his thoughts. Instead of focusing on erstwhile monks, who are now enjoying respite from their sufferings, he should remind himself that their happiness is unlikely to last.171 Given the vicissitudes of life, sorrow comes to everyone. He should compare his situation not with those who are more fortunate but rather with those who endure far harsher circumstances: the urban poor, those condemned to the mines, or indeed other monastic acquaintances who have suffered far longer with much worse afflictions.172 Reflection on their lot will make Stagirius’s relatively good fortune apparent and his difficulties will come to seem “but a calm port in life’s storms.”173 Then Chrysostom addresses Stagirius’s lassitude. The young man must exert himself. To foster drive, Chrysostom turns to fear: Stagirius must not be like Eli, whom God condemned because of his negligence in failing to discipline his sons;174 and he recommends zealous prayer. With David, the young man should cry out to God, “The troubles of my heart are increased, deliver me from my distress” (LXX Ps 24:17).175 And he should turn to scripture: “Take the book of Job into your hands; peer into the abyss of his sufferings and you will find in them powerful consolation for your own.”176 To Olympias, John gives essentially the same advice. By her own admission, she too has given way to hopelessness; in response to his exhortations, she has written: “I want to, but I cannot; for despite my efforts, I am not able to dispel the thick dark clouds of despondency.” These words, he insists, are a pretext and excuse.177 She must rouse herself and shake off this sorrow.178 If rightly understood, even her own despondency can help her in this task. For if suffering brings reward, as scripture proves, and despair is the worst kind of suffering, as she herself knows, then she can imagine what recompense awaits her.179

171.  Stag. 1.6–7 (PG 47.441). 172.  Stag. 3.13 (PG 47.490–91). 173.  Stag. 3.13 (PG 47.490). 174.  Because fear is an invigorating emotion, it can ward off grief (Ep. Olymp. 8.3b [SC 13bis.166– 68]; Stag. 3.6 [PG 47.479]). 175.  Stag. 3.14 (PG 47.494). As a model of zealous repentance, David’s story combats depression (Hom. Matt. 26.8 [PG 57.344]). 176.  [Τ]ὸ βιβλίον αὐτοῦ μετὰ χεῖρας λαβὼν διάκυψον πρὸς τὴν ἄβυσσον τῶν συμφορῶν, καὶ πολλὴν ἐν ἐκείνοις παραμυθίαν εὑρήσεις τῶν σῶν (Stag. 2.10 [PG 47.463]). 177.  Ep. Olymp. 8.1c, 9.1a, 9.4b (SC 13bis.160, 218, 220, 232). 178.  Ep. Olymp. 8.13c, 10.2a (SC 13bis.216, 246). 179.  Ep. Olymp. 8.11c, 10.9b, 17.1e (SC 13bis.204, 274, 370). This seems to be the content of his “incantations” (ibid., 10.1.d, 11.2a, 17.1e [SC 13bis:244, 246, 310, 370). It was in order to increase Paul’s reward that God did not free him from his despondency and pains (ibid., 10.9e [SC 13bis.276]). For an analysis of Chrysostom’s approach to consoling Olympias, and its philosophical roots, see Wilcoxson, “Machinery of Consolation.”

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John’s treatment of the sadness that arises from sickness is thus nuanced. When he judges that its origin lies in physical pathology, he recommends medical treatment. In these passages, his acquaintance with and reliance upon contemporary medical theory is quite pronounced. But this response is relatively rare. Far more often, he concludes that despondency has exacerbated if not precipitated illness, and in these circumstances, he turns to the same cognitive and behavioral strategies with which he combats other sorts of sorrow. In both situations, however, his efforts are therapeutic and directed at mitigating the emotion.180 The conviction that despondency is dangerous and should be minimized occurs throughout his work and represents an important strand of his thought. But it coexists, somewhat uneasily, with a robust belief that sorrow can be extremely advantageous and should, for this reason, be deliberately cultivated. M OU R N I N G SI N

When sadness arises as a response to sin, it is an unequivocal good.181 Indeed, this is its primary purpose. For unlike despondency over the loss of property, health, or beloved individuals, which can never restore that which has been lost, penitential sorrow is highly effective—­a point that Chrysostom’s frequent recourse to the language of profit underscores.182 In Aristotelian terms, it has action readiness. This crucial distinction between effective and non-­effective sorrow receives its clearest and most trenchant expression in the treatise to Stagirius: God has implanted despondency (athymia) in our nature not so that we would make use of it inappropriately and heedlessly in adverse circumstances, nor that we would waste away, but that we would gain the greatest profit from it. How can we profit from it? When we accept it at the appropriate time. The appropriate time for despondency is not when we have suffered misfortune, but when we have sinned. We, however, have reversed this order and exchanged these times: although committing countless sins, we are not dispirited for a second; but if we suffer the least little reversal, we are cast down, we completely lose our bearings, and we are eager escape and be done with life.183 180.  In this sense, as Wendy Mayer notes, there is a sibling relationship between the two therapeutic approaches. See her “Medicine and Metaphor.” 181.  Penitential grief is “the best kind of sorrow” (Hom. Jo. 62.5 [PG 59.348]). Nowak, Chrétien devant la Souffrance, esp. 73–76. 182.  Weeping and wailing for the dead does them no good and causes those who lament “the greatest harm” (Laz. 5.3 [PG 48.1021]). Despondency over human misfortunes “has no beneficial effect” (Hom. Jo. 78.1 [PG 59.419]), whereas sorrow over sin is powerfully effective: it heals, corrects, strengthens, and restores (Stat. 5.4, 7.1 [PG 49.74, 91]; Theod. laps. 1.16 [SC 117.176–78]; Paenit. 8.4 [PG 49.342]). See also Leduc, “Penthos,” 241–46. Nowak, Chrétien devant la Souffrance, 182–89. 183.  Stag. 3.13–14 (PG 47.491–92)

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The fact that Stagirius made improper use of sadness, with the result that it caused him “to waste away,” in no way vitiates its usefulness. It remains a s­overeign ­remedy for sin. Grief’s curative properties begin with its ability to cut through the callousness formed by habitual wrongdoing.184 It was in order to pierce David’s hardheartedness that Nathan told him the parable of the poor man’s ewe. He allowed the king to think that he was passing judgment on another and then, as if “driving a knife suddenly into a wound,” declared: “You are the man.”185 The sharp pain had the desired effect; it brought David to his senses and he immediately acknowledged the sin of which he had previously been unaware. By enhancing attention, sorrow can be protective. It can help ensure that one will not repeat the same mistake again. With this in mind, God placed Adam “just opposite the garden of delight,” so that seeing that from which he had been expelled, he would feel “unending misery.” For even if this was almost unbearably painful, it was beneficial for him: “the constant sight proved to be a continuous source of security for the grieving man so that he might not fall again into the same ways.”186 This, after all, is human nature. It is only through the experience of losing good things that we gain a clear perception of the cost of carelessness.187 Sadness makes people pay closer attention and be more receptive to wise counsel.188 But the chief benefit of sorrow lies in its capacity to annul sin. Even Ahab, who had connived in the death of Naboth and against whom God had already declared judgment, obtained mercy, because, when he heard the words of Elijah, “his face became sorrowful and he mourned his sin” (skythrōpazōn kai penthōn). Seeing his repentance, God relented.189 With this same kind of penitential grief, 184.  Chrysostom often uses the language of stoniness to capture the insensibility brought on by habitual sin. This was the condition of the rich man, who, like a stone (ὥσπερ λίθον), walked by Lazarus every day (Laz. 1.10 [PG 48.976]). Leduc, “Penthos,” 236–38. The idea seems to be that the soul has become cold and torpid; shedding “hot tears” can melt and revive it (Hom. Gen. 20.3 [PG 53.170]). On ἀναισθησία as a technical term in early Christian Greek asceticism, see Miquel, Lexique du Désert, 88–111. 185.  Paenit. 2.2 (PG 49.287). 186.  Hom. Gen. 18.3 (PG 53.202). 187.  Visiting houses of mourning is helpful precisely because it reminds people of the transitory nature of present things and the reality of the judgment (Stat. 15.2 [PG 49.156]). 188.  Hom. Jo. 60.6 (PG 59.336). Modern scientific studies agree on the cognitive benefits of sadness: by turning attention inward, it promotes resignation and acceptance. It is also associated with more detail-­oriented information processing: “with sadness comes accuracy” (Bonanno et al., “Sadness and Grief,” 799). Occasionally, Chrysostom also acknowledges that sadness can impede learning and dull recall (Hom. Jo. 79.1 [PG 59.426]). 189.  Paenit. 2.3 (PG 49.288, 289); true also of the Ninevites (ibid., 5.2 [PG 49.308]). Even Dives was not wholly bereft of virtue: “sometimes he wept, sometimes he grieved” (Laz. 6.9 [PG 48.1041]).

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Chrysostom urges his listeners to “mourn continually.”190 They should cleanse their conscience through lamentation and tears.191 Unlike those shed upon other occasions, these tears should be intense and sustained. For this is what Christ meant when he declared blessed those who mourn: he did not mean all those who grieve, but rather those who grieve over sin; nor did he mean those who were simply sad, but rather those who were intensely sorrowful. The point, as Chrysostom understands it, is the single-­minded focus of those who mourn. As those who grieve the loss of children feel no desire for things or for pleasure and are immune to insult or envy, so a person mourning their sins should be entirely possessed by grief.192 As a model of this kind of heartfelt repentance, he holds up David, who “was not merely tired, but was even exhausted by his groaning; he did not simply weep, but even washed his bed and not for one or two or three days, but even night after night . . . persisting in this way continually throughout his entire life.”193 We should do likewise, Chrysostom insists; and just as we would not go to bed without first washing our face, so we should bathe our soul daily “by shedding hot tears.”194 As a supremely effective remedy, these tears are the opposite of despairing.195 No matter how intense or how frequent, they flow from a sense of hope. It was because Stagirius lost track of this crucial distinction, that his soul “became swallowed up with grief” and weakened by excessive discouragement.196 To avoid this peril, we must temper sorrow with periods of relief and consolation. Knowing this, God made the accusations of our conscience “continual but not incessant.”197 Even the fact that one can always have recourse to tears is a source of consolation, since it proves that no sin is unforgiveable, that however often one has fallen, one can still repent. The only barrier is indolence and despair.198 190.  Οὐκοῦν τοῦτο πενθῶμεν διηνεκῶς (Hom. Jo. 62.5 [PG 59.348]; see also Hom. Phil. 3.4 [PG 62.203]; Hom. 2 Cor. 4.6 [PG 61.426]). 191.  Stat. 18.3 (PG 49.185–86); Hom. Matt. 41.4 (PG 57.450). 192.  Hom. Matt. 15.2–3 (PG 57.225). “He blessed those that mourn: not those who mourn simply over their deceased relatives, but those who feel compunction and mourn over their own evil deeds and take into account their own sins—­or even those of others” (Hom. Phil. 14.1 [PG 62.282]). 193.  Exp. Ps. 6.4 (PG 55.76–77, on 76); ibid., 13. 3 (PG 55.153–54). See also Laz. 1.8 (PG 48.973); Hom. Matt. 26.8 (PG 57.344); Ep. Theod. 2 (SC 117.52–54). He did not make excuses, but confessed (Exp. Ps. 140.6 [PG 55.438]). Leduc, “Penthos,” 245. 194.  Hom. Gen. 21.6 (PG 53.184). Peter also serves as an excellent example of effective penitence (Paenit. 3.4 [PG 49.298]). 195.  Sins leads to great despair (Hom. Matt. 86.4 [PG 58.768]). 196.  Stag. 3.13–14 (PG 47.491–92). It is, in fact, one of the devil’s wiles “to strike us down not only by sin, but even by repentance” (Hom. 2 Cor. 4.5 [PG 61.424–25, on 424]). 197.  [Δ]ιηνεκῆ . . . οὐ μὴν συνεχῆ (Laz. 4.5 [PG 48.1013]). 198.  Paenit. 2.3, 3.4 (PG 49.287, 297–98). In this sense, “the devil has no stronger weapon than despair (ἀπόγνωσις)” (Paenit. 1.2 [PG 49.280]).

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Tears of remorse can also be shed on behalf of others.199 “Bear in mind,” Chrysostom writes, “that if a Christian grieves (lypoito), there can be only two reasons for his athymia: either he himself, or his neighbor, has offended God.”200 As Moses and the prophets wept over the Israelites, so Christians have an obligation to weep over sinners.201 These tears, like those shed over the dead, spring from affection, but unlike them, they are entirely rational and efficacious. For while death is not truly lamentable since it is natural and, for Christians, a gateway to eternal life, sin, which causes people to perish even while they are alive, is indeed “worthy of tears.”202 Friends who care sincerely for their companions, or parents who love their children rightly should weep over them, not when they die, but when they commit evil.203 These tears, like alms, bring their own reward, and thus Chrysostom recommends that they be shed quietly in private, where they cannot be tainted by vainglory, but where God will see them and be propitiated.204 On the other hand, because tears make eyes more attractive, sinners seeing them may be stirred to repentance by their beauty.205 It was for this reason that Christ wept over sinners, hoping to draw them back, when his words of rebuke failed to convert them.206 Among the many biblical figures who mourned over the sins of others that Chrysostom cites, it is to Paul that he turns most often. Although the apostle had no cause for sadness on his own account, he wept constantly on behalf of others—­indeed, as the author of Acts states, for three years, day and night.207 He

199.  Because tears wipe away sin, they appropriately accompany prayer and exhortation (Hom. Col. 12.4 [PG 62.386]). For the alignment of tears shed on behalf of others and the arousal of sympatheia, see Mellas, “Tears of Compunction.” 200.  Stag. 3.14 (PG 47.492); heretical virgins deserve tears and much lamentation (Virginit. 6.2 [SC 125.110]). 201.  Hom. Col. 12.3 (PG 62.384); Stat. 18.2–3. (PG 49.184–85). On Moses, see also Stag. 3.3 (PG 47.475). Such tears are characteristic of the saints: Juventinus and Maximinus “grieved and wept over the evils that were coming to pass” (Juv. 2 [PG 50.574]). Thus, it is right that Olympias should grieve attacks on the church (Ep. Olymp. 8.1d [SC 13bis.160]). 202.  Hom. Heb. 23.3 (PG 63.163). 203.  Hom. Col. 12.4 (PG 62.385); Hom. Act. 21.4 (PG 60.168). Friends who truly care about each other shed tears; John and others wept over Theodore (Ep. Theod. 1.1, 4 [SC 117.46, 66]). 204.  Chrysostom again singles out women as being “especially prone to this disease” (γυναικῶν γὰρ μάλιστα τουτὶ τὸ νόσημα) (Hom. 2 Cor. 4.5 [PG 61.425]; see also Hom. Phil. 3.4 [PG 62.203]). 205.  “Nothing is sweeter than teary eyes. For this is the nobler and more attractive part of our bodies, and that which is of the soul” (Hom. Col. 12.4 [PG 62.386]). 206.  Hom. Col. 12.3 (PG 62.385). Jesus wept over Jerusalem and Bethsaida “as we do over our friends” (Hom. Jo. 68.2 [PG 59.377]; Hom. Heb. 15.4 [PG 63.122]). He wept for those who were crucifying him: “this should be our disposition too” (Hom. Matt. 61.5 [PG 58.595]). 207.  Acts 20:31, see also Rom 9:2–3. Exp. Ps. 6.4 (PG 55.77); Hom. Col. 12.2 (PG 62.383). “In every case, you see him in tears and lamentation on account of his own people” (Ign. 3 [PG 50.590]).

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accounted their sins to be his own, “according to the logic of mourning.”208 Like Paul, Christians have an obligation to weep over sinners, not for a day or two, but for all of their lives.209 Even when these tears appear to bring no profit to others, they still benefit those who shed them: they increase sensitivity to the gravity of sin and thus eagerness to avoid it.210 “Nothing,” in short, “is sweeter than these tears.”211 Because they arise from affection and build community, make God gracious and assure forgiveness, and render us more likely to live virtuous lives and enter heaven, they yield pleasure and delight.212 Chrysostom’s ascetic orientation undoubtedly fueled this extraordinary enthusiasm for tears.213 Grieving over sin was a hallmark of the monastic life, and Syrian ascetics, in particular, celebrated the gift of tears.214 And it is on this basis that his listeners repeatedly dismissed his words. They complained that perpetual repentance was for monks and not for people like them, who, as married homeowners, were necessarily caught up in the affairs of the world.215 Chrysostom rejects these protests, not because he disputes the origin of the practice but because he repudiates the assumption that only monks should be concerned about offending God. Tears of remorse signal an embodied belief about the gravity of sin—­and its eschatological consequences—­that should animate all Christians.216 Monks may live out this conviction with special fervor, but every Christian should share it. 208.  [Κ]ατὰ τὸν τοῦ πένθους λόγον (Hom. Phil. 15.6 [PG 62.296]). Quoting 2 Cor 2:4, 7:10. Instead of correcting the scandal in Corinth, Paul shared the weakness and “took part in the sadness” (athymia) (Ep. Olymp. 10.9a [SC 13bis.272]). 209.  Paul did not weep one day and rejoice the next, but lamented constantly (Hom. 2 Tim. 8.3 [PG 62.646]; Hom. Phil. 15.6 [PG 62.296]; Quod reg. 2, Dumortier, Les cohabitations suspectes, 101). Because Timothy was Paul’s disciple, he also wept; Christians should do likewise (Hom. Col. 12.4 [PG 62.385–86]; Hom. Act. 21.4 [PG 60.168]). 210.  Hom. Phil. 3.4 (PG 62.203). 211.  Hom. Col. 12.3 (PG 62.384). 212.  For pleasure in repentant tears, see: Hom. Phil. 14.1, 15.6 (PG 62.282, 296); Hom. Col. 12.4 (PG 62.384); Stat. 18.2 (PG 49.184). “When you hear ‘weeping,’ do not suspect anything gloomy: those tears have as much pleasure as laughter has in this world” (Virginit. 63–64 [SC 125.330]; Hom. Jo. 75.4 [PG 59.409]). Hunt, Joy-­Bearing Grief, 3–37. 213.  Suggested already by Leduc (“Penthos,” 249). Along with fasting, weeping “curbs the belly” (Hom. Col. 12.3 [PG 62.384]). 214.  This sorrow is linked to “compunction” (κατάνυξις), a word that, by the time of Chrysostom already had a technical meaning. Miquel, Lexique du Désert, 217–232; Hausherr, Penthos, 3–10. 215.  Oppug. 3.14 (PG 47.372–73). Impatient with his frequent praise for tears, they replied, mockingly, “Tears in a minute!” (Εὐθέως δάκρυα), earning his further rebuke: “[F]or this reason especially, tears are opportune” (Hom. Heb. 15.4 [PG 63.122]). 216.  Given that the dire consequences of sin are only fully exposed at the final Judgment, penitential sorrow reveals the internalization of a distinctively Christian timeline (Compunct. Dem.1.1 [PG 47.395]).

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Because grief reveals people’s deepest commitments—­what they most cherish—­it provides Chrysostom with an opportunity to address these values. And his response varies according to the nature of these commitments. When grief arises from the loss of possessions, his criticism is sharp. Stemming from greed, this sadness is closely connected to culpable feelings of envy, malice, and indignation. Mourning over the death of others he finds acceptable, provided that it is done in moderation. But when it threatens to become excessive, either in expression or duration, he is firm in its correction. His appraisal of the sadness that arises from some underlying physical pathology seems neutral, even clinical: it is largely a medical matter for which patients should seek professional help. If no cure is available, it must be endured like any other affliction sent by God. In all of these circumstances, he warns urgently against the temptation to blasphemy. This is the true danger of grief: that under the pressure of sorrow, people’s faith may buckle or crack. They may speak bitterly, cursing their life, denying the oversight of providence, or decrying the justice of God. Penitential mourning, to the contrary, carries no such risk. Far from expressing disbelief, these tears acknowledge the gravity of sin and affirm the justice of God. They reveal values and commitments shaped by Christian formation. Understood as effective agents of change, these tears bespeak confidence in the mercy of God and hope for the future. When Christians weep for the sins of others, they reinforce these values, and they also show love for others. And by expressing affection, they simultaneously increase it. Because this grief reinforces faith, prompts conversion of life, and fosters community, Chrysostom fervently endorses it. His only criticisms occur when penitential sorrow has lost its grounding in hope. When grief is no longer active and forward looking, but indolent and despairing, his response is bracing and severe. Chrysostom’s approach to mitigating sorrow focuses on the underlying problem of formation. To combat the despondency that arises from attachment to material goods, he favors cognitive approaches. He labors the faulty reasoning that leads people to lament possessions that they have lost, or that they never owned in the first place. He works to dissuade people from their love of things by exposing the grief that inevitably accompanies attachment to fragile, material objects. Far from deriving happiness from their abundant possessions, the rich accumulate sorrow upon sorrow. He touts the power of maxims. These, if repeated often enough, will gradually weaken attachment and promote contentment. Similar strategies are effective in limiting despondency over the death of others. In these situations, some grief is appropriate, in that it acknowledges the value of the individual and of the relationship, but it must not be allowed to become excessive. For then it reveals an insufficient faith in the resurrection and a disbelief in

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the providence of God that leads to blasphemy. To keep mourning in check and stem the impulse to decry Providence, he promotes the cultivation of gratitude and hope. This is also his advice for infertile couples, struggling with the grief of barrenness or, indeed, for anyone encountering misfortune beyond their control. As an aid against every type of sorrow, he recalls the example of biblical figures. Much of this advice is quite traditional. Many philosophical schools advocated detachment from things (including intangible goods such as honor) as a way of insulating oneself against disappointments and increasing contentment. Consolation literature had long advised restraint in mourning, warning against extravagant displays of grief and urging reasoned reflection on the naturalness and inevitability of death. Authors writing in this genre also recommended gratitude as an effective means of counteracting despair, and held up well-­known figures who had shown exemplary fortitude and tranquility, for emulation. Chrysostom’s mobilization of biblical stories undoubtedly stems, in part, from this traditional use. But his confidence in their therapeutic power seems elevated. In homilies, treatises, and letters, he repeatedly directs his listeners’ attention to biblical narrative. Sometimes, these references are brief, scarcely more than an allusion, but in other places he lingers over the stories, tracing emotional triggers, exploring reactions, and adding luxuriant detail. His purpose is certainly pedagogic: he aims to change people’s responses by holding up the feelings and behavior of scriptural characters to analysis. The portraits he constructs are nuanced, and through rhetorical amplification, he makes the figures seem even “rounder.” Our enhanced sense of their reality is central to his program. It lends weight to their testimony and awakens in us an emotional response: we seem to know them. To the degree that they share our experience and we theirs, we may derive comfort from their presence, learn from their behavior, and practice new reactions. For an extended example of this technique, as it pertains to sorrow, we can turn to Job; for in his story, “the sufferings, which are scattered throughout the entire world, came together and fell upon one body, namely his own.”217 A Case Study in Surmounting Sadness: Job Chrysostom often draws his listeners’ attention to the story of Job.218 The fact that the patriarch lived a secular life adds to the usefulness of his example. As the head of a large household and owner of many possessions, members of John’s 217.  Ἅ γὰρ ἐν πάσῃ τῇ οἰκουμένῃ διέσπαρται πάθη, ταῦτα ὁμοῦ συνελθόντα εἰς ἓν σῶμα κατέσκηψε τὸ ἐκείνου (Diab. 2.5 [SC 560.190]; see also Adfu. 1 [PG 63.478–79]). 218.  References to Job occur throughout Chrysostom’s writings; a detailed analysis of these references remains a scholarly desideratum. Brottier has produced an excellent article-­length study (“Actualisation”). Finn has argued that Chrysostom uses the figure of Job to convey “the correct reaction to suffering”: this reaction is that of a “philosopher . . . marked by the traits of sympathy and philanthropy” (“Sympathetic Philosophy,” 98).

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congregation could relate to him and find in his story encouragement to triumph over grief. His ability to endure manifold losses and to do so with gratitude, despite the fact that he lived before the time of the law, offered further comfort. Since contemporary Christians enjoyed so many additional aids and graces, they should be all the more able to check their sorrow. The first kind of suffering that the patriarch endured was the loss of his material goods. This was already a severe blow, since to many, as John notes, “poverty and the pain that arises from it” seem the worst kind of suffering. “Everyone everywhere laments this.”219 The extent of Job’s cumulative losses, moreover, was exceptional. As each messenger arrived with news of further depredation, the scope of the disaster widened. But even the initial seizure of draft animals and slaughter of enslaved persons was bad enough. Chrysostom focuses attention on the suddenness of the disaster and its emotional toll: Do you see how swift the blow is? See too how pitiable the calamity, how novel and strange the disaster. . . . How is it that Job was not driven out of his senses at the news of the untoward event, given that he had always lived in comfort? How is it? Such a thing had never happened before, nor had it ever been heard of. Furthermore, the land could no longer be plowed: in that one single moment, he was deprived of all his goods. The loss of livestock, which is always difficult, is especially so when it happens at just the time when they are needed: the work is interrupted in the very midst, such that the damage is doubled: the work is left unfinished and the cattle are carried off. Furthermore, added to the loss is murder, the epitome of what makes war seem unbearable: extreme savagery and inhumanity.220

The damage to Job’s livelihood was calamitous. He could not console himself with the thought that, although some of his possessions were gone, others were left. Nor could he hope to restore what he had lost. Without animals or laborers, he could not replant his fields.221 The completely unexpected nature of the loss made it more difficult to endure. Up until that time, Job had lived a tranquil life and enjoyed security. In this regard, he was different from many of the destitute of fourth-­century Antioch, who, having been born into poverty, were habituated to suffering.222 The experience was worse for the patriarch because it was fresh and startling. The fact that the calamities fell in rapid succession, and that he did not actually see them occur would also have increased his sense of shock and distress.223 But even so, he did not despair. 219.  Diab. 2.5 (SC 560.190); many would rather be whipped than lose any of their goods (Hom. 2 Cor. 1.5 [PG 61.389]). 220.  Comm. Job 1.17 (SC 346.128–30). 221.  Comm. Job 1.17 (SC 346.128). 222.  Comm. Job 1.17 (SC 346.128); Ep. Olymp. 8.8a–e (SC 13 bis.186–92). 223.  The pain he endured was worse than that of many martyrs (Hom. 2 Cor. 1.4 [PG 61.389]).

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And this is the first moral that Chrysostom draws from the story: grief is not an inevitable reaction to financial loss. Unlike many of Chrysostom’s day, “who consider their life unlivable if they lose a little gold,” Job bore his losses easily.224 He did so, John insists, because he had the right relationship to things: he was rich, but he was not a slave to mammon. When his wealth increased, he didn’t rejoice. He regarded himself as a steward of goods, which he held in trust for others.225 Because he didn’t desire wealth in the first place, he was not overcome with grief when it was taken away.226 It was this detachment that prevented him from falling into the sadness of things. Instead of questioning Providence, as many do when they suffer a reversal, he blessed God. This reaction coheres with John’s advice on stemming excessive sorrow, but the story does more than simply illustrate a teaching. It proves that common emotional reactions are not fixed or necessary, but can be changed. And in so doing, it invites listeners to reflect on their own reactions to loss. No one, Chrysostom points out, has ever been as poor as Job became. Even “the outcasts at the baths and those who sleep in the ashes of the furnace” have clothing—if it is only rags—­whereas Job had only “the clothing nature supplies,” that is, his flesh. The urban poor can find shelter, moreover, under the porticoes of the baths, but Job passed his nights in the open air. He did not have even the consolation of sitting on the ground, but sat instead upon a dunghill.227 By emphasizing the extent of Job’s suffering, these comparisons underscore his meritorious endurance, but they are also designed to console Chrysostom’s listeners and stem their sense of grievance. When those who have fallen into poverty consider Job’s utter destitution, they will feel better about their own situation. Indeed, John promises, they will immediately “get up . . . and shake off every thought of despondency.”228 If we can never know the same degree of loss that the patriarch experienced, we can learn to share his response. And this is the second moral of the story. If anyone threatens to confiscate our goods, or if we have lost them in a house fire, we can say with Job: “Naked I came out of my mother’s womb, and naked I shall return. We brought nothing into the world, and it is certain that we can carry nothing out.” In speaking these words, we will triumph over Satan. For the devil acts toward us as he did toward the patriarch. “He causes us losses, not that 224.  Gold, Chrysostom adds, that they have often obtained through violence (Hom. Matt. 33.7 [PG 57.396]); Job maintained equanimity (In illud: Ne timueritis 1.2 [PG 55.502]). 225.  So far was he from extorting goods from others that he readily gave away his own possessions to those in need (Hom. Matt. 21.1 [PG 57.295]; In illud Isaiae: Ego Dominus Deus feci lumen 4 [PG 56.147]). He had practiced detachment (Mart. 4 [PG 50.652–53]). 226.  Hom. Matt. 33.6 (PG 57.395); Saturn. 5 (PG 52.419–20). 227.  Diab. 2.5 (SC 560.192–94). 228.  Diab. 2.5 (SC 560.194). Brottier, “Actualisation,” 74.

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he may take away our goods only, for he knows that they are nothing, but that through them he may compel us to utter some blasphemy.”229 If we resist this temptation, and instead bless God, we will convert apparent material loss into real spiritual profit: we will gain from God the same reward as if we had voluntarily given our goods away.230 And once loss is refigured as victory and reward, we will no longer react to it with sadness. Job did not repine over the destruction of his goods, but when the news came of the death of his children, he felt and evinced grief. This mourning, as we have already noted, was rational in that it correctly acknowledged the children’s value. Tersely but insistently, Chrysostom drives home the magnitude of the loss: “He lost ten children; ten all at once; ten in the very flower of youth; ten who displayed great virtue.”231 The manner of their death was, moreover, profoundly shocking. It was not natural or gradual, but occurred unexpectedly and at one blow. In an instant, they were all killed. The timing too was pitiable. They were at dinner and the table was laden with choice foods and wine.232 John describes the tragedy in graphic terms: “on the same table blood and brains were poured out, and bits of wood and tile, dust and chunks of flesh were jumbled altogether.”233 The scene is designed to evoke horror and sympathetic grief in the listeners. All of the children, John repeats, died in a single moment; not one was left to console Job for the loss of the others. Because he was a man and a father, he tore his clothes and he wept.234 Had he not mourned, he would have seemed unfeeling—­even inhuman.235 Even more meritorious than his grief, however, was the fact that he grieved appropriately, and did so, despite the fact that none of the corpses had been rescued from the wreckage. Because no individual bodies could be identified for burial, he could not rely on the comfort of established rituals. “He did not see 229.  Hom. Heb. 20.3 (PG 63.147). For the same reason, the devil strikes us with sickness (Laz. 3.7 [PG 48.1001]). 230.  Stat. 1.10–11, 6.4 (PG 49.30–32, 86); Hom. Rom. 9.4 (PG 60.473). 231.  Diab. 2.6 (SC 560.198). They were “admirable” and “in their prime” (Comm. Job 1.20 [SC 346.134]); Laz. 5.4 (PG 48.1022–23). On early Christian perspectives on the death of Job’s children, see Doerfler, Jephthah’s Daughter, 144–74; for Chrysostom’s view, see esp. 161–64. 232.  Comm. Job 1.20 (SC 346.134–36); “a violent and pitiable death” (Diab. 2.6 [SC 560.198]); Hom. 1 Cor. 28.3 (PG 61.236). 233.  Paralyt. 8 (PG 51.62). 234.  To those with “unrealistically high standards,” who would criticize Job for these actions, Chrysostom says, “Let them learn that even Paul cried, that even Jesus himself wept; let them know what is it to have feeling for children” (Comm. Job 1.23 [SC 346.140]). 235.  Comm. Job 1.21, 23, 3.1 (SC 346.136, 140, 198); Hom. 1 Cor. 28.4 (PG 61.237). The fact that Job “was a human being,” is the first praise Chrysostom heaps on the patriarch. It is this, as Finn rightly notes, “that makes Job an example for others to follow” (“Sympathetic Philosophy,” 100). The same praise is extended to Noah (Νῶε δὲ ἄνθρωπος), whom Chrysostom explicitly links with Job (Hom. Gen. 23.4 [PG 53.202]).

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them lie stretched out on a bed; he did not kiss their hands; he did not hear their last words; he did not touch their feet and knees. Nor did he close their mouths, nor shut their eyes, as they were about to die: actions which are not a little comfort to parents who are being separated from their children.”236 He mourned their death, but his mourning was not excessive. He controlled himself by reason. Taking us inside his mind, John reconstructs the propositions by which he consoled himself: “First, it [i.e., all that God took away] is not mine. Further, it was not going to be mine, since I too will pass away. In addition to this, even if it were mine, the one who took it is capable of consoling me. Given, then, that it wasn’t mine, and that the one who took it is great, and that it was his own things that he took, how is it appropriate to grieve” (algein)?237 The stenographic quality of this imagined monologue is striking, as is its highly rational nature.238 John uses it not only to instruct his audience about the cognitive basis of sorrow—­that it can and should be mitigated through reason—­but also to take them through the process. Having first elicited their sympathetic grief, he forces them to reflect upon that feeling and to modify it in the light of reason. In the midst of his sorrow, Job reminds himself of the inevitability of death. The catastrophe was shocking, but the result was not out of the ordinary: “[W]hat was going to happen a little later has now happened; nothing strange, only what is usual—­this is the way things go.”239 Chrysostom urges his listeners to imitate this reaction: “Whenever you lose a son and daughter at the same time, have recourse to this righteous man and you will certainly find much comfort for yourself.” They should place themselves in Job’s shoes and repeat his words, “The Lord gave, and the Lord took away.” This maxim, John promises, is a powerful aid that “can take away all despondency.”240 It does so not by conveying an impassivity to sorrow, but by evoking a story of someone who suffered unimaginable grief, and did so without blaspheming. It is the story of someone who maintained the right values in the most trying of circumstances. What allowed Job to control himself, despite the severity of his loss, was practice. He was able to stand firm against these blows, because he had disciplined himself with respect to his children. Unlike contemporary parents, he had not 236.  Ep. Olymp. 17.2b.33–37 (SC 13bis. 374). See also Hom. Phil. 8.3 (PG 62.242). 237.  Comm. Job. 1.25 (SC 346.144). 238.  The compression may be a result of the nature of the work, which seems to be a set of notes—­or perhaps an outline—­for subsequent oral development. Sorlin speaks of “un texte incomplètement élaboré, de notes de lecture” (Neyrand and Sorlin, Commentaire sur Job, SC 346.35, n. 1). 239.  Comm. Job 1.24 (SC 346.144). 240.  Comm. Job 1.26 (SC 346.152); Hom. 2 Cor. 1.5 (PG 61.390); Stat. 5.1 (PG 49.70). Blume Freddoso has drawn attention to the performative aspect of Chrysostom’s imitative program (“Value of Job’s Grief”). Finn also notes the exemplary character of Job’s grief (“Job as Exemplary Father,” esp. 283–90).

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been “too soft” on them, but had held them to exacting standards. Proof of this disposition lies in his practice of offering sacrifices for “unseen transgressions.” From such scrupulous attention to the possibility of hidden sins, we can gauge how strictly he dealt with known infractions.241 His willingness to deal sternly with his own children made him more accepting of what appeared to be the punishment of God. To the loss of possessions and the death of his children was added personal illness and debility. Nothing, Chrysostom acknowledges, is harder to bear than bodily pain.242 And once again, Job’s physical suffering was extreme: no one could ever endure a worse disease or be more disabled than he. Vividly, John evokes the horror and disgust of his running sores: “Little by little his body wasted away, and a stream of worms poured out from his limbs on every side. This outflow was continual, and the pervasive stench great. His body, being destroyed little by little and rotting with putrefaction, made his food odious. Hunger was for him alien and paradoxical.”243 His suffering was exacerbated by the fact that he had previously always lived in luxury and never experienced any discomfort, and that when he found himself in distress, he was bereft of all resources. For if poverty is always a hardship, it becomes unbearable in times of sickness when one needs care and attendants.244 But despite Job’s lack of direct experience, physical debility did not catch him off guard. He had practiced sustaining it by contemplating the afflictions of others. In his own words: “I wept for every helpless man and groaned when I saw a man in distress.” Thus, the experience did not find him unprepared. To the contrary, he acknowledged, “the thing which I greatly feared has come upon me; and that 241.  Hom. Matt 33.6 (PG 57.395); Hom. Phil. 3.4 (PG 62.204). Eli supplies a cautionary example of the opposite demeanor, of a parent who neglects the salvation of his children (Oppugn. 3.3 [PG 47.352–53]). 242.  “Perhaps what we’ve said is not clear—­so I will make it clearer. What, then, is it that I’m saying? That neither being stripped of one’s goods, nor being despoiled of everything that one has, nor falling from a place of honor, nor being driven from one’s homeland and carried off to a foreign land, nor being exhausted by pain and sweaty toil, nor dwelling in a prison and being bound by chains, nor reproaches, nor abuse, nor mockeries, nor the loss of one’s children—­even if all of them are snatched from us suddenly—­nor continually menacing enemies, nor anything else like these things—­not even the chief of everything that appears grievous, namely death itself—­as fearsome and terrifying as it is—­ is as oppressive as bodily illness” (Ep. Olymp. 17.2a–3b [SC 13bis.372–78], quotation at 2b, trans. Ford, Letters to Saint Olympia, 161, slightly adjusted; see also ibid., 10.7e, 14.1c [SC 13bis.270, 352]). Applied to Job (Ep. Olymp. 11.1 [SC 13bis.306]). 243.  Diab. 2.5 (SC 560.194). The stench from his rotting flesh wiped away any enjoyment in food (Comm. Job 6.4 [SC 346.264]; an image repeated in Adv. Jud. 8.6 [PG 48.936]). His illness was worse than elephantiasis: for those afflicted with that disease can “enter houses and gather together” (Hom. Phil. 8.3 [PG 62.242]). 244.  Comm. Job 2.6 (SC 346.168); Hom. Matt. 33.7 (PG 57.397–98).

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of which I was afraid is come upon me” (italics added). Because he had trained himself through the exercise of sympathy, he was not confounded by the magnitude of his suffering.245 This is the third moral Chrysostom draws. His listeners must train themselves to endure suffering. They must make use of small losses to practice sustaining significant ones, and deliberately enlarge their experience by entering imaginatively into the suffering of others. The story of Job’s afflictions, in particular, can prepare them for any future trial. Whenever anyone suffers from a lingering ailment (arrhōstia), she can recall Job’s diseased flesh and give thanks. If a soldier is flogged unjustly and without provocation, he can call to mind that holy man and not give way to anguish at his pain and disgrace.246 For Job, too, had been accustomed to being honored, before the sight and smell of his sores made him loathsome to everyone.247 Intensifying all of Job’s sufferings were the words of his wife.248 These, Chrysostom notes, “were sufficient to shatter stone.” Because she knows her husband well, she does not waste a moment recalling the loss of money, camels, flocks, or herds; she knows that these will not disturb him. Instead, she focuses immediately on the death of their children. Her words, as Chrysostom presents them, are designed to intensify grief: She speaks not of the present, but of the past, so as to cause great confusion in his thinking . . . troubling him with the memory of his children. . . . She did not say, “they died,” which is the ordinary term for the affliction that besets all humanity; she did not use the customary expression. But what then [did she say]? Memory of you has disappeared. It seems to me that she said this out of a desire to express the cruelty of the disaster. . . . For children are desired for this reason above all, because they leave an undying memory of us, and it is this most of all that people long for: that they may leave behind some remembrance. It is you yourself, she is saying, who has perished in your offspring: sterile, childless, plucked up by the roots. And see in how measured a way she delivers this destructive counsel, so as not to move him to anger, but rather to shatter him with pity.249

245.  [Μ]εμελετήκει πάσης ἐκτὸς ἀθυμίας εἶναι (Hom. Matt. 33.6 [PG 57.395, 396]; see also Saturn. 5 [PG 52.418–19]; Exp. Ps. 10.10 [PG 55.137]). The devil initially struck him with milder blows, thinking to undermine his stamina, so that he would find the subsequent, more severe ones insupportable. “But the opposite occurred: having trained himself well in the former, he bore the rest philosophically” (Comm. Job 1.18 [SC 346.132]; see also ibid., 3.6 [SC 346.212–14]). 246.  Diab. 2.5 (SC 560.194–96). 247.  Comm. Job 2.8 (SC 346.172); Hom. Matt. 33.7 (PG 57.397–98). 248.  “Le rôle néfaste de la femme de Job,” as Brottier comments, “constitue un leitmotiv des propos de Jean sur cette aventure” (“Actualisation,” 89, citing Virginit. 46.2 [SC 125.258]; Adv. Jud. 1.7 [PG 48.855]; Hom. Matt. 33.7 [PG 57.396]). See also Broc, “La femme de Job.” 249.  Comm. Job 2.10 (SC 346.180). See also Hom. 1 Cor. 28.4 (PG 61.237–38); Hom. Matt. 33.7 (PG 57.396–97).

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Her words pull him back to the disaster that triggered grief—­that is, the loss of their children—­but instead of referring to the event as an experience in the past (i.e., that they died), she describes it as a portent of the future, as the utter obliteration of his memory. This oscillation in temporal perspective is, as Peter Goldie has argued in a different context, typical of sustained grief.250 Instead of alleviating his sorrow, she is stoking it. Chrysostom also draws attention to her tone, which he characterizes as dispassionate and uninflected. Not charged with malice or hostility, it implicitly lays claim to the status of truth telling. The effect is devastating. She means to break his heart. To this same end, she “widens the tragedy, by adding to it her own sufferings.” She describes their children as not only “your sons and daughters,” but also as “the labor pains of my womb.” Mention of the two sexes implies, according to John, “a fertile mother and a loving one,” and evokes the pathos of her lot, which is further underscored by reference to the pain of childbirth.251 She is saying to her husband, “Show pity for my loss,” by drawing attention to the fact that her suffering is intertwined with his, that they share the loss not only of their children, but also of their home: while he sits on maggots under the open sky, she wanders the city, seeking shelter in other people’s doorways. She emphasizes her involvement in his pain, so that he will take her advice. “Trust my words,” she is saying, “because I too share your suffering.”252 Who, Chrysostom asks, would not be disturbed by such an appeal? Who would not feel dizzy? In order to resist her counsel to despair—­to speak against God and die—­Job must overcome his love and pity for her as well as his own grief.253 He was able to do so because of his long-­standing posture toward his wife. He loved her, certainly, but appropriately and moderately: “as one should love a wife.”254 For proof of his self-­control, John cites the patriarch’s comment that he had “made a covenant with his eyes not to gaze closely at a young woman.” 250. Goldie, Mess Inside, esp. 64–67. 251.  [Κ]αὶ πλατύνει τὴν τραγῳδίαν, καὶ τὰ παρ’ ἑαυτῆς προστίθησιν (Hom. Matt. 33.7 [PG 57.396– 97]); Comm. Job 2.10 (SC 346.182). Here, we note the role of love in sustaining grief (Solomon, In Defense of Sentimentality, 75–107). 252.  Comm. Job 2.10 (SC 346.182). Chrysostom assumes that the devil suborned Job’s wife: he hid his true malice under “a friendly appearance” and “a loving face,” in order to make his bad advice more effective (Hom. Rom. 10.6 [PG 60.484]; Stag. 3.14 [PG 47.494]; Hom. Heb. 20.4 [PG 63.147]). Broc, “La femme de Job,” esp. 397–99. 253.  To the question of why Job’s wife didn’t say, “Take matters into your own hands,” Chrysostom offers two answers. First, her problems would be aggravated rather than alleviated by Job’s suicide, since she still had hope, while he lived, whereas after his death, there would be only “inconsolable widowhood.” Second, and more compelling in his eyes, shame held her back from making such a suggestion (Comm. Job 2.12 [SC 346.188]). 254.  [Ἐ]φίλει μὲν γὰρ αὐτὴν καὶ πρὸ τούτου, ἀλλ’οὐχ ὑπὲρ τὸ μέτρον, ἀλλ’ ὡς εἰκὸς γυναῖκα (Hom. Matt. 33.6 [PG 57.395]).

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Because he had trained himself in continence, her words “did not break his spirit.”255 Instead, he looked at her. This glance conveyed anger, but when he spoke, he did so in a measured tone. His words came “not from someone peeved or disgruntled.” He did not call her foolish and silly, but simply characterized her words as alien to and unworthy of her. And he insists, in response to the apparent injustice of his current sufferings, that everything befalls us according to God’s will and not according to our desert. The question of why we now receive bad things is no more mysterious than why we previously received good. Given, moreover, that God might have sent us only misfortune, we should not repine over the fact that we suffer now, but instead feel grateful for the blessings we once enjoyed. Whether this line of argumentation mollified Job’s wife, we do not know. In his Commentary, Chrysostom does not venture an opinion on whether she found “sufficient consolation” in the reflection that “it was the Lord” who brought these sorrows upon them. Her reaction is beside the point: our focus remains fixed on Job and, in particular, on his impressive gratitude. It is this mindset that John’s listeners should imitate whenever they find themselves in distress. “Remind yourself,” he advises, “of your former prosperity, and you will have no difficulty bearing your current situation.“256 Elsewhere in his writings, however, he fully acknowledges Job’s anguish at suffering misfortune for no apparent reason.257 Because the patriarch was conscious of no evil within himself that could explain his sorry lot, he was troubled by the thought that God seemed to be “at war with him” without reason. Such a wrenching possibility caused all his previous reasons for sorrow to dwindle in importance: they no longer had value or seemed the worst kinds of suffering.258 This psychological distress was far more difficult to endure. In highly condensed language, Chrysostom enumerates its various components: First, his knowing nothing clearly about the kingdom of heaven and the resurrection, to which he adverted, lamenting: “For I will not live forever that I should bear with this patiently.” Second, his being aware of his many good deeds. Third, his being aware of no evil deed. Fourth, his thinking that it was from God that he was suffering these things; or if from the devil—­this alone was sufficient to bring him down. Fifth, his hearing friends accuse him of wickedness: “For you have not been punished,” they said, “to the extent that your sins deserve.” Sixth, his seeing those living

255.  Hom. Matt. 33.6 (PG 57.395). 256.  Comm. Job 2.15 (SC 346.190). 257.  Ep. Olymp. 8.8e (SC 13 bis.192). Awareness that one is being punished justly contributes “not a little consolation in calamity” (Diab. 2.5 [SC 560.192]). 258.  Comm. Job 2.17 (SC 346.192–94); this thought was “far more grievous” than his previous ills (Hom. Matt. 33.6 [PG 57.396]).

108     Grief in wickedness prospering and laughing at him. Seventh, his not having any other person, who had ever suffered such things, to whom he might look.259

Job’s sharpest suffering arose from the fact that he did not know why these sorrows had been visited upon him. In this respect, he endured more than the three young men in the fiery furnace, who were consoled by the knowledge that they suffered for God.” His trials were fully equal to those of the apostles, who were also hated by all, but his grief surpassed theirs in that he suffered without the comfort of “the sacred anchor,” namely the assurance given to the apostles that their suffering was “for my sake.”260 The condemnation of others deepened Job’s sense of desolation. Seeing his distress, onlookers judged his life by his troubles and concluded that “he was in such misery because of wickedness.”261 He was reproached and taunted not only by enemies and friends, but even by his domestic slaves. They recoiled from him. And all this, John notes, went on not for a few days but for many months.262 How did the sage bear up under this sorrow? Chrysostom does not know. Instead, he focuses on the fact of his endurance: that “in spite of great provocation,” he never uttered a blasphemous word.263 Yes, he cursed the day of his birth—­and did so at length—­but he did not “criticize God’s creative work.”264 As proof of this astonishing assertion, Chrysostom cites the Bible’s explicit statement that Job “did not sin even with his lips” (Jb 1:22), adduces scriptural parallels (that the patriarch spoke no differently from Moses when he protested to God, “Kill me if this is the way you are going to treat me”), and points to the conclusion of the story: the twofold restoration of all of Job’s goods was appropriate only if “he had given evidence of double the virtue.”265 His wrenching cry is evidence only of his humanity: had he said nothing, “he would not have seemed to belong to the human race.” His greatest achievement was that, despite his immense suffering, he uttered not one bitter word.266 And it is this behavior that John’s listeners 259.  Hom. Matt. 33.6 (PG 57.396). 260.  Hom. Matt. 33.7 (PG 57.398); Ep. Olymp. 10.8a (SC 13bis.268–70). In the aftermath of the Riot of the Statues, some wished that they were imperiled not for political reasons, but “for God’s sake,” since then they would have no anxiety for their future. In response, Chrysostom insists that anyone who suffers unjustly and bears it nobly and with thanksgiving can win a crown. As proof, he points to Job (Stat. 6.4 [PG 49.86]). 261.  Laz. 1.10 (PG 48.977). 262.  Hom. Phil. 8.3 (PG 62.242–43); Diab. 2.6 (SC 560.200). Chrysostom is sensitive to the pain that comes from being reviled; he lists it among the trials faced by priests (Sac. 5.6. [SC 272.294]). 263.  Laz. 2.2 (PG 48.984); Hom. 2 Tim. 9.3 (PG 62.654); Diab. 2.6 (SC 560.200). 264.  Comm. Job 3.4 (SC 146.204–6). 265.  Comm. Job 3.1–4 (SC 146.198–208). 266.  Ep. Olymp. 10.6e–7a, 14.1c (SC 13bis.264–66, 352). Joseph too is praised for not complaining, “Is this the recompense for my dreams? Is this the outcome of my visions? Are these the prizes for my chastity?” (Ep. Olymp. 10.13c [SC 13bis.296]).

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should emulate. In the midst of their own calamities, when “the voices of people who give bad advice gain strength,” they should call Job to mind and resist invitations to blaspheme.267 If Job’s ability to endure suffering remains a mystery, Chrysostom finds in it an answer to the question of why God allowed him to be so sorely tried. God was moved by the same sentiment that often motivates lovers. “Just as we ourselves, when we are loved by someone, want this to be perfectly clear to everyone, so too God wanted his beloved to be admired not only on the basis of his testimony, but also from a trial of his deeds.”268 God sent Job misfortune to make him more illustrious.269 This argument seems directed at John’s listeners. It clearly refutes the notion of any correlation between God’s blessing and a life of prosperity and ease, which is also the gist of God’s lengthy speech to Job. As defense lawyers who are sure of their case cite abundant evidence, so God piles up detail after detail of his knowledge and care of creation to prove that God cares for human beings.270 But more importantly, it underscores Job’s value as a model for others to emulate. Chrysostom makes the point explicit: God allowed Job to be so severely tested precisely “in order to leave people coming later, remedies of endurance and affliction.”271 For what is most notable about Job is not that he endured so many and such difficult sufferings, but that he did so nobly.272 He did not react with blasphemy. Nor, in the face of disaster, did he become downcast or sluggish, but remained energetic and alert. This is for Chrysostom the ideal disposition. The story of Job, as Chrysostom retells it, offers powerful remedies for sorrow. Certainly, it illustrates many of the specific strategies that he recommends, such as the deliberate anticipation of misfortune by rational reflection (“All goods belong to God;” “Everything that is born dies”), as well as the sustained practice of restraint (in nonattachment to goods and appropriate love of others). And it proves their effectiveness even in situations of extended and extreme grief. The story’s outcome refutes the widespread misconception that suffering is a sign of wickedness, and supports belief in God’s providence. Chrysostom understands this proof as historical—­as the embodied testimony of a real person—­but its persuasive power derives rather from its narrative form. 267.  Hom. Heb. 20.3 (PG 63.147); Hom. Phil. 8.2–4 (PG 62.242–44); Adv. Jud. 8.6 (PG 48.936); Hom. Rom. 2.1 (PG 60.401). 268.  Comm. Job 1.16 (SC 146.126); Stat. 1.8 (PG 49.26); Exp. Ps. 138.1 (PG 55.411). 269.  Stat. 1.10–11 (PG 49.30–31); Hom. Rom. 15.2 (PG 60.542). It was to show Hannah’s prothymia that God withheld conception (Hom. Eph. 24.3–4 [PG 62.173]). 270.  Comm. Job 40.2 (SC 348.226). 271.  Comm. Job 1.16 (SC 346.126); ibid., 42.8 (SC 348.240). Simply praising Job is not enough; his listeners must also imitate him (Laz. 2.5 [PG 48.990]; Stat. 16.1 [PG 49.162]; Adfu. 4 [PG 63.485]). 272.  Stag. 2.9 (PG 47.463).

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From the story come the maxims, and it is the narrative’s rich contextual detail that gives them weight and makes them memorable. When people repeat Job’s famous affirmation, (“The Lord gave, the Lord has taken away; as it seemed good to the Lord, so it has come to pass; blessed be the name of the Lord forever”), the words have depth.273 And because of this resonance, they console. We know that the speaker endured the worst kinds of sorrow imaginable. We know this because, through the story, Chrysostom has made us feel it. The superlative nature of Job’s suffering is another source of comfort in that it implicitly invites comparison with our own. When measured against his sorrow, our own grief inevitably diminishes in size. We understand that it could be far worse.274 Again, it is the narrative luxury of the story, as Chrysostom retells it—­its ability to make us feel the weight of each successive loss—­that drives home this knowledge and makes it real. Because we feel Job’s suffering, our perspective shifts. Instead of repining over our misfortunes, we feel relief—­perhaps even gratitude. The urge to revile God lessens. Thankfulness can help us withstand even the deliberate attempts of others to fan our sense of grievance. The story’s ability to take us into the mind of its protagonist and reveal his inner struggles creates, moreover, a sense of immediacy. The huge temporal gulf that separates Chrysostom’s listeners from the patriarch shrinks to nothing: Job seems real. As the preacher notes of Lazarus, “it happened in the past, it happens even now.”275 Through stories, we can enter into the feelings of another. By experiencing unfamiliar reactions, we can enlarge our understanding of others and also of ourselves. We learn that feelings, no matter how instinctive or automatic they appear, are neither inevitable nor immutable. They can be changed. People can react differently. Even to situations of catastrophic loss, they can respond with restraint, even gratitude. But above all, in the story of Job we can find a com­ panion in our grief. His story guarantees that whatever we suffer, he also endured. He assures us that we are not alone—­and this is no small thing. For, as Chrysostom remarks, “it brings much comfort to those in pain to find sharers in their sufferings, either in reality or in narratives.”276 But unlike professional mourners, who often exacerbate the sorrow they ostensibly seek to alleviate, the story of Job offers solace without risk. It encourages us to grieve moderately and to hold onto 273.  “Let us too speak this same saying every time something happens to us” (Paralyt. 8 [PG 51.62]). 274.  A point that Chrysostom repeatedly drives home: “You have not yet suffered as much as the blessed Job did—­you have not endured even the slightest part of his pain” (Adv. Jud. 8.6 [PG 48.935– 36]); Hom. Phil. 8.3–4 (PG 62.242–44). 275.  Laz. 6.5 (PG 48.1033). 276.  Τὸ γὰρ κοινωνοὺς εὑρίσκειν τῶν οἰκείων κακῶν ἢ ἐν πράγμασιν, ἢ ἐν διηγήμασι, πολλὴν φέρει τοῖς ὀδυνωμένοις παράκλησιν (Laz. 1.10 [PG 48.977]). Brottier also draws attention to the way in which Job “comes alive” in Chrysostom’s homilies; achieving this result is “typique de la pastorale chrysostomienne” (“Actualisation,” 64).

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hope, despite temptations to despair, and it gives us practice in sustaining loss with restraint. It trains us to check our urge to question the justice or goodness of God. And this, for Chrysostom, is the message of the story: “In all that befell him Job did not sin before God, not even by word” (Jb 1:22). This succinct distillation functions, as Chrysostom says, like an artist’s formal dedication: inscribed below a portrait, it declares its purpose.277 An additional source of comfort lies in the formal properties of the patriarch’s story: the fact that it has shape and direction and that it builds to a meaningful and positive conclusion. This is not an insignificant consolation. For people in the grip of intense or prolonged sadness often suffer from feelings that their life has lost meaning and direction. Narrative, by its very structure—­the fact that it has a telos—­provides a corrective view to this despair.278 It encourages and motivates. Through his skillful retelling of the story, John awakens a longing for emulation. Who, hearing the tale, would not wish to be like Job and meet life’s sorrows with equanimity? Chrysostom not only promises that this is possible, but also identifies the means: his listeners should flee to this book, “as to a loving mother, holding out her arms on all sides and receiving and reviving her frightened children.”279 It is the story itself that will change them.

277.  Comm. Job 1.26 (SC 346.148–50). 278. Mattingly, Healing Dramas, 107–8, citing MacIntyre, After Virtue, 202. 279.  Diab. 2.7 (SC 560.202); Comm. Job 12.7 (SC 346.340); Stag. 2.10 (PG 47.463).

3

Fear

Chrysostom was intensely interested in fear. Sometimes, like many philosophers of his time, he was focused on assuaging it.1 But far more often his remarks suggest that he valued the emotion and deliberately sought to cultivate it. To understand the reasons for this high estimation, we must confront the complexity of fear.2 Certainly, it had disciplinary utility. Chrysostom knew that by evoking dread, he could compel people to desist from certain behaviors and to pursue others. This aspect is as powerful as it is straightforward; but it would be a mistake to 1.  As Christopher Gill notes, a large part of philosophers’ efforts was directed at releasing people from their fear of death (“Philosophical Therapy,” 343). Hadot agrees that the goal was to help people free themselves from the past and future “so that they could live within the present” (Philosophy as a Way of Life, 221–22). Sorabji objects that Epicureans and Stoics were concerned for the future, but concedes that both groups strove to release people from fear of the future (Emotion and Peace of Mind, 238–40). 2.  This complexity stems in part from the fact that there are multiple terms for fear in Greek as in English. These, although often serving as synonyms for each other, have specific nuances of their own. See Patera, “Reflections on the Discourse of Fear.” Many have also noted that there are different forms of fear: there is the immediate recoil upon seeing a snake-­like object, the reasoned fear of a particular, riled, venomous snake, as well as the dispositional fear (or phobia) of snakes in general. The neurological analysis of Joseph Ledoux suggests that perception and evaluation are processed separately by the human brain: “It is, indeed, possible for your brain to know that something is good or bad before it knows exactly what it is” (The Emotional Brain, 69, 163–65). Subsequent studies of the amygdala, however, cast doubt on Ledoux’s model (Plamper, History of Emotions, 1–4). Paul Griffiths has proposed a distinction between instinctive (or evolutionary) fear (which he relegates under the heading of “affect programs”) and reflective (or socially taught) fear, which he places among the “higher cognitive emotions,” as well as a third category of “simulated fear” (What Emotions Really Are).

112

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understand Chrysostom’s enthusiasm as betraying nothing more than an authoritarian agenda. His appreciation for the emotion springs also from an understanding of its ability to prompt pro-­social behavior and attitudes. Above all, however, he prized its “deliberative” aspect: the way in which fear, by prompting an assessment of the size and proximity of a threat, encourages reflection on values and installs a lively concern for the future. T H E D I S C I P L I NA RY F O R C E O F F E A R

Fear is adaptive in that it typically prompts two quite different reactions. Frightened animals may freeze, or they may mobilize for action. The expression, “to be transfixed with fear,” names the former reaction and Chrysostom’s use of the idiom in a story about his own boyhood assures us that he was familiar with the phenomenon. He relates how one day he and a friend happened to see a book floating in the river. After they pulled it out, they discovered that it was a proscribed book of magic. Just as they were examining it, a soldier passed by and they froze with fear.3 Fortunately, the soldier was called away at just that moment, and “the extreme danger” passed. When, to the contrary, fear spurs action, the type of movement varies according to the perceived immanence of the threat: if the danger appears still somewhat distant, an animal will flee; if more proximate, it will fight.4 Chrysostom exploits both of these basic reactions for disciplinary ends and his rhetoric reflects this dual purpose. Sometimes, he refers to fear as a bridle, and at other times, as a goad.5 Fear as a Bridle The repressive force of fear emerges strongly from Chrysostom’s comments on child-­rearing. Because children are timorous by nature, parents can effectively restrain their bad behavior by mobilizing fear.6 Mothers occasionally silence crying children by threatening to throw them into the jaws of wolves, and fathers 3.  [Κ]αὶ ἐπεπήγει τῷ δέει (Hom. Act. 38.5 [PG 60.274]). 4.  Miller writes: “Well-­known animal studies show that within a critical distance, that distance within the kill range of the predator, the prey responds to threat by fighting; if still within flight distance it flees if the predator decides to attack” (Mystery of Courage, 86, citing the classic work of Hediger, Man and Animal, as well as Plutarch, Sayings of Spartans, Agesilaus no. 9). See also Oatley, Best Laid Schemes, 20. 5.  The concept of “the bridle of fear” occurs very often. For the phrase (τὸν χαλινὸν τοῦ φόβου), see Paenit. 4.2 (PG 49.301); Hom. Gen. 59.3 (PG 54.517); Hom. Eph. 19.2 (PG 62.130). 6.  A child can be easily molded, since he is “still trembling and fearful and afraid” (ἔτι τρέμοντα καὶ φοβούμενον καὶ δεδοικότα) (Inan. glor. 20.290–91 [SC 188.104]). Borrowing from Plato the analogy of the soul to a city, Chrysostom notes that the first task is to “impose on this city and on the citizens in the city, laws that are fearful and severe” (ibid., 26.354–55 [SC 188.112]).

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constrain wayward sons by warning that they might disinherit them.7 We tend to recoil from such tactics, but they were traditional.8 And as Chrysostom observes, threats were preferable to actual violence. He supports this opinion, however, not by an appeal for gentleness, but by an argument based on effectiveness. For if a boy is often beaten, he will become inured to pain and learn to “despise it.” Instead, the child should live constantly in the expectation of punishment, so that his fear remains sharp and unquenched.9 This recommendation was not confined to children. In his advice on managing slaves, Chrysostom underscores the superior potency of threats over actual physical punishment.10 A lively sense of dread also characterized a child’s experience of school.11 Indeed, the propensity of schoolmasters to keep order through violence was so well known that Artemidorus considered it self-­evident that dreams of learning the alphabet portended fear as well as drudgery.12 Strategies for how to inculcate fear feature prominently in Chrysostom’s treatise on child-­rearing. From their earliest youth, children must be taught that “there is a Judgment, that there is a punishment.”13 To this end, fathers should begin by telling their sons the tale of Cain and Abel, and dwell on the punishment endured by the older brother, the fact that he lived in quaking fear “all his days.” The onset of adolescence was the time for “more fearful stories,” but boys even as young as eight or ten could profitably hear about the devastating flood, the annihilation of Sodom, and the selling of Joseph into slavery.14 The benefits of this program seem largely disciplinary. 7.  Adv. Jud. 3.1 (PG 48.848); Inan. glor. 71.874–76 (SC 188.172); Stat. 7.3, 19.4 (PG 49.94, 197); Stag. 1.4 (PG 47.433–34); Diab. 1.3 (PG 49.249). Parents can also manipulate their children by getting slaves “to enact fearful things” (Hom. Matt. 11.6 [PG 57.191]). 8.  Plato also notes how children might be threatened with monsters and wolves to make them behave (Plato, Crit. 46c, Phaed. 77d–e, Resp. 1.330e, Theaet. 166a, 168d). Scripture supported the parental obligation to instill discipline. 9.  Inan. glor. 30.411–23 (SC 188.120–22); for the utility of threats (ibid., 61.761–64, 82.998–1007 [SC 188.160, 188]). 10.  Fear, unlike blows, causes “perpetual agitation” (Hom. Act. 12.4 [PG 60.104]; Hom. 1 Tim. 16.2 [PG 62.590]). When slaves, managers, and stewards cower before the head of the household, “they obey very willingly and no one protests.” When this fear disappears, “they do what’s wrong, act defiantly and throw everything into disorder” (Iter. conj. 4.272–77 [SC 138.184]). For the use of fear in controlling slaves, see de Wet, Preaching Bondage, 170–219. 11.  Hom. 1 Tim. 6.2 (PG 62.532). 12. Artemidorus, Oneirocritica 1.53. 13.  Hom. 2 Thess. 2.4 (PG 62.478). The inculcation of scriptural stories is thus inseparable from the inscription of the truth of justice: “In the penalty,” Foucault observed, “one will read the laws themselves” (Foucault, Discipline and Punish, 110). Chris de Wet refers to this program as “phobic scriptural pedagogy . . . the objective of which is to master the passions and cultivate behaviors of domination” (Preaching Bondage, 135). 14.  “Let him hear the whole story of Joseph continually” (Inan. glor. 61.757 [SC 188.158]). In youth, the flame of natural desire rises most powerfully (Ep. Olymp. 10.12a [SC 13bis.288]); it can be restrained

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Once a child has internalized this fear, John promises, “he will not need a pedagogue, but will conduct himself in a restrained and orderly fashion.15 But it was not just children who could benefit from fear. Its role in ensuring self-­restraint made the emotion central to the household as a whole.16 Fully subscribing to the injunction of Ephesians 5:3, which he takes to be Pauline, Chrysostom teaches that wives should fear their husbands. His endorsement does not signal an approval of physical or verbal abuse—­on this he is categorical—­ but rather articulates his commitment to a disciplinary regime.17 The behavior of wives should be obedient and subdued: they should welcome instruction and correction.18 Slaves would feel a sharper fear. It was only this that would restrain their passionate nature, and make them “well behaved and gentle.”19 Indeed, Chrysostom insists that all adult members of his congregation should “regulate and school themselves” by reflecting on the “the blessings of the kingdom and the miseries of hell.”20 The balanced nature of this recommendation should not mislead us: of the two, fear remains far more effective.21 Through its help, one might gain the upper hand over unruly desire and hold back from gluttony, sexual indulgence, the swearing of oaths, anger, and other acts of violence.22 In a homily on Second Corinthians, Chrysostom lays out the program: by fear (Hom. Gen. 59.3 [PG 54.517]; Hom. Rom. 7.9 [PG 60.453]; Exp. Ps. 6.3 [PG 55.75]; Comm. Prov. 2.17 [Bady, “Commentaire,” 179]). 15.  Inan. glor. 40.565–66 (SC 188.138). These stories “barricade his hearing” and “suffice for protection” (ἱκανὰ πρὸς φυλακὴν ) (ibid., 52.703–4, 58.742–43 [SC 188.152, 156]; Hom. 2 Thess. 2.4 [PG 62.478]). For a description of the complex relationship of the child to his slave pedagogue, see de Wet, Preaching Bondage, 141–49. 16.  In de Wet’s words: “Fear lubricated the gears of the Roman domestic machine” (Preaching Bondage, 99). 17.  The fear that women should have toward their husbands is not the same as servile fear (Virginit. 54.1 [SC 125.302]; Hom. Eph. 20.2 [PG 62.137]; Hom. 1 Cor. 26.7 [PG 61.222]). Dossey, “Wife Beating and Manliness”; Schroeder, “John Chrysostom’s Critique.” 18.  Serm. Gen. 4.1–2 (SC 433.226–32). Husbands should lead them gradually to reject makeup and jewelry (Hom. Matt. 30.5 [PG 57.368]). Wives should hesitate to laugh in the presence of their husbands, except “during a season of relaxation” (Hom. Heb. 15.4 [PG 63.122]). 19.  Slaves are intractable, Chrysostom asserts, but not by nature. Their defects are caused by their masters, whose neglect causes them to run wild (Hom. Tit. 4.1 [PG 62.685]); mutual obligations tie master to slave (Hom. 1 Cor. 19.5 [PG 61.157–58]). For Chrysostom’s thought on the disciplining of slaves, see de Wet, Preaching Bondage, esp. 190–219. 20.  [Ῥ]υθμίζωμεν καὶ παιδαγωγῶμεν (Hom. 2 Thess. 3 [PG 62.476]; Exp. Ps. 6.3 [PG 55.75]). See the brief but insightful comments of Henning, Educating Early Christians, 218–20. 21.  “The giving of good things does not arouse the listener as much as the threat of punishments” (Hom. 2 Cor. 10.3 [PG 61.470]). See also Stat. 7.2 (PG 49.94); Virginit. 57.1 (SC 125.308). 22.  Fear can restrain people from indulgence in food (Hom. Matt. 55.5 [PG 58.545]), curb sexual desire (Hom. 2 Cor. 7.7, 10.4 [PG 61.452–53, 472]; Exp. Ps. 6.3 [PG 55.75]), prevent angry retaliation (Hom. Jo. 4.4 [PG 59.51]; Pecc. 12 [PG 51.364]), and inspire people to stop swearing (Stat. 19.3–4 [PG 49.192–97]; Hom. Matt. 17.5 [PG 57.261]; Catech. illum. 8.21–23 [SC 366.158–60]). “Where fear is, there is no envy;

116     Fear If you feel the fire of desire, set against it that other fire and the former one will immediately be quenched and gone. If you are intending to say something harsh, think about the gnashing of teeth, and fear will bridle you (chalinos estai soi ho phobos). If you are planning to seize someone else’s property, hear the Judge issuing the command, “Bind him hand and foot, and throw him out into the outer darkness,” and you will also throw out this desire. And if you spend all your time in drinking and drunkenness, hear the rich man saying, “Send Lazarus, that with the tip of his finger he may cool my seared tongue”—and yet not obtaining that request—and you will distance yourself from that disorder.23

The inhibitory power of fear makes it “nothing less than a wall, and a defense, and an impregnable tower.”24 Its benefits had long been known to lawmakers, who for this reason had placed magistrates over cities, “like fathers setting tutors over their sons.”25 Were it not for threatening laws and the fear inspired by judges who exact penalties for their transgression, nothing would deter people, Chrysostom opines, from acting on their base desires, and grabbing and ravaging everything like “fierce wild beasts.”26 The events of the spring of 387 allowed Chrysostom to sharpen this message. In response to a new tax levy, rioting had broken out, in which statues of Theodosius and his family had been toppled and dragged through the dust.27 In recounting the situation, John has recourse once again to an equine image: the populace, which had previously been orderly and submissive, like an obedient and well-­ tamed horse, had suddenly bolted and caused unspeakable damage.28 Clearly, a strong restraining hand was needed. And this curb fear had provided: in dread of the emperor’s reaction and state-­sponsored violence, the whole populace was where fear is, the love of money does not disturb; where fear is, wrath is quenched, evil concupiscence is repressed and every unreasonable passion is exterminated” (Stat. 15.2 [PG 49.156]). Simo Knuuttila reduces all of Chrysostom’s interest in fear to this disciplinary agenda (Emotions in Ancient and Medieval Philosophy, 136). 23.  Hom. 2 Cor. 10.4 (PG 61.472). “The fear of hell is laid like a bridle on our hearts” (Hom. Eph. 19.2 [PG 62.130]; Hom. 2 Cor. 10.4 [PG 61.472]). Apprehension, deriving from fear of punishment, makes people better (Laz. 3.8 [PG 48.1003]). 24.  Stat. 15.2 (PG 49.156). As in a house, where an armed guard stands watch, so “while fear possesses our mind, none of the servile passions will easily attack us” (Stat. 15.1 [PG 49.154]). Fear is a sure fence (Hom. Eph. 14.4 [PG 62.106]). 25.  Stat. 15.1, 13.4, 16.4 (PG 49.153, 141, 168); Hom. Act. 5.3 (PG 60.53–54); Serm. Gen. 4.2 (SC 433.236). 26.  Hom. Matt. 28.4 (PG 57.356). 27.  For the sequence of events and the exact nature of the levy, see van de Paverd, The Homilies on the Statues, 19–160. Chrysostom and Libanius both insist that strangers instigated the riot (Stat. 2.2, 3.1, 6.1 [PG 49.38, 48, 81]; or. 19.36). For an insightful analysis of the interaction between the emperor and bishop Flavian, see Brown, Power and Persuasion, 105–8. 28.  Stat. 2.1 (PG 49.34).

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“enduring the penalty of Cain.”29 The result, Chrysostom exults, was improved self-­control. Without any admonishment from him, everyone had reformed their behavior: no one had been seen drunk, or singing lascivious songs, or giving way to unseasonable laughter, or impure words.30 Without question, Chrysostom appreciated the repressive force of fear: as an aid in combating sin, its use is powerful and direct. Its benefits, however, transcend simple restraint. It can also incite people to action, and Chrysostom often signals interest in this energizing effect. In these situations, fear functions not as a bridle, but as a goad. Fear as a Goad Threats, Chrysostom observes, are effective in promoting diligence.31 “Tell me,” he asks, “who learns to read and write without fear? Who becomes master of a craft without fear?”32 God, he suggests, acts in a similar manner: he too “threatens like a teacher.”33 “When we are dozing, or falling down,” he sends us fearful trials, “to arouse us . . . and stir us up and make us more religious.”34 It is in this light that Chrysostom often casts the aftermath of the riot of 387. The terror of imperial reprisal that then gripped the city was beneficial not only because it restrained vice, but also because it stimulated virtue.35 As proof, he cites 29.  Stat. 2.2 (PG 49.35). Even “in the midst of sleep, starting up through constant agony of mind” and during the day, “jumping at shadows” and “trembling at every sound” (ibid., 6.1 [PG 49.83]; see also ibid., 11.1, 13.1 [PG 49.120, 135–37]). 30.  Stat. 6.1 (PG 49.82). 31.  Stat. 14.1 (PG 49.145). Fear of teachers was common (ibid., 17.1 [PG 49.172]; Inan. glor. 39.552–54 [SC 188.136]; Hom. Col. 4.3 [PG 62.329]), because a certain amount of pain was thought to be educative (Hom. Act. 42.4 [PG 60.302]). Some fathers would hand over their children with the explicit instructions, “Don’t spare them” (Hom. Matt. 55.1–3 [PG 58.542–43]); but they might also take the teacher aside and ask him privately not to be too harsh (Hom. Matt. 35.4 [PG 57.411]). Mothers try to persuade their children that it is profitable for them to fear their teachers (Stat. 6.1 [PG 49.81]). Despite this reputation for severity, a tutor might intercede with a father on a child’s behalf (Hom. Col. 4.3 [PG 62.330]). If a sick child refused to take his medicine from the doctor, a father or tutor might have more success (Hom. 1 Cor. 12.1 [PG 61. 96]). See Bloomer, “Corporal Punishment.” 32.  Hom. Phil. 9.1 (PG 62.239), trans. Allen, Homilies on Philippians, 168–69; Hom. 1 Cor. 14.3 (PG 61.118). Cook, Preaching, 111–26. 33.  Stat. 16.5 (PG 49.168). God threatens out of loving concern, “as a means of drawing us to himself ” and as a way of correcting our errors (Theod. laps. 4 [SC 117.96]). 34.  Stat. 14.1 (PG 49.144); Exp. Ps. 12.3 (PG 55.146); God let the devil loose on humanity to stir people from their negligence: “So that under the pressure of fear . . . we might display great alertness and constant watchfulness” (Hom. Gen. 23.6 [PG 53.205]). Recollection of the dread day of judgment helps us shake off indolence and pursue virtue (Hom. Gen. 42.2 [54.386]). 35.  “The city is now in all respects, like the pattern of a modest and virtuous woman” (Stat. 6.1–2 [PG 49.82]), “decorous, free, and well-­behaved” (ibid., 17.2 [PG 49.178]).

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the fact that whereas his listeners had previously ignored his exhortations to keep away from the theater and racecourse, they then took the initiative in shutting up the orchestra. Nothing, he concludes, causes virtue to increase like “a perpetual state of dread.”36 In his preaching, we often find him capitalizing upon this conviction. Fear should be fostered because it provides impetus for establishing new patterns of behaviors, such as devoting oneself to prayers and tears, and because it prompts compliance with difficult or unpopular actions, such as reconciling with enemies or barring unworthy members of the congregation from taking communion.37 But it is an even more crucial ally in overcoming a kind of pervasive indolence that Chrysostom called rhathymia.38 In his eyes, it was this failing that had caused the calamitous riot—­not only because none of the citizens had bothered to rouse themselves to restrain the violence of the few initial rioters—­but also because God had visited the upheaval upon them precisely to correct this entrenched fault.39 Chrysostom’s use of fear to overcome indifference is especially apparent in passages exhorting people to almsgiving. For despite his frequent admonitions to look with compassion upon the sufferings of others and to see private resources as funds held in trust for the poor, many of his congregation averted their eyes from the needy. They protested that they had other uses for their money: they had barely enough to support their own families and maintain their position. And they suspected that not everyone who asked for their help was worthy of support: many were faking their distress or simply reluctant to work. Besides, they countered, wasn’t relief of the poor the obligation of the church or the job of the clergy?40 36.  Stat. 15.1 (PG 49.153). “The forum is indeed empty, but the church is full” (ibid., 4.1 [PG 49.59]). “All are engaged throughout the day in general prayers, calling upon God in one united voice with much earnestness. What preaching, what admonition, what counsel, what length of time ever availed to accomplish these things?” (Stat. 15.1 [PG 49.154]; ibid., 6.1 [PG 49.82]). 37.  “Where there is fear, habit (συνήθεια) is easily broken, even if it is deeply engrained” (Stat. 14.6 [PG 49.152]; see also ibid., 7.4, 14.1 [PG 49.97, 144]; Hom. 2 Cor. 7.7 [PG 61.452]). Where there is fear, “there is zeal in almsgiving, and intensity of prayer, and warm and continuous tears, and groans full of compunction” (Stat. 15.1 [PG 49.154]); it combats negligence in prayer (ibid., 20.1 [PG 49.199]). It prompts reconciliation with those who have wronged us (In illud: Si esurierit inimicus 7 [PG 51.185– 86]), and motivates people to bar sinners from communion (Hom. Matt. 82.6 [PG 58.745]; Adv. Jud. 2.3 [PG 48.861]). 38.  Stat. 15.1, 6.1 (PG 49.154, 81). Xenophon also noted that “fear makes people more attentive, more obedient, and more orderly” (Memorabilia 3.5.5–6). 39.  See for example, Stat. 2.4, 3.7 (PG 49.38, 57). The majority still perish “because of our indifference” despite the fact that the presence of even one person “inflamed with zeal” could correct and save a whole community (Stat. 1.12 [PG 49.34]). God caused the threat of reprisal to subside gradually after the Riot, lest “an even worse negligence ensue” and in turn provoke even more severe correction (Stat. 18.4 [PG 49.187, 188]). 40.  Hom. 1 Cor. 21.6–7 (PG 61.179). See my “John Chrysostom on Almsgiving.”

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To break through this indifference, Chrysostom sometimes appeals to their self-­ interest by casting the indigent as a valuable resource that can help the charitable enter heaven, but far more often he tries to frighten them by detailing the torments awaiting the unmerciful in hell.41 Simply listing future potential pains, however, tends not to be effective, since these can easily seem remote and unreal. In order to arouse fear, they must appear close and threatening. He achieves this effect by focusing his listeners’ attention on the tangible sensations of suffering in this life and then by forcing them to extend that experience imaginatively: For it is said that fire is there, and darkness, and bonds, and a worm that never dies. But in saying this, it indicates not only these things, but also other harsher realities. And so that you may understand this, consider this point first: if there is fire, how is there also darkness? Do you see how the fire there is harder to bear than the one here? For it has no light. And if it is fire, how can it burn forever? Do you see how it turns out to be harder to bear than the one here? For it does not go out. And for this reason it is said to be unquenchable. Let us imagine, moreover, how great is the suffering to be burned all over, to be in darkness, and to wail constantly and gnash one’s teeth and never be heard. For if any gently raised person here, who has been thrown into prison, says that simply the stench, and lying in darkness, and being bound with murderers is more unbearable than any kind of death, consider what it will be like when we are being burnt to a crisp with the murderers of the whole world and are unable either to see or to be seen, but despite being in such a great throng, think that we are alone. For the darkness and the gloom do not allow us to perceive those who are right beside us, but each will be situated in such a way as to suffer this as though alone. And if darkness, all by itself, afflicts and alarms our souls, what then will it then be like, when there is so much pain and burning along with the darkness?42

To the palpable sensations of anguish, he adds the certainty of these torments (“Undoubtedly, all these things will happen”), and stresses their inescapable nature: that no one—­not father, not mother, not brother—­can rescue the condemned.43 The words are awful, but his point is not simply to terrify. Instead, he is using fear to stimulate a response. He immediately offers his incentivized listeners the means by which they can escape this threat: they can quench those fearful flames by giving alms. The remedy—­just like the fear—­is for everyone: there is no one 41.  Hom. Matt. 20.6 (PG 57.294); Hom. Rom. 14.10–11 (PG 60.537–38); Serm. Gen. 5.4 (SC 433.276–78). Francis Leduc first noted the connection between eschatology and almsgiving in Chrysostom’s thought (“Eschatologie,” esp. 125–29). 42.  Hom. Heb. 1.4 (PG 63.18). According to Illaria Ramelli, Chrysostom believed that future punishment was only temporary and intended to effect the purification of the soul (Christian Doctrine of Apokatastasis, 549); but this conclusion is not convincing, as Daniel Cook observes (Preaching, 116–17). 43.  “Not even,” he adds, “if that person has great freedom of speech and real influence with God” (Hom. Heb. 1.4 [PG 63.18]). See also Stat. 13.2 (PG 49.138); Laz. 3.10 (PG 48.1005–6).

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so poor that he cannot give something. What matters to God is not the size of the gift, but an eager and willing disposition.44 And this mindset fear will provide. It is this confidence in the invigorating effect of fear that underlies Chrysostom’s description of the separation of the sheep and the goats as “the sweetest portion of Scripture.”45 Its sweetness derives from its result. Those who continually recall the final judgment and the pains of hell experience a surge of energy and increased eagerness. Descriptions of postmortem judgment and punishment must thus be made frightening. If they do not seem real and pressing, they cannot ward off indolence and inspire zeal. What would have been the reaction to these words? Elsewhere, John acknowledges what we might otherwise suspect—­namely, that his listeners protested. “I know,” he says, “that many don’t enjoy hearing what I say.” Nor, he continues, does he enjoy speaking about these topics. He too would prefer to speak only about the pleasure and relaxation of heaven, but this would not be effective. Their minds must first be “softened” by fear, so that they will perform actions worthy of the kingdom. Triggering too much fear, however, was also a danger. In that case, listeners would find his terrifying words overwhelming and feel immobilized by them rather than energized. Chrysostom acknowledges this risk. He knows that hope is essential to fear, and that without some prospect of escaping from a looming evil, people simply give up.46 Instead of fright, they feel only resignation. God thus deploys fear with discrimination: with the righteous, he uses it freely in order to establish them in virtue, but prefers to arouse sinners with mercy, so that they do not fall into despair.47 This clear-­sighted analysis reveals not only Chrysostom’s sense of God’s pedagogical style, (as one that is always accommodated to the capacity of his people), but also his estimation of his ­listeners.48 He may have tried so often to stimulate them through fear not because he considered them inured to sin, but rather because he appreciated their evident concern for virtue. Allied with his goal of stimulating virtue is that of fostering pro-­social behavior more generally. This too is another notable benefit of fear. 44.  For the central importance of the gnomē in Chrysostom’s thought, see Laird, Mindset. 45.  Τῆς περικοπῆς ταύτης τῆς ἡδίστης (Hom. Matt. 79.1 [PG 58.717]). Rudolf Brändle underscores the importance of this passage for Chrysostom’s soteriology and, although he does not focus on emotional arousal, he does emphasize the appeal to love and compassion (“This Sweetest Passage,” esp. 132–39). 46.  Only those who have hope of heaven fear its loss (Hom. Phil. 13.4 [PG 62.281]). Some hope of safety is essential to fear, as Aristotle noted, “for no one deliberates over things that are hopeless” (Rhet. 2.5.14, 1382a5–8). See Konstan, Emotions, 142–43; Pears, “Courage as Mean,” 174–75. 47.  Paenit. 7.2 (PG 49.325). 48.  On the importance of accommodation in Chrysostom’s thought, see Rylaarsdam, John Chrysostom on Divine Pedagogy.

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Aristotle was quite aware that not everyone witnessing the sufferings of others feels afraid.49 People, he notes, tend not to feel frightened if they possess great strength, connections, or wealth, since all of these assets instill confidence. Those who are prosperous “do not think they are likely to suffer anything; wherefore they are insolent, contemptuous, and rash, and what makes them such is wealth, strength, a number of friends, power.”50 With this assessment, Chrysostom seems to have been entirely in agreement. To Dives in the Lukan parable of Lazarus, he attributes just this mindset. As we meet him in Chrysostom’s dramatic retelling, the rich man confidently voices his sense of security: “Why do I need piety and virtue? Everything flows to me as though from a fountain, I enjoy great abundance and great honor and glory. I anticipate nothing unexpected (ouden hypomenō tōn adokētōn). Why should I seek virtue?”51 His assumption of invulnerability, based on wealth, status, power, and connections insulates him from fear. He does not think that the sufferings of the poor man will ever befall him and this sense of security impedes pity. Nor, Chrysostom adds, is he exceptional. “Even now, many people express these thoughts.”52 Thus, in order to evoke compassion, Chrysostom must first prompt fear.53 He does so by laboring the fragility and evanescence of worldly security and thus the real proximity of danger.54 None of Dives’s goods in which he reposed such trust ever had any more reality than a stage performance, from which he was “led away naked and alone.”55 Had he appreciated this truth, he would have responded differently to Lazarus’s plight: he would have assessed his own situation 49. Konstan, Emotions, 132–33; Pity Transformed, esp. 128–36. 50.  Rhet. 2.5.14, 1383a1–3, trans. Freese, 207. “Confidence is the contrary of fear” (ibid., 2.5.16, 1383a16–17). 51.  Laz. 2.4 (PG 48.987). 52.  Ταῦτα δὴ πολλοὶ καὶ νῦν πολλάκις λέγουσιν (Laz. 2.4 [PG 48.987]); a point reiterated at length in Hom. 1 Cor. 11.6 (PG 61.95–96). As Aristotle comments, those who think themselves supremely fortunate are incapable of pity: “For if they think that all good things are theirs, it is clear that they think that they cannot possibly suffer evil” (Rhet. 2.7.3–4, 1385b21–23, trans. Freese, 225). Those who consider themselves to be “utterly ruined” (παντελῶς ἀπολωλότες) are also incapable of pity (ibid., 1385b19–20). See also Nussbaum, Upheavals, 342–43. 53.  Pity, he says elsewhere, is the best thing in human nature (Hom. Phil. 5.4 [PG 62.210]). Stander, “The Church Fathers on Pity,” 416. 54.  This was a method recommended by Aristotle: “Whenever it is preferable that the audience should feel afraid, it is necessary to make them think they are likely to suffer, by reminding them that others greater than they have suffered, and showing that their equals are suffering or have suffered, and that at the hands of those from whom they did not expect it, in such a manner and at times when they did not think it likely” (Rhet. 2.5.15, 1383a8–12, trans. Freese, 207). 55.  Laz. 2.3 (PG 48.986).

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more accurately, realized his vulnerability, and felt afraid. This fear would, in turn, have led him to feel compassion for Lazarus and to act accordingly.56 But he did not. Chrysostom makes this disregard all the more culpable by carefully enumerating the nine different sufferings endured by Lazarus. These are impressive not only because of their number (and thus the preacher’s clear-­sighted perception of the multidimensional impact of poverty) but also because of their close correspondence to Aristotle’s list of distressing things likely to elicit pity. They include: death, ill-­treatment, injuries, old age, disease, lack of food, lack of friends, weakness, and mutilation, as well as the experience of encountering misfortune from a person or event from which one expected good fortune.57 The point of Chrysostom’s recital of these woes is not to open Dives’s eyes, since he “saw clearly” only after his death, but rather to sensitize his own listeners. Narrative, he knows, can be a remarkably effective means of evoking fear and thus pity. He advises his listeners not to admonish or give advice to the callous rich who adopt a harsh stance toward the poor, saying that they deserve what they suffer because they refuse to work, since exhortations quickly become annoying. Instead, they should simply tell a story of unexpected disaster, since this will induce them “to fear these evils in their own case too.” Life, after all, is full of such tales. One might, for example, recount “how so-­and-­so’s splendid and famous house fell down; how destitute he is now that all the things that were in it have fallen into the hands of others; how many lawsuits and how many courts of law are convened every day about this property; how many of his relations have died either as beggars or as prison inmates.”58 Only when they see their wealthy interlocutors “shrinking” in fear and pity, should they introduce the topic of hell—­and even then with the goal not of terrifying them, but rather of inducing compassion. For them, as for Dives, the only effective path to pity is through fear.59 The tendency of fear to spread from person to person represents another dimension of its capacity to promote solidarity. Thucydides was an early witness of this contagious quality. Watching a battle, he observed how the Greek hoplites 56.  The pain of pity and the pain of fear are closely allied. “In a word, all things are to be feared which, when they happen, or are on the point of happening, to others, excite compassion” (Rhet. 2.5.12, 1382b.24–26, trans. Freese, 205). To feel pity, one must recognize a resemblance with the sufferer, but at the same time not find oneself in precisely the same circumstances” (Konstan, Emotions, 130–33, 201–2, 210–12). See also Nussbaum, Upheavals, esp. 301–27. 57.  Rhet. 2.8.9–11, 1386a7–16; cf. Laz. 1.9 (PG 48.975–76). 58.  Hom. 1 Cor. 11.6 (PG 61.96). 59.  Dives’s suffering “becomes an opportunity for salvation for those who pay attention, by making them more zealous out of fear of what happened to him” (Laz. 3.8 [PG 48.1003]). From it we learn that no one can escape punishment—­that whoever lives in great comfort and plenty now, will suffer later. This was one of the messages that Chrysostom derived from the terror that fell upon the city after the riot (Stat. 2.4 [PG 49.38]).

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slowly moved in an arc to the right. In his words: “This is because fear makes every man want to do his best to find protection for his unarmed side in the shield of the man next to him on the right, thinking that the more closely shields are locked together, the safer he will be.”60 This “bunching,” as William Miller calls it, is one of the most primal responses to fear. Part of the effectiveness of the Roman legion stemmed from the psychological comfort as well as the strategic advantage derived from the close press of bodies. Under the conditions of modern warfare, this behavior is no longer adaptive, but bunching nevertheless persists and poses a continual problem for military strategists.61 The fact that this reaction is apparent not only among humans, but also among herbivores and fish suggests that it is instinctive: that one can catch fear, simply by noticing another’s reaction.62 Chrysostom shows a vivid awareness of this effect. It is the fear of wild animals, he says, that drives people together into cities.63 And he has observed its contagious nature. Children are especially susceptible and quickly become frightened at the sight of another person’s fear. He even notes the characteristic facial signs of alarm: these are located chiefly around the eyes (raised upper eyelids and eyebrows), but also involve distortion of the mouth (lips stretched back horizontally).64 Adults, apparently, made these faces to raise a laugh; but parents, John notes, also valued the fact that alarmed children turned to them for comfort.65 Nor was the impulse limited to the young. The dread that settled on the city in the aftermath of the Riot of the Statues drove people to seek comfort in the proximity of others and to turn to superiors for help. They thronged to church and devoted themselves to prayer. No other means, Chrysostom claims, had proved so effective in generating group solidarity.66 60.  Hist. 5.71. 61. Miller, Mystery of Courage, 129–32, 214–15, citing the work of Keegan, Face of Battle, 197. 62. Miller, Mystery of Courage, esp. 207–9, 92–105. In his treatise On the Soul, Aristotle notes the ability of people to feel fear, despite the absence of a perceived threat: “[E]ven though nothing frightening befalls them, people do find themselves experiencing the feelings of someone who is afraid” (De an. 1.1, 403a23–4, quoted by Konstan, Emotions, 149). Studies of social media underscore the contagiousness of other heightened emotional states. See Jonah Berger, Contagious, esp. 93–124, with thanks to Wendy Mayer for the reference. 63.  Stat. 8.1 (PG 49.97). Unarmed men take refuge behind soldiers “who, by holding their shields in front, create a safe wall for their bodies” (Comm. Prov. 2.72 [Bady, “Commentaire,” 173]). 64.  Those who would frighten children do so “either by drawing up their eyelids, or by otherwise distorting their face” (ἢ τὰς βλεφαρίδας ἕλκοντες ἄνω, ἢ ἄλλως τὸ πρόσωπον διαστρέφοντες) (Hom. Act. 52.4 [PG 60.365]). 65.  Adv. Jud. 1.3, 3.1 (PG 48.848, 863); Hom. Matt. 28.3 (PG 57.353); Exp. Ps. 9.11, 114.1 (PG 55.139, 316); Hom. 1 Thess. 5.4 (PG 62.428); Hom. Tit. 2.4 (PG 62.675). See also Dio Chrysostom, Lib. myth. 5.17, 66.20; Epictetus, Diatr. 2.1.15, 3.22.106; Strabo, Geogr. 1.2.8. 66.  For enhanced attendance at church and increased devotion to prayer, see Stat. 4.1, 15.1, 6.1 [PG 49.59, 154, 82]). Chrysostom asserts that this reaction is often an effect of fear: “Whenever we are

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To Jesus, he attributes an appreciation of this same dynamic. When Jesus retreated to the mountains to pray, he intentionally left his followers behind so that when darkness fell and the wind rose and waves buffeted their boat, they would feel alone and afraid. He wanted to provoke fear in order to sharpen their affection: “to arouse their hardened heart . . . and implant in them greater longing and continuous remembrance of him.”67 The expectation that fear would increase love may derive, in part, from belief in the unity of the emotions, the philosophical conviction, which we have already encountered, that any strong feeling necessarily engages all the others. Thus, the disciples’ fear on that dark night that they might never again see Jesus would have triggered strong feelings of love and attachment and sharpened their sense of the value of his presence.68 Even more salient, however, may have been their sense of helplessness and allied hope that he had the power to protect them. To John’s way of thinking, it was precisely in order to heighten this feeling that Christ allowed the storm to blow up. He wanted to frighten the disciples and cause them to seek him out.69 This ability to encourage compliance with authority is another aspect of fear’s unifying properties, and one that largely explains Chrysostom’s approach in his Discourses against Judaizing Christians. These inflammatory sermons, as is well known, were written in response to Christian participation in Jewish ritual practices.70 They are aimed not at the Jews themselves, who may not even have been aware of them and seem to have remained largely unaffected by their vitriol, but at those members of John’s congregation who had participated in the annual festivals or shaken by famine, pestilence, hail, drought, conflagrations, and enemy invasion, is not the church thronged everyday with the press of those who have gathered together?” (Paenit. 4.2 [PG 49.301–2]). The same phenomenon, he claims, was observable after an earthquake (Laz. 6.1 [PG 48.1027]), and during the brief reign of emperor Julian (Juv. 2 [PG 50.574]). See Miller on fear motivating prayer (Mystery of Courage, 215–16). For more on how Chrysostom used fear, among other emotions, in the aftermath of the Riot to promote community solidarity, see Papadogiannakis, “Prescribing Emotions,” 351–54. Peter Brown’s description of John’s program as preaching “a brotherhood of bodies at risk” seems germane, although his study focuses on Chrysostom’s teachings on sexuality (Body and Society, 316). See also Rosenwein, Emotional Communities, esp. 20–29. 67.  Hom. Matt. 50.1 (PG 58.505). Fear also increased their delight at hearing his voice. When he announced his impending departure, they felt this same powerful blend of love and fear (Hom. Jo. 75.3 [PG 59.407]). 68.  A mother’s love for her children increases her fear (Virginit. 56.2, 57.4–5 [SC 125.304, 312]). 69.  Καὶ εἴασε μὲν γενέσθαι τὸν χειμῶνα, ἵνα ἀεὶ αὐτὸν ἐπιζητῶσιν (Hom. Jo. 43.1[PG 59.246]); he also wanted to show his power over nature. Elsewhere, John suggests a different purpose, namely, that Jesus wanted to train them to endure fearful situations (Hom. Matt. 50.1 [PG 58.505]). The power of habituation to calm fear (which he notes elsewhere) is, at base, rational. One develops confidence from the knowledge that one has faced a similar peril in the past and successfully negotiated it. Aristotle makes the same point (Rhet. 2.5.18, 1383a25–28; Eth. nic. 3.8, 1116b3–11). 70.  Chrysostom delivered these addresses over the course of a year, from 386 to 387. For their dating and sequence, see Pradels, Brändle, and Heimgartner, “Sequence and Dating,” 90–116.

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attended synagogue services.71 Chrysostom’s goal is twofold. One is clearly disciplinary: he intends to compel errant members to return to church and to discourage any others from joining them. The other is more constructive in nature: he wants to increase a sense of solidarity among the congregation.72 Invoking fear serves both ends. Thus, through the strategic use of scripture, slander, and innuendo, he presents the Jews as terrifying figures whose respected exterior masks a deep and entrenched hostility, and the synagogue as a den of robbers, a lair for wild animals, and a dwelling place of demons.73 The distancing effect of these allegations seems obvious: if deemed credible, they will deter people from contact and ultimately drive a wedge between the two groups. Their immediate impact on the dynamics of Chrysostom’s own congregation, however, has been less well appreciated. By stimulating fear, Chrysostom can provoke a “bunching” response: his listeners will draw closer to one another, which will, in turn, enhance their feelings of solidarity. Their sense of cohesion will be further strengthened by the tendency of people, when frightened, to turn to figures in authority and to act on their commands.74 The use of pastoral language may be another part of this strategy. Members of his congregation, like vulnerable sheep threatened by marauding animals, need to stay within the safe confines of the church and under the watchful protection of their shepherd.75 This enhanced sense of cohesion is, in fact, the reason why Christ allows these threats. Although he could easily drive enemies away, he lets them roar around outside the fold, in order to frighten the sheep and make them “seek refuge in each other and be more closely bound to one another.”76 The rousing exhortations with which Chrysostom ends several of his discourses, that each of 71.  A point made effectively by Robert L. Wilken, John Chrysostom and the Jews, esp. 66–94, 116– 23. Wendy Mayer argues, however, that this hateful rhetoric may have fostered in Chrysostom’s listeners a mental climate conducive to violence (“Preaching Hatred?”). 72.  Isabella Sandwell has argued that religious identity was becoming an important category in the fourth century and that Chrysostom was largely motivated by desires to enhance this identity (Religious Identity). J. H. W. G. Liebeschuetz resists the concept of “identity formation” on the grounds that it is anachronistic and fits uneasily with Chrysostom’s overtly pastoral and religious agenda (Ambrose and John Chrysostom, 190–94). It remains undeniable, however, that Chrysostom repeatedly insists that Christians should be readily identifiable by the kind of traits and behaviors that we would understand as constituting “identity.” 73.  Adv. Jud. 1.3, 2.3, 5.12, 6.7, 8.8 (PG 48.847, 861, 904, 914, 941). See also Shepardson, Controlling Contested Places, esp. 108–13; and Kalleres, City of Demons, 87–112. 74.  What makes fear so effective in promoting solidarity is, as Jamie Wood has observed, its ability to prime individuals to accept authority, to discard prior attachments, and to bond with other members of the group (“The Fear of Belonging”). 75.  This imagery appears elsewhere: “We are all within the same walls, in the same pen (σηκὸν) of the church, standing with unanimity in the same sheepfold (μάνδραν) . . . under the same shepherd” (Hom. Rom. 8.7 [PG 60.464]). For a discussion of Chrysostom’s animal imagery that focuses on its spatial dimension, see my “Locating Animals.” 76.  Adv. Jud. 3.1 (PG 48.863).

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his listeners should show active concern for the “lost” members by going out in search of them and bringing them back, articulates his confidence in the emboldening effect of solidarity: that it will inspire them to show courage in the face of resistance, insults, or even physical attack.77 Given the tragic consequences of this rhetoric in the long history of anti-­Semitic violence, we might well wish that Chrysostom had worked to enhance group bonding by arousing warm feelings rather than fearful ones, but it remains a fact that love, when compared with fear, is only mildly contagious.78 The fear that arises in response to a threatening situation, however, seems different from that felt toward a particular person: if it seems plausible that the former might foster group solidarity, it seems harder to accept that the latter could strengthen a relationship. But this is precisely what Chrysostom asserts in his comments on marriage, where he repeatedly upholds the prescription that wives should fear their husbands (Eph 5:33). By this he does not mean that women should live in dread of abuse. Where a wife trembles before her husband, the relationship is no longer one of marriage but rather servitude.79 Translators thus often soften the verb by rendering it as “respect,” a choice that, although accurately capturing Chrysostom’s consistent opposition to spousal abuse, occludes the coherence of his understanding of fear as an essential feature of the well-­ordered household. Not only an effective strategy for instilling restraint, it also becomes, when fully internalized, a stable disposition that ensures domestic harmony and increases affection. Its ability to strengthen familial cohesiveness by reducing conflict seems obvious and straightforward. Chrysostom often makes the point that, without the compliance of subordinate members, the household would quickly devolve into chaos and strife.80 His belief that fear actually contributes to love needs more explanation. Certainly he holds that submissive behavior tends to increase the affection felt by those in authority toward those beneath them: husbands feel greater love toward compliant wives, parents toward docile children, and masters toward obedient slaves.81 This reaction, we might think, looks more 77.  Adv. Jud. 1.8, 4.7, 5.12, 6.7, 7.6, 8.9 (PG 48.856, 882, 903, 916, 926–27, 942). To bear all nobly: Adv. Jud. 4.7 (PG 48.882). 78. Miller, Mystery of Courage, 207n23. 79.  Virginit. 54.1 (SC 125.302); Hom. Eph. 20.2 (PG 62.137). 80.  A point Chrysostom makes often; see for example, Hom. 1 Cor. 34.3 (PG 61.289–90); Hom. Eph. 20.4 (PG 62.141); Hom. Col. 10.1 (PG 62.365–66). The tendency of male jealousy to disturb domestic hierarchy is, in part, what makes it so problematic: the unjustly suspected wife must go in fear of the slaves (Virginit. 52.5 [SC 125.294]). For Chrysostom’s understanding of, and commitment to the sexual hierarchy, see Clark, “Sexual Politics in the Writings of John Chrysostom”; Harrison, “Women and the Image of God.” 81.  God subjected the wife to her husband “so that she might be more loved” (Hom. Col. 10.1 [PG 62.366]). “Do you see how unburdensome is the rule, when the person in charge is madly in love

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like gratification than true affection, but he extends and supports his point by appealing to the contagious property of both love and fear. It is by being loved, he says, that the wife also becomes loving, and “from being submitted to, the husband becomes yielding.”82 In a similar fashion, the greater obedience of children should evoke stronger concessions: there are occasions when parents “ought even to give way.”83 Thus, while consistently upholding the dissymmetry of the marital relationship (that men should love, but women fear their spouses), Chrysostom seems to have expected that the fear displayed by wives would have a contagious effect, spreading to other subordinate members of the household and eventually affecting its head, with the end result of increasing affection and cohesiveness. But fear does more than strengthen corporate bonding and foster compassion. As Aristotle notes, it is in the very nature of the emotion to encourage reflection.84 Much of Chrysostom’s enthusiasm for the emotion springs directly from his interest in prompting his listeners to assess their situation in light of the future. F E A R A S A D E L I B E R AT I V E S TAT E

Although fear is experienced viscerally, it depends, like all emotions, on a complex cognitive process.85 It involves, first, a careful assessment of the nature of the threat. For not all evils are feared according to Aristotle, but only those that have “size.”86 No one goes around fearing that their coffee cup will break or in lively dread that someone will take their paper clip, as Martha Nussbaum observes.87 And if, upon examination, an apparently serious evil is discovered to be relatively or wholly harmless, it immediately ceases to be frightening. As an example, Chrysostom cites the rhetorical commonplace of a person recoiling from what appears to be a snake on a road, until realizing that it is only a piece of rope.88 Children’s fears are routinely allayed in just this way: by showing and allowing with the one who is enslaved, when fear accompanies love?” (Serm. Gen. 4.2 [SC 433.228]). For an analysis of love and fear in the household, see Woodington, “Fear and Love.” 82.  Hom. Col. 10.1 (PG 62.366). 83.  [Ἔ]στιν ὅπου καὶ συγχωρεῖν ὀφείλετε (Hom. Col. 10.1 [PG 62.367]). 84.  Rhet. 2.5, 1383a6–7. 85.  This claim is supported by neurological analysis (LeDoux, Emotional Brain, 69, 284). 86.  Not all evils are feared, “but only such as involve great pain or destruction” (ἀλλ’ ὅσα λύπας μεγάλας ἢ φθορὰς δύναται) (Rhet. 2.5, 1382a23–24). 87. Nussbaum, Therapy of Desire, 370. She makes the point with respect to all emotions: “I do not go around fearing that my coffee cup will break; I am not angry if someone takes a paper clip. I do not pity someone who has lost a toothbrush. My breakfast cereal does not fill me with joy and delight; even my morning coffee is not an object of love.” 88.  Chrysostom uses this example several times; see Ex. Ps. 9.1 (PG 55.122); Catech. illum. 2.1 (PG 49.233); Hom. Matt. 20. 4 (PG 57.292); Hom. Eph. 12.3 (PG 62.92). It was an example drawn from the schools; see Sextus Empiricus, Pyr. 1.33, Plato, Theaet. 176a–b.

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them to touch a seemingly threatening object, such as a mask or a skein of wool.89 His comments on the disciples’ reaction to Jesus walking on the water assume that they followed exactly this process: when they initially saw what appeared to be a ghost approaching them, they cried out in fear; but as soon as Jesus spoke to them, they recognized by his voice that it was he, and regained confidence.90 A second factor influencing fear is proximity. For no evil is feared if it seems to be remote. Thus, while all people know that they will die, no one is actively afraid of death until it seems near at hand.91 It is this emotion’s reliance upon careful assessment of size and proximity that explains Aristotle’s observation that “fear makes people deliberative.”92 Each of these necessary conditions contributes to Chrysostom’s appreciation of fear. He is especially aware of its revelatory function: the way in which fear, by exposing what is held to be a serious and painful loss, provides a clear index of what a person deems to be important. Sometimes, these values are wholly admirable, as when Joseph felt afraid to take Mary as his wife. For this feeling proves, to Chrysostom’s way of thinking, that he considered giving offense to God by marrying a woman who, to all appearances, was guilty of sexual impropriety, a very serious matter.93 At other times, the values that give rise to fear are misplaced. In these situations, we find Chrysostom actively working to allay fear by exposing the false estimations that prompt it. This cognitive strategy comes to the fore in his Homilies on the Statues. The dread that oppressed the people of Antioch after the Riot of 387 was, above all, terror of imminent death: that in retaliation for the insult to himself and his ­family, the emperor would order the destruction of the city and the annihilation of all its inhabitants. This fear exposes the high premium they placed on life. To this implicit judgment Chrysostom speaks directly. Like any good philosopher, he first attacks the belief that death is an evil, presenting it instead as a release from tumult and a swift transportation to a peaceful haven. Death, he further observes, is wholly natural: it comes to everyone.94 “It is a journey for a season; a sleep longer than usual! So if you fear death, be afraid of sleep too. If you grieve for those 89.  Hom. Col. 4.4 (PG 62.330). 90.  Mt 14:26–27. Hom. Matt. 50.1 (PG 58.505). 91.  Cephalus in Plato’s Republic expresses a similar view (Resp. 330d). 92.  [Ὁ] γὰρ φόβος βουλευτικοὺς ποιεῖ (Rhet. 2.5, 1383a6–7). Konstan, Emotions, 134–49. Miller’s summation of Aristotle’s goal resembles, with appropriate modification, that of Chrysostom: “Aristotle wants to make true courage more than just a balancing of two kinds of fear, one of death, the other of disgrace (Eth. nic. 3.8, 1116b1). He wants courage to flow from a disposition properly cultivated to produce courageous deeds for the sake of the virtue” (Mystery of Courage, 23). 93.  In a similar fashion, he praises Paul who “was afraid and always trembled” because of the magnitude of his responsibility (Sac. 3.7 [SC 272.156]). 94.  Stat. 5.2–3 (PG 49.70–72).

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who are dying, grieve also for those who are eating and drinking, for this is as natural as that! Let not natural things sadden you.”95 Logically, he points out, we should grieve no more for those who die than for those who are born.96 To this traditional line of reasoning, Chrysostom adds specifically Christian arguments. Does his congregation not believe in “such good things as eye has not seen, nor ear heard”? Surely, instead of trembling, they should groan with impatience to leave this life behind!97 This rational process continues as he imagines his interlocutors lodging a further objection: “I am not afraid of death, or of dying, but of dying horribly, of having my head cut off.”98 While our attention might center on the physical anguish of this sentence, Chrysostom focuses instead on its shame. To refute it, he challenges its rational basis. Did a violent death, he asks, bring shame to the martyrs? Clearly not. As further proof that the only shameful death is dying in sin, Chrysostom cites the story of Lazarus. For despite the fact that the poor man died violently (“for what,” he asks, “could be more painful than hunger?”), and publicly (for what is less private than lying on the pavement with dogs licking one’s sores), he was not injured by it. To the contrary, his death led to his enjoying eternal blessings and “luxuriating in the bosom of Abraham.”99 The argument from shame, however, is not quite refuted. Chrysostom imagines a rejoinder: “We are afraid not of dying violently, but of dying unjustly, of being punished alongside the guilty, although we have committed none of the offenses of which we are accused.”100 In reply, Chrysostom discloses the illogicality of this fear. Would it be less shameful to be killed justly? Again, he invokes scripture as a kind of case study, this time the death of Abel. For many of those who were resplendent and highly esteemed by God were subjected to an unjust death. First, there was Abel. He did not wrong his brother, nor did he harm Cain in any way; but he was slaughtered for this reason alone: because he honored God. And God allowed it. Was it because he hated him or loved him? 95.  Stat. 5.3 (PG 49.73–74). 96.  Stat. 6.4 (PG 49.86); see also ibid., 7.1 (PG 49.92). These arguments are all standard; see, for example, Plutarch, Cons. ux. 8.1; Seneca, Marc. 10.5. 97.  Stat. 5.2 (PG 49.70–71), recalling 1 Cor 2:9. Elsewhere, Chrysostom willingly admits that death is fearful. Even the martyrs felt fear: “When they were about to be led to their deaths [they] often became pallid and filled with fear and anguish” (Laud. Paul. 6.4 [SC 300.268–70], trans. Mitchell, Heavenly Trumpet, 476; see also Hom. Phil. 5.1 [PG 62.205]). Their virtue, like that of Paul, lies in the fact that, despite their fear, they did not flee death. In letters written at the end of his life, he concedes that death is not only “fearful and terrifying,” but indeed “the summit of everything that appears grievous” (Ep. Olymp. 17.2b, 10.3b [SC 13bis.372, 250]). 98.  Stat. 5.2 (PG 49.71). 99.  Stat. 5.3 (PG 49.72). 100. Ibid.

130     Fear Patently, it was because he loved him and wanted to make his crown brighter by that completely unjust murder. Do you see that it is not dying violently, nor dying unjustly that should be feared, but rather dying in sin? Abel died unjustly. Cain lived groaning and trembling. Tell me, then, which was more blessed: the one who went to his rest in righteousness, or the one who lived in sin? The one who died unjustly, or the one who was justly punished?101

Taken together, these arguments lead to the conclusion that fearing death is irrational. It is a natural process and one that, for Christians, results in a better state. Even when public, painful, and unjust, death is not shameful. In the gospels, Chrysostom finds Jesus using the same cognitive approach. When the disciples were disturbed at his predictions of his coming suffering, he allayed their fear by pointing out its irrational basis: his passion was not destructive or harmful, as they assumed, nor was it forced upon him; he submitted to it willingly. To these logical arguments, he added the power of his own example: because he was not afraid, their reaction should also be one of confidence.102 Evidently, he too was aware that courage can be caught, just like fear.103 Chrysostom also draws attention to Gospel figures who shrugged off common fears. The Good Samaritan forms a case in point. When he offered his assistance to the man lying beside the road, he was not inhibited by the kinds of fear that typically impede others. For the situation, according to Chrysostom, was far from rare. “Many a time people go along a road and see men who have been wounded but are still breathing. But they pass them by not because they are stingy with their money, but because they are afraid that they themselves may be dragged into court and held accountable for murder.” The Good Samaritan scorned such fears: he stopped and loaded the wounded man onto his donkey and took him to an inn. He did not say to himself, “What if he is not strong enough to make the long journey. Am I going to bring in a corpse? Am I going to be arrested for murder? Am I going to be held accountable for his death?”104 Fear of neither the certain expense nor the likely danger outweighed the value of doing good to someone in need. In addition to exposing values, fear has the effect of ranking them. The assessment of size implicit in the emotion creates in effect a hierarchy in which a more pressing fear can drive out a lesser one. Chrysostom’s awareness of this function marks his exegesis. Whereas most men, he notes, shudder at the thought that their 101. Ibid. 102.  Hom. Jo. 75.4 (PG 59.408–09). This was said “to arouse their spirit” (ibid., [PG 59.408]). 103. Miller, Mystery of Courage, 209–11. Aristotle notes that it is frightening to see fear on the face of one’s social superiors (Rhet. 2.5, 1383a32–35). 104.  Adv. Jud. 8.3 (PG 48.932).

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wives might suffer sexual violence and find even the suspicion of it unbearable, Abraham’s terror of death overpowered even this fear, with the result that he gave his wife “to the enjoyment of the barbarians.” The story of Elijah shows a similar dynamic. Whereas most people dread the prospect of exile, the prophet’s fear for his life—­indeed his fright at “only the threat of a promiscuous and accursed woman”—­made him willing to accept the life of a fugitive and wanderer.105 Christ too, John observes, often casts out fear by fear, as when he tells his disciples to be afraid not of those who can kill the body, but rather of those who can destroy both the body and the soul (Mt 10:28). As this advice shows, “he does not want to deliver us from terrors but to convince us to despise them.”106 In Chrysostom’s homilies after the Riot, he notes how the citizens of Antioch experienced this same rapid recalibration of value. When the imperial letter first arrived levying the new and substantial tax, people were tormented by the fear of losing their property. But after the riot, as they reflected on the potential magnitude of the emperor’s wrath and the likely repercussions of their actions, this worry vanished. Then Chrysostom says, he heard language of a different sort: “Let the Emperor take our property. We will give up our fields and possessions gladly, if only someone allows us to preserve our bare body.”107 In fear for their lives, they no longer cared about their possessions; the prospect of losing them no longer had size.108 In his response to the crisis, Chrysostom adopts a similar strategy. He works to diminish his listeners’ fear of death by amplifying the terrors of hell. He is convinced that if they are truly seized by “dread of future punishment,” they will no longer worry about death—­indeed, they will scorn those who fear it, even as adults laugh at children who are afraid of masks but do not fear fire.109 In order for this argument to work, his congregation must agree not only with his assessment of the gravity of sin—­that it alone has “size”—­but also with his estimation of the proximity of its punishment.110 The two are linked, but the latter is usually 105.  Bern. 1–2 (PG 50.629–31); Ep. Olymp. 10.3c–d [SC 13bis.250–52]. 106.  [Φ]όβῳ φόβον ἐκβάλλων (Hom. Matt. 34.3 [PG 57.401]; see also Stat. 5.3 [PG 49.73]). For the goal of instilling contempt for fear, see Hom. Matt., 34.2 (PG 57.401). 107.  Stat. 5.3 (PG 49.73); see also ibid., 13.2–3 (PG 49.139). 108.  Stat. 5.3, 6.5 (PG 49.73, 87). 109.  Stat. 5.3 (PG 49.73); Exp. Ps. 10.11 (PG 55.139). “When you see anything good and great in the present life, think of the kingdom, and you will consider it as nothing. When you see anything frightening, think of hell, and you will laugh at it” (Hom. 2 Thess. 2.3 [PG 62.476]). Fear of God is correlated with contempt for wealth, worldly reputation, and the present life (Inan. glor. 86–87.1030–43 [SC 188.192]; see also Hom. Rom. 15.6 [PG 60.547]). As Anne-­Marie Malingrey comments, “La crainte de Dieu joue un rôle important dans la spiritualité de Jean Chrysostome. C’est un thème qui mériterait une étude détaillée dans son oeuvre si vaste” (SC 188.193n3). 110.  On the issue of size, see Stat. 5.2 (PG 49.70). In one of his last letters to Olympias, he writes: “There is one thing, Olympias, that is fearful, one real test: sin alone. This saying I have not ceased

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more challenging to convey, since people, as Chrysostom notes, tend not to fear what cannot be seen.111 The threat seems far off and hazy: hardly frightening at all. To counteract the tendency to make light of distant suffering, he turns not only to vivid descriptions of postmortem pain, as we have seen, but also to scriptural proofs. In the time of Noah, he points out, there were no clear signs of impending destruction; nor did the citizens of Sodom, “living in delight,” suspect anything untoward. But their destruction was nevertheless on the horizon and from it, none escaped.112 In the wake of the Riot of the Statues, however, there was no need to stress the proximity of judgment. Living in dread of what the emperor might decree, people were acutely aware of its threatening imminence: thoughts of the future crowded in upon them. It is this aspect of fear that Chrysostom most values, and in this favorable climate, he took the opportunity of drawing explicit and concrete parallels between imperial and divine judicial procedures. Just like the emperor, God too typically interposes an interval between transgression and punishment in order to produce fear and amendment.113 Only fools would misread the delay and, supposing that they had escaped punishment, “make light” of their offense. To the contrary, the longer punishment pends, the more one should be alarmed, dreading the increasing magnitude of the blow that might fall at any moment.114 At other times, when the political situation was less fraught and the mood relaxed, Chrysostom had to work to create and sustain fear of imminent judgment. Especially challenging to this project was the observable reality that many notorious sinners seem not to suffer anything, but live out their days in ease and comfort. On the basis of this evidence, however, no one should draw the erroneous conclusion that God does not see or exact justice for wrongdoing.115 Instead, just as legislators prefer to select a few malefactors for spectacular punishment chanting to you continuously. Everything else is a myth” (Ep. Olymp. 7.1c [SC 13bis.132–34]). Like hope, fear is future directed (Aristotle, Eth. nic. 3.6, 1115a10). 111.  Many people, Chrysostom acknowledges, are more deterred by “the disasters of this life, such as famine, pestilence, disease, war, captivity, and so forth,” than by “things that are not present and cannot be seen” (Virginit. 49.8 [SC 125.282]). A sense of distance often decreases fear of even extreme judicial punishments, such as confiscation of goods, condemnation to the mines, or being put to death by fire (Laz. 4.3 [PG 48.1010]). 112.  Hom. Matt. 20.6 (PG 57.294); Hom. 1 Thess. 8.2 (PG 62.441–42]). 113.  God does not punish all the wicked, “so that they, remaining in fear at the punishments of others, may become more restrained . . . and cease from wickedness” (Laz. 3.8 [PG 48.1003]). As Christopher Kelly has observed, early Christian images of God’s judgment were modeled on contemporary Roman judicial practice (Ruling the Later Roman Empire, 232–45). The benefits of this political strategy were multiple: it secured law and order as well as a reputation for clemency with a minimal deployment of force. 114.  Stat. 3.7 (PG 49.58). Chrysostom contrasts the dread felt by the citizens of Antioch, awaiting the emperor’s reaction, with the heedlessness of Christians who “insult God every day” (Stat. 3.6 [PG 49.56]). 115.  Diab. 1.7 (PG 49.254–55).

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rather than punishing everyone who is guilty, so Christ uses the experience of one or two notorious sinners to issue a warning to all.116 King Uzziah furnishes a case in point. God punished him for defiling the sanctuary not by unleashing a thunderbolt or causing an earthquake that would impact many, but by striking him with leprosy. Nor was the disease spread throughout his body; instead, it was manifest just on his forehead, so that he might proclaim to all who saw him, “Do not do likewise in case you suffer a similar punishment.” Through analogy, Chrysostom drives home the juridical impact: “He went forth as a living edict, his forehead emitting a sound more strident than any trumpet, an inscription written on his forehead, an indelible inscription: it was not written in ink for someone to delete; instead, the leprosy came from nature and rendered him unclean so as to make the others clean. Just as the condemned, when they get the noose, are led out with the rope in their mouth, so too this man in issuing forth had leprosy on his forehead instead of a noose.”117 The point of the punishment was deterrence: it was designed to awaken fear.118 The ruins of Sodom functioned in exactly the same way. In his homilies on Genesis, John characterizes the region as a “land screaming aloud, so to speak, and exhibiting the traces of punishment, even after such a number of years, as though the punishment had been inflicted yesterday or the day before—­so apparent are the signs of condemnation.”119 The value of these traces derives from their status not only as a reminder of past wrath but also, and far more importantly, as a “prediction of future punishment.”120 This analysis allows John to stress the similarities between the city of the Plain and his own 116.  Virginit. 23 (SC 125.168); Exp. Ps. 8.3 (PG 55.110). Doctors do the same: when preparing to remove stones or amputate gangrenous limbs, they bring the patient into the middle of the marketplace, “not wishing to make a spectacle of human misfortunes, but teaching onlookers to attend carefully to their own health” (In illud: Vidi Dominum 5.2 [SC 277.188]). Masters also beat one slave publicly “so as to make the rest behave better out of fear” (Laz. 3.7 [PG 48.1003]); for the public whipping of slaves, see Glancy, Corporal Knowledge, 24–27. 117.  In illud: Vidi Dominum 4.6 (SC 277.168–70), trans. Hill, Old Testament Homilies, 2.92. 118.  God, like the emperor, “sets down their punishment, as though in letters on a bronze stele, and by the example of what happened to them, speaks to everyone” (Virginit. 23 [SC 125. 168]). So too, God inflicted a visible punishment on the serpent, “so that we might have continuously before our eyes a reminder of his punishment” (Hom. Gen. 17.5 [PG 53.142]). Similar reasoning informs Chrysostom’s assertion that the houses of the wealthy, by their very magnificence, shout aloud the crimes of their builders (In illud: Ne timueritis 2.3 [PG 55.517]). 119.  Hom. Gen. 42.5 (PG 54.392). As a place bearing “the traces of calamity,” it makes a “deeper impression upon the mind” than a report (Stat. 19.2 [PG 49.191]; see also Comm. Job 19.12 [SC 348.48]). For a similar reason, Hadrian left the foundations of the Jerusalem temple standing and bestowed his own name on what was left of the city; he did so, “in order to brand them with the indelible proof of their shamelessness and of their defeat” (Adv. Jud. 5.11 [PG 48.900, 901]). 120.  The fruit of Sodom is “a memorial of wrath” (ὀργῆς ἐστιν ὑπόμνημα) (Hom. 1 Thess. 8.3 [PG 62.442]; see also the spurious, De perfecta caritate 7 [PG 56.288]). The visible traces of divine

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city. Just like Antioch, Sodom was illustrious, splendidly endowed with walls and impressive buildings, and set in a fertile region.121 But God condemned it to fire and, having utterly destroyed it, left its ruins as a warning to others. Having burned the face of the land, [God] set it forth publicly for all those who might later wish to see it. The sight of the land now exhorts all future generations more clearly than any voice could do, all but shouting out and saying, “Do not dare to do the deeds of Sodom, lest you suffer the fate of Sodom!” For speech does not usually strike the mind as forcefully as a fearful sight (opsis phobera), bearing the traces of disaster throughout time, does—­as those who have traveled to this region testify. For although they often heard Scripture speaking about these things, they did not feel particularly afraid (ou sphodra edeisan), but when they went and stood in that place and saw its appearance completely obliterated, and took in with their eyes the conflagration—­soil nowhere visible, but everything dust and ashes—­ they left astounded by the spectacle, having received a strong lesson in restraint (sōphrosunēs).122

Because sight inspires fear more powerfully than speech, Chrysostom urges members of his congregation to go and see the remains for themselves. It will benefit them. They will learn from the seared landscape that they will not escape judgment: even if such a catastrophe never befalls their city, their own death—­whether they are young or old—­is “at the doors.”123 The same desire to make the judgment seem imminent and real leads Chrysostom to elaborate the fearful scene. Drawing on contemporary judicial practice, he describes the moment just before a person “is led away to be tried in that fearful courtroom”: Then, if anyone has seized or coveted the goods of another, or has abused or conceived enmity towards anyone without cause, or done any other terrible thing, the whole swarm of these sins is revived and stands before our eyes and pricks our conscience. And just as inmates in prison are always in dejection and pain, but especially on that day on which they are to be brought out and led to the very doors of the judge, when standing before the latticed partition of the law courts, hearing the voice wrath should have filled Ham with fear and held him back from insulting his father (Serm. Gen. 4.2 [SC 433.230–32]). 121.  For an extraordinary account of the previous fertility of the region and its subsequent blighted nature, see Hom. 1 Thess. 8.3 (PG 62.442). On the Madaba Map, the neighboring town of Segor, to which Lot and his family fled, is shown surrounded by palm trees; this representation accords with the testimony of ancient authors that the warm temperatures and constant irrigation produced luxuriant vegetation. In the words of F.-­M. Abel, “balsam, indigo, and date palm all grow there as though by enchantment” (“Croisière a la mer morte III,” 101). 122.  Stat. 19.2 (PG 49.191). 123.  Hom. Matt. 20.6 (PG 57.294). Sodom and Gomorrah provide proof of the reality of judgment and “the eternity of punishment” (Hom. 1 Thess. 8.3 [PG 62.442–43]).

Fear    135 of the judge from inside, they are frozen with fear (apopēgnyntai tō phobō) and in no better state than corpses, in just the same way, the soul, although certainly pained and distressed at the very moment of sinning, feels it much more acutely when it is about to be dragged off and led away from here.124

We do not need to imagine the reaction to these words. Chrysostom tells us that his congregation listened in utter silence. He, for his part, was delighted with this reaction. For this fear, although painful, is beneficial. “If only,” he adds, “it were possible to discuss these things constantly, and to speak always about hell.”125 But because this was not possible, he did the very next best thing: he spoke about it very often. In his discourses against Judaizing Christians, he makes the frequency of the topic into a boast: in our churches, “there are countless homilies on eternal punishments, on rivers of fire, on the poisonous worm, on unbreakable bonds, on outer darkness.”126 And he dilates upon the suffering of that place: As those who work in the mines are delivered over to certain cruel men, and see none of their household (oudena tōn oikeiōn), but only those who are set over them, so it will be then—­or rather not so, but even far worse. For here it is possible to go and petition the Emperor, and free the condemned person: but there, this is no longer possible, for he does not permit it. But they continue being broiled, suffering a kind of anguish that cannot be described. For if no words can describe the excruciating pain of those who are burned here, that of those suffering there is far worse. For here, everything is over in a brief moment of time, but in that place there is burning, but that which is burnt is not consumed.127

Once again, John acknowledges that his words frighten his listeners, but for that very reason, they bring great benefit. They drive home the reality of divine punishment. The known anguish of those standing trial for their life or sentenced to the mines makes palpable the imagined sufferings of those condemned in the afterlife; it gives them size and makes them seem close. In his catechetical instructions, Chrysostom recommends that this temporal horizon be reinscribed each day. Fear is once again the central mechanism of this process. At dawn, after gathering in church for prayers, everyone should head off to work: “Let one pursue work with his hands, another hurry to his post in the army, and still another to political affairs. But let each person approach his tasks 124.  Laz. 2.2 (PG 48.985). See also Stat. 13.2 (PG 49.138–39). 125. Εἶθε ἦν ἀεὶ καὶ διηνεκῶς ταῦτα φιλοσοφεῖν, καὶ περὶ γεέννης φθέγγεσθαι (Laz. 2.3 [PG 48.985]). 126.  Adv. Jud. 1.4 (PG 48.848). 127.  Hom. Matt. 43.4 (PG 57.462). In his treatise to Theodore, he compares the suffering of hell to bath water “that has been heated more than it ought to be” (Theod. laps. 10 [SC 117.128–30]). Elsewhere, he likens its terror to that inspired by earthquakes (Hom. 1 Thess. 8.2 (PG 62.441]).

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with fear and anguish (meta phobou kai agōnias), and spend the space of the day in this fashion, knowing that he must come back here in the evening to give an account of the whole day to the Lord and to beg forgiveness for his sins.”128 The disciplinary edge to this advice is unmistakable (“Be mindful of the fact that you will answer for your deeds and do what is right”), but it is the performative aspect that seems most striking. The preacher is trying to inculcate a rhythm of life in which each day ends with judgment and every moment is overshadowed with its fear. Given that this advice is directed toward those seeking baptism, it would seem that Chrysostom believes that one becomes Christian by learning to feel afraid: afraid not of death or of the loss of material possessions, but of divine punishment.129 To live in this dread constitutes a kind of proof that one has internalized a set of values in which the only evil that has size is sin. Thus he bends every effort to drive this lesson home. The program is deliberately imaginative. He urges his listeners to “visualize the court of justice, and think of it as present and that the reckoning is now required.”130 Entering the scene, he invites their full participation: “What do you think is the state of their souls?” he asks, before turning the question onto his listeners by adding, “What will we feel?” As if in answer, he lingers on the shame of judicial exposure, the grief of being separated from a glory that can be glimpsed, before describing the excruciating pain of punishment: the darkness, the bonds, the grinding of teeth, the indissoluble chains, the undying worm, the unquenchable fire, the suffering—­even the scorched tongues, “like that of the rich man.” To these terrible intimations, he adds other, worse ones: the fact that no one hears our cries, or sees our anguish, or comes to comfort us, or even feels any sympathy for us.131 Nor is there any consolation to be derived from the fact that others suffer likewise, for this sentiment, he notes grimly, holds true only when pain is moderate; in hell, the intensity of anguish precludes any thought of others.132 The suffering conjured by these images is immense but, Chrysostom insists, wholly insufficient: “It is not 128.  Catech. 8.17 (SC 50.257). 129.  “Hell is not apparent to the faithless; to the faithful, it is clear and obvious, but even so it is still not apparent to the faithless” (Laz. 4.3 [PG 48.1010]). “There is nothing better than the fear of God: let us do everything to acquire it” (Hom. Phil. 4.4 [PG 62.204]). 130.  [Ὑ]πογράψωμεν ἐκεῖνο τὸ δικαστήριον, καὶ νομίσωμεν αὐτὸ παρεῖναι νῦν, καὶ τὰς εὐθύνας ἀπαιτεῖσθαι (Hom. 2 Cor. 10.3 [PG 61.470]). The same language (Ὑποθώμεθα τοίνυν ἤδη τοῦτο παρεῖναι τῷ λόγῳ) appears, brilliantly, in Hom. 1 Thess. 8.2 (PG 62.441). 131.  [Π]οίαν νομίζετε αὐτοῖς εἶναι τὴν ψυχὴν .  .  . τί πεισόμεθα (Hom. 1 Thess. 8.2 [PG 62.441]). “Those set in charge are not like human guards, whom we might hope to win over, but angels, upon whose faces we cannot look and who are enraged at our insults to their master” (Hom. 2 Cor. 10.3–4 [PG 61.471–72]). 132.  Hom. Matt. 43.4 (PG 57.462–63). A finding replicated in Elaine Scarry’s analysis of torture (Body in Pain).

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possible—­believe me—­it is not possible to express the suffering in words.”133 With this assertion, he does not so much free the imagination of his listeners as propel it into a realm of pain that may exceed the power of description but lies well within the capacity of dread. Terror is mobilized to prompt belief and the circularity of the argument only increases its force. As belief in imminent judgment prompts real fear, so fear makes real the prospect of imminent judgment.134 The program may well strike us as chilling, and there are clear signs of protest from Chrysostom’s listeners. They pushed back against these terrifying scenarios, objecting that God was merciful by nature and would never condemn them to such torments.135 But Chrysostom insists, to the contrary, that the punishments are real and looming—­and paradoxically identifies this truth as a source of comfort. For having the gravity and proximity of judgment always before their eyes will focus their attention and make them keen to pursue righteousness and eager to desist from sin—­or at least willing to engage in penance. The result will be an increase in virtue, which in turn provides grounds for confidence in the afterlife.136 It is on the basis of this positive outcome that he asserts that the program stems from love: that God strikes us with terror only because he desires what is best for us.137 This belief that Christians should live in dread seems to run counter to numerous scriptural texts that explicitly enjoin believers not to be afraid. It is precisely in his careful treatment of these passages that we see most clearly the depth of Chrysostom’s conviction. Although he employs several different exegetical strategies, he never entertains the notion that freedom from fear should be a characteristic Christian attitude. Instead, he carefully limits the dominical saying to a particular time, circumstance, or issue. For example, when Jesus told the terrified disciples, “Be not afraid,” when they saw him walking on the water (Jn 6:20), he meant something quite precise: they should not be alarmed by the darkness or the 133.  Οὐκ ἔστιν, οὐκ ἔστι, πιστεύσατε, παραστῆσαι λόγῳ τὸ πάθος (Hom. 1 Thess. 8.2 [PG 62.441]). 134.  This conclusion seems to return us to the repressive aspect of fear, but Chrysostom insists, rather, that this fear produces pleasure. This pleasure is not only retrospective as when, from a position of security, one recalls being in a state of fear, but also prospective. For fear of God’s judgment leads, he insists, to a sense of calm assurance, which in turn yields blameless pleasure. Leduc rightly points to the centrality of eschatology for Chrysostom (“Eschatologie”). 135. The scriptural talk of hell was intended only as a deterrent to sin (Hom. 1 Thess. 8.2–3 [PG 62.441–43]; Hom. Eph. 4.3–4 [PG 62.35]; Hom. Act. 23.4 [PG 60.183]). 136.  Hom. Matt. 62.4 (PG 57.455). “Nothing is sweeter than this conversation [about hell]” (Hom. Matt. 43.5 [PG 57.463]). The benefit of imposing punishments upon ourselves for bad behavior is that “we shall depart in purity to our Master, and be free from the fire of hell, and stand confidently before the judgment seat of Christ” (Catech. illum. 9.23 [SC 366.162]). The converse is also true: “[F]or those who do not believe that there is a judgment, death will be the beginning of punishment” (Hom. Col. 2.5 [PG 61.315]). Only the devil would want to take away fear and encourage indolence (Exp. Ps. 12.3 [PG 55.146]; Hom. 1 Thess. 8.2 [PG 62.442]). 137.  Hom. Rom. 9.4 (PG 60.472); Stat. 7.2 (PG 49.94); Exp. Ps. 7.11 (PG 55.98–99).

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water.138 And when, during the storm at sea, he asked them, “Why are you afraid, you of little faith?” (Mt 8:26), he was rebuking them for a specific cognitive error, namely for having an incorrect opinion of his power. For the fact that they woke him up revealed their belief that he could calm the storm only when awake, but not when asleep. It was for this faulty assessment, which betrayed their lack of faith, that Jesus scolded them, not for their fear, which was profitable for them and which he had deliberately heightened.139 In a similar fashion, his reassuring words to the woman with the hemorrhage were designed to release her not from pervasive timidity, but from one particular anxiety, namely that she had stolen a gift.140 On the few occasions when Jesus spoke to allay general fears, he did so for strategic or pedagogic reasons. Thus, when the disciples “fell to the ground and were overcome with fear” at the sight of his transfigured body, he quickly comforted them and put an end to their alarm, lest a protracted state of terror “drive out memory” of the event.141 The final way in which John limits the impact of this evangelical advice is also the simplest; he devotes little time to it. Instead of delving into these texts and exploring the basis of confidence, he passes over them quickly. His strategy in dealing with the passages promoting fear is far different: on these, as we have seen, he lingers and expatiates. In doing so, he cites scripture as his model: “If fear were not a good thing, Christ would not have given so many long speeches on the subject of retribution and punishment in the world to come.”142 There could be no other reason why he ended the parable of the talents with a threat (“And on my return, I should have demanded it back with interest”), than that he valued the stimulating and focusing properties of terror.143 C O N C LU SIO N

In the end, it is not hard to appreciate the strategic utility of fear for John Chrysostom. He understood fear as a powerful ally in the formation of ethical selves. By 138.  Hom. Jo. 43.1 (PG 59.245). 139.  Jesus made the storm at sea frightening precisely so that “their remembrance of the event might be rendered lasting” (Hom. Matt. 28.1 [PG 57.351]). 140.  Hom. Matt. 31.1 (PG 57.371). 141.  Hom. Matt. 56.4 (PG 58.554). In a similar fashion, Christ dispelled fear at the resurrection so that it would not hinder faith (Hom. Matt. 89.3 [PG 58.784]). In his homilies on Lazarus, Chrysostom seems to become aware that the fear, which he has been working hard to elicit, has become distracting: “Pay attention! Speaking about these things is useful: frightening but purifying, painful but corrective. Take in my words!” (Laz. 6.6 [PG 48.1036]). In his description of the battle of Naupactis, Thucydides notes the bewildering effect of fear (Hist. 87.4, quoted and discussed in Konstan, Emotions, 141–42). 142.  Stat. 15.2 (PG 49.156). 143.  Adv. Jud. 8.9 (PG 48.942); Exp. Ps. 7.11 (PG 55.98–99).

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fear of violence, people were restrained from doing what he believed they should not and goaded out of listlessness into doing what he believed they should. A central task for preachers, as for parents, was thus the durable inscription of biblical stories of punishment upon the minds of their charges.144 The contagious aspect of fear, moreover, was useful in breaking down the sense of invulnerability fostered by social superiority and in reinforcing a sense of solidarity. But perhaps most importantly, fear encouraged a deliberative state in which the preacher could effectively question and realign the values of his listeners. It is in these contexts that he sounds most philosophical. For although he accepts that most people initially shudder at the prospect of death—­even as they instinctively recoil from a snake-­like object on a path—­he firmly believes that this reaction can be minimized if not eliminated by rational explication. Thus he presents reasons why his listeners should not fear the loss of material goods or even life itself. Many of these are standard philosophical arguments. But unlike the Stoics, whose words he often borrows, his goal is not the eradication of fear, but rather its inculcation as a durable disposition. He is motivated in this effort not by a disciplinary but rather an ideological agenda: to install belief in the “size” of sin and in the proximity of future judgment. The passages where he presses this theme are undeniably chilling, but they also reveal the creative—­even imaginative—­aspect of fear.145 It remains, then, only to underscore the extent of Chrysostom’s narrative engagement: to show not only how deeply his scriptural exegesis is informed by his understanding of emotions, but also and more centrally how consistently he uses stories to advance his program of moral formation. In making a selection, we are hampered by an embarrassment of riches. For fear plays a prominent role in many biblical stories, and Chrysostom, as we have seen, appeals to many of them in the course of his preaching. But it is to the story of Cain that he most often turns as a narrative illustration of the tragic consequences of fearlessness, as well as of the productive value of fear. The Advantages of Fear: Cain The story of Cain was so useful, in part, because of its compactness: told simply in sixteen verses, it could easily be held in mind, even by a child.146 Its vivid 144.  It is the duty of a bishop to correct people not by insulting them, but by frightening them; he “must reprove, alarm, and terrify [them] with the threat of hell” (Hom. Tit. 2.2 [PG 62.672]). 145.  Compare Foucault, Discipline and Punish; and “The Subject and Power.” Programs to calm fear also rely on the imagination. In this connection, Richard Sorabji cites a British Airways course that promised to cure people of a fear of flying by engaging in both cognitive and imaginative exercises (Emotion and Peace of Mind, 163). 146.  Chrysostom comments explicitly on the effectiveness of giving young children short, simple stories, and of repeating them. This approach, he says, not only promotes their understanding, but also

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e­ motional range gave it added value: envy, anger, grief, and fear are all essential to the tale. Thus, in his manual on child-­rearing, Chrysostom selects this story as his first example of scriptural pedagogy. As he walks fathers through the story, he illustrates methods to increase its impact on young listeners. The first point that should be stressed is that Cain and Abel were siblings. Helpfully, Chrysostom even suggests wording: “In ancient times, there were two children, born of a single father, two brothers. Then, after inserting a pause, continue, “And they had both been born from the same womb. One was elder, the other younger.”147 The close ties binding the young men are underscored by repetition and variation, as well as by the deliberate insertion of a pause. The story continues with both brothers desiring to honor God. This is the next point of emphasis. Fathers should tell their sons that, unlike the younger brother, who offered the first born of his flock, “the elder son .  .  . went away and, after storing up for himself the first fruits from his labors, brought the second-­best to God.”148 This suggestion comes as a surprise. Not only is the Genesis account silent on the reasons for God’s differential reaction to the two sacrifices, but Chrysostom has just directed the father that he should recount “only what is found in scripture.”149 To his way of thinking, apparently, this information counts not as an addition, but rather as a clarification. In another homily, he develops the point: the problem with Cain’s offerings was not that they were worthless, but rather that “they were the most worthless things he had.”150 The fault lay entirely in the spirit in which the gift was given, which was careless and offhand.151 Had he, to prevents their developing a lack of interest (literally, “torpor” [νάρκης]) because of the difficulty of the material (Hom. Jo. 4.1 [PG 59.45]). 147.  Inan. glor. 39.496–99 (SC 188.130–32). 148.  Inan. glor. 39.512–14 (SC 188.132); Hom. Gen. 18.5 (PG 53.154–55). In his treatise to Stagirius, Chrysostom amplifies the point: “For if among human beings, it seems a terrible thing and an insult when one of the household slaves keeps the better things for himself and offers inferior ones to his master, how much more if before God (Stag. 1.3 [PG 47.430]). An anonymous rabbinic commentator provides a similar gloss in which Cain is like a bad tenant who offers the king inferior fruits (Glenthøj, Cain and Abel, 87–89, at 87n122, citing Gen. Rab. 22.5). 149.  Inan. glor. 39.507–09 (SC 188.132). The wording of the LXX suggests that the problem lay in some error of apportionment (“Have you not sinned if you offered it correctly but did not divide it correctly?”), but does not specify the fault. The assumption that Cain’s offerings were of inferior quality is shared by Didymus and Diodore (among the Greek authors) and by Ephrem, Isaac of Ninevah, Jacob of Serug, and Narsai (among the Syriac writers). See Glenthøj, Cain and Abel, 70–73; Byron, Cain and Abel, 40–50. 150.  [O]ὐκ ἐπειδὴ φαῦλα προσήνεγκεν, ἀλλ’ ἐπειδὴ ὧν εἶχε τὰ φαυλότερα (Hom. Heb. 32.3 [PG 63.224]). 151.  There was nothing wrong with what he offered: it was “from his labor, from his own labor, and from just labor” (Comm. Prov. 3.9 [Bady, “Commentaire,” 188]). The problem lay in his attitude. God seeks not a particular kind of offering, “but the disposition of the mindset” (ἡ τῆς γνώμης διάθεσις) (Hom Gen. 18.5 [PG 53.156]); Adv. Jud. 1.7 [PG 48.853]). Laird, Mindset, 41–46.

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the ­contrary, possessed the proper disposition toward God, he would never have acted in this manner. Fear would have restrained his greed and spurred him to offer the best that he had, and to offer it eagerly. As the story continues, Cain’s culpable lack of fear becomes steadily more prominent. Although Chrysostom follows scripture in describing Cain’s immediate reaction to the failed sacrifice as one of sorrow, his commentary attributes to the elder brother a potent blend of emotions in which anger seems dominant. “He was grieved as having been dishonored and surpassed by another, and his face darkened.”152 The flushed face bespeaks rage, which, to John’s way of thinking, effectively precludes fear, since he largely adopts Aristotle’s conviction that the two emotions are incompatible. The response that Chrysostom puts into the mouth of God seems designed to expose and refute the basis of this anger: “Why are you upset (lelypēsai)? Did you not know that you were making an offering to God? Why did you insult me? What charge do you have to bring against me? Why did you offer me second-­best goods?”153 The implication of this barrage of questions is clear: it is God, rather than Cain, who should feel irate. The elder brother is guilty of having acted impudently, of having failed to recognize the status difference between God and himself, of having shown his superior no respect. Scripture says nothing about Cain’s reaction to these efforts at cognitive restructuring, but Chrysostom takes that lack of information as a positive indication that Cain made no reply. He counsels the father to draw attention to the fact that the elder brother “‘had nothing to say and kept quiet,’ or better, ‘was silent.’” Instead of answering God honestly, he invited his younger brother into the open field; and there, catching him unaware, he killed him.154 How could Cain have dared to commit this crime? Once again, Genesis provides no information, but Chrysostom suggests three answers—­all of which have to do with fear. First, he identifies the deep motivation that spurred Cain to fratricide as the fear of being supplanted by his younger brother and losing his privileged position as first-­born.155 This fear was ill founded, since God had specifically reassured him on this point, by saying, “Take courage; do not be afraid, and do not agonize over this: ‘His refuge is in you, and you will rule over him.’”156 But Cain did not listen to this promise and thus was driven to murder by irrational fear. John’s other suggestions, however, focus not on fear but rather on its lack. 152.  Ἐλυπεῖτο ὁ πρεσβύτερος ἀδελφὸς ὡς ἀτιμασθεὶς καὶ παρευδοκιμηθείς, καὶ ἦν σκυθρωπός (Inan. glor. 39.520–21 [SC 188.132]). 153.  Inan. glor. 39.522–24 (SC 188.134). God “tried to reduce the inflammation of Cain’s soul; for that despondency (ἀθυμία) was from anger (θυμοῦ)” (Stag. 1.3 [PG 47.430]). 154.  Inan. glor. 39.524–29, (SC 188.134). Paenit. 2.1 (PG 49.285). 155.  Cain is a slave to envy (Hom. 1 Cor. 19.5 [PG 61.158]). In addition to envy, he was motivated by hatred (Hom. Gen. 19.1, 6 [PG 53.159, 166]). He feared for his reputation among humans, not before God (Hom. 2 Cor. 15.1–2 [PG 61.503]). 156.  Adv. Jud. 8. 9 (PG 48.929–30).

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Adopting a behavioral perspective, he suggests that Cain dared to murder Abel because he had become habituated to sin. Whereas the elder brother would initially have recoiled from the idea of fratricide, over time, he became inured to this fear. First, he listened to the one whispering in his ear that offering paltry gifts to God was not wrong, to the voice saying, “It is no sin.” Then, he allowed himself to entertain envious thoughts against his brother; and of this too, he said, “Nothing will come of it.” By telling himself these things, he gradually diminished his fear.157 His third and most typical solution, however, is that Cain was emboldened to murder his brother because he lacked imagination. Because he could not envisage the consequences of his actions, he was not alarmed. He gave no thought to the future: neither to his own horrified reaction at seeing his brother, first gasping on the ground after the attack and then lying there a lifeless corpse, nor to the terrible grief that his parents would feel upon the death of their younger son.158 Above all, he did not imagine that God would see him. He assumed that he could escape detection simply by going into a field.159 And because he did not fear the eye of God, he did not shudder at the punishment he would subsequently face.160 He did not anticipate the pain to which he would be condemned. Murder lies at the heart of the story, but Chrysostom’s extended commentary insists that Cain committed not just one, but rather seven sins.161 Helpfully, he enumerates them: “First, that he envied his brother on account of the favor he enjoyed from God—­something that would have been enough, had it been the only thing, to bring destruction upon him; second, that it was his own brother [whom he envied]; third, that he acted treacherously; fourth, that he committed murder; fifth, that it was his brother whom he murdered; sixth, that he was the first to commit murder; seventh, that he lied to God.”162 The list is damning, but as if it were not impressive enough, Chrysostom immediately repeats it, insisting that for each of these sins, Cain deserved “to undergo severe punishment.”163 157.  Hom. Matt. 86.3 (PG 58.767). The devil is credited with instigating this line of reasoning, but Chrysostom goes on to draw a wider moral about habituation. 158.  Hom. Gen. 19.1 (PG 53.159); Stag. 1.3 (PG 47.431). 159.  Inan. glor. 39.529 (SC 188.134); Hom. 2 Cor. 5.3 (PG 61.432). 160.  Hom. Gen. 19.1 (PG 53.159). 161.  The number seven is derived, in part, from God’s promise that anyone who kills Cain will have vengeance exacted on him sevenfold (Hom. Gen. 19.4 [PG 53. 164]). 162.  Hom. Gen. 19.5 (PG 53.164). Elsewhere, he provides similar, if shorter, lists: What Cain did “was not only murder, but much worse than many murders, since it was not a stranger but a brother whom he killed; and a brother who had not wronged him but had been wronged by him; and he did so not after many murderers, but was the originator of the defilement” (Hom. Matt. 26.6 [PG 57.341]). Cain not only insulted God with his offering, “he spat upon the one who gave him good advice; he was the first to commit murder—­or rather a pollution fouler than any murder—­he grieved his parents; he lied to God” (Stag. 1.3 [PG 47.431]). 163.  Hom. Gen. 19.5 (PG 53.164–65).

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Calling them sins, however, raises the question of how Cain could have known that the feelings and acts were forbidden, since he lived before the law. This Chrysostom answers by pointing to the role of the conscience, implanted by nature. “All had the natural law written within them sounding clear signals as to what was good and what was not.”164 As proof, he cites details within the narrative. Had Cain not understood that it was wrong to kill his brother, he would never have enticed him to an isolated area, far from his parents’ watchful eyes or from any other assistance. Nor would he have tried to conceal the deed by lies and evasive replies. He knew full well what was required. Even if he learned more clearly after the event that murder was wrong, he was aware of it from the beginning.165 Cain’s lack of fear continues, even after committing murder. To God’s direct question, “Where is your brother Abel?” Cain answers falsely and impudently, “I do not know. Am I my brother’s keeper?”166 Only when indicted by incontrovertible evidence (“The voice of your brother’s blood shouts loudly to me out of the earth”) does he admit his guilt: “My sin is too great to be forgiven.”167 This acknowledgment, although full and precise, wins him neither pardon nor reprieve.168 As Chrysostom explains, it came too late: “It is not simply a matter of speaking, but of being the first to speak and not waiting for an accuser to condemn you. But Cain did not speak first; he waited until he had been accused by God; and then, when he was accused, he denied it. Only after God had clearly shown once and for all what had happened, did he admit his sin. But this is not then a confession.”169 Acknowledging the rightfulness of a conviction is not the same thing as a pro­ active confession of guilt. 164.  At the same time as he formed human beings, God placed within them a natural law (νόμον . . . φυσικὸν), the “incorruptible court” of their own conscience (Exp. Ps. 147.3 [PG 55.482]). From the beginning, “the Creator placed knowledge in [our] conscience” (τῷ συνειδότι τὴν γνῶσιν ἐναπέθετο) (Hom. Gen. 18.4 [PG 53.154]). “Our soul has—­yes it has—­an innate sense of shame and a reverence for what is fine” (Hom. Matt. 86.3 [PG 58.767]). 165.  Stat. 12.4 (PG 49.132); Serm. Gen. 7.2 (SC 433.316–18); Scand. 8.1 (SC 79.132). Even in Cain’s insolent reply, “Am I my brother’s keeper?” Chrysostom sees the accusation of conscience, an awareness of “the law of nature” that one ought, in fact, be a guardian of one’s brother’s welfare (Hom. Gen. 19.2 [PG 53.161]). By this same innate knowledge, both brothers knew the kind of gifts that should be offered to God (ibid., 18.4, 18.5 [PG 53.154, 155]). 166.  “See the shamelessness of the response! Surely you are not speaking with a human being, whom you might perhaps be able to deceive?” (Hom. Gen. 19.2 [PG 53.161]). 167.  Adv. Jud. 8.3 (PG 48.930). “As we say when things are plain and clear, ‘the matter speaks for itself’” (ταῦτα φιλοσοφεῖν) (Hom. 2 Cor. 5.3 [PG 61.432]). 168.  Hom. Gen. 19.3 (PG 53.162–63); Adv. Jud. 8.3 (PG 48.930–31). He makes the same point about Dives: his confession and petition in torment “did not benefit him at all,” because they were not spoken at the right time (Laz. 7.4 [PG 48.1051]). 169.  Adv. Jud. 8.3 (PG 48.931).

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The part of the story most emphasized by John, however, is its end: that God condemned Cain to wander in fear and trembling upon the earth. This punishment, in Chrysostom’s eyes, was appropriate in multiple ways. It was fittingly severe in that it caused him mental anguish as well as bodily pain: “[H]e would have chosen to die ten thousand times,” rather than live all his days in per­petual dread.170 It also specifically redressed his criminal intent. He had killed Abel because he wanted to diminish the honor in which God held him. But instead of gaining the upper hand over his younger brother, he lost the preeminence that had been his by birth. Whereas God had previously subjected Abel to his older brother, he made him Cain’s master after the murder, by ensuring that Cain, as it were, went before him in servile fear. This permanent state of trepidation also corrected the root cause of his crime. Because he had not made good use of his bodily strength, God “weakened him (parelysen) and made him tremble.”171 The visible trembling of his limbs, moreover, by functioning as a constant and public declaration of guilt, rectified his failure to acknowledge his sin immediately and forthrightly.172 The fact that God not only punished but also preserved and protected him leads Chrysostom to articulate another set of lessons, one focused not on Cain but rather on those who encounter him. The public nature of Cain’s sentence made him, in effect, into a mobile sign. As leprosy articulated Uzziah’s offense, so Cain’s shaking body ensured that his “dreadful and unbearable punishment” would not be forgotten but would be known to all.173 “Cain went round speaking to everyone, giving voice in silence, teaching without words. His tongue was silent but his limbs cried out; he told everyone the reason for his groaning, the reason for his trembling.”174 It was a kind of public service announcement. But what exactly was the message proclaimed by his body? To this key question, Chrysostom provides several answers. Some, as we would expect, are disciplinary. Foremost among these is a warning against murder. Whereas Moses conveyed the commandment, “Do not kill,” in writing, Cain proclaimed this same teaching by his trembling limbs.175 Drawing on the legal 170.  Hom. 1 Thess. 8.4 (PG 62.444); “Death would have been more bearable for Cain than to be constantly trembling” (Hom. 1 Cor. 30.5 [PG 61.256]); his life was more pitiable than all others (Hom. Gen. 19.6 [PG 53.165]). 171.  Hom. 1 Cor. 7.4 (PG 61.60); Comm. Isa. 3.1 (SC 304.148); “his entire body was punished when he was handed over to continuous trembling and groaning” (Ep. Olymp. 11.2b [SC 13bis.312]). His paralysis teaches us that disease is the consequence of sin (Paralyt. 5 [PG 51.58]). 172.  Hom. Gen. 19.3 (PG 53.162); Paenit. 2.1 (PG 49.285). 173.  Hom. Gen. 19.3, 5 (PG 53.162, 165); Paenit. 2.1 (PG 49.286); Stag. 1.3 (PG 47.431); the same argument is made about the diaspora of the Jews (Exp. Ps. 8.3 [PG 55.110]). 174.  In illud: Vidi Dominum 4.6 (SC 277.170). 175. Ibid.; Hom. Gen. 19.3 (PG 53.162). It was also a warning against envy and hatred (ibid., 19.1, 6 [PG 53.159, 166]).

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practice of his own day, Chrysostom elaborates the metaphor. Like the emperor, God inscribed his proclamation on Cain’s body, making him into “a living edict” and “a walking monument.”176 In its wide diffusion and ready legibility, the divine decree was far superior to the engraved steles of the empire.177 A second message concerns the importance of timely confession. If Cain had freely admitted his fault when questioned by God, as David had done when confronted by Nathan, or Peter when he heard the crowing of the cock, he too would have erased his sin. But instead, he thought that he could hide his misdeed and denied his responsibility. His palsy thus conveys a stark lesson about the consequences of evasion and a strong exhortation to swift confession: “[T]hink carefully about the sin and say, ‘I have sinned.’”178 If, like Cain, we wait until the moment of judgment to express sorrow for our sins, it will be too late: penance is only efficacious if it comes before punishment is imposed. Both of these lessons understand Cain in primarily negative terms: “[H]e is an example of a man repugnant in God’s sight and cursed by sacred scripture.”179 His story illustrates the consequences of bad choices and worse actions. From a different vantage point, however, Chrysostom insists that the tale speaks of the mercy of God. He finds clear support for this reading in both God’s words and actions. Despite the fact that Cain slighted God by offering paltry gifts, God did not abandon him, but rather warned him clearly and directly: “You sinned. Calm down.”180 Even after Cain committed fratricide, God did not give up on him. He did not say: “Let him go now. What more can be done for him? He committed the murder; he killed his brother; he disregarded my advice; he dared to commit that incurable and unpardonable slaughter. Even though he had the benefit of so much extraordinary oversight, instruction, and counsel, he cast all of these from his mind and paid them no attention. Let him go, then, and be cast out forever. He 176.  [Ν]όμον ἔμψυχον . . . στήλην περιερχομένην (In illud: Vidi Dominum 4.6 [SC 277.170]; see also Hom. Gen. 19.5 [PG 53.165]; Adv. Jud. 8.2 [PG 48.930]). 177.  In illud: Vidi Dominum 4.5 (SC 277.170); Paenit. 2.1 (PG 49.286). For the same reason, God settled Cain in Nod, which Chrysostom translates as “shaking,” “so that he might have a constant accusation from the place itself, just as if it were engraved on a bronze stele” (Hom. Gen. 20.1 [PG 53.167]). 178.  Hom. Gen. 19.3 (PG 53.162–63); Paenit. 2.1–2 (PG 49.285–87); Adv. Jud. 8.3 (PG 48.931). It is upon this message that Foucault focuses in an appendix to the fourth volume of The History of Sexuality. He argues that, for Chrysostom, Cain is a figure of disavowed confession: he refuses to acknowledge not only his crime against Abel but also his obligation to speak truth to God; and it is more for the latter than for the former that he is punished (Les aveux de la chair, 396–403). Although the work as a whole was unfinished at the time of Foucault’s death, the analysis of Cain derives from “some notes in separate folders that were physically placed in the manuscript” (ibid., ix–x). My thanks to Chris de Wet who drew my attention to this text. 179.  [Ὡ]ς βδελυκτὸς παρὰ τῷ Θεῷ καὶ κατηραμένος ὑπὸ τῆς θείας Γραφῆς παραδειγματίζεται (Hom. Gen. 19.6 [PG 53.165]). 180.  Ἥμαρτες, ἡσύχασον (Adv. Iud. 8.2 [PG 48.929]; Stag.1.3 [PG 47.430]; Scand. 8.2 [SC 79.132–34]).

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is not worthy of my concern.”181 Instead of writing him off, God again approached and corrected him by asking, “Where is your brother Abel?”182 Even when Cain denied any knowledge of what had become of his sibling, God still did not desert him but little by little brought him to admit what he had done. The punishment laid on Cain also “gives a glimpse of God’s great solicitude.” Not only did it lighten his postmortem suffering, but it made him a better man: “his trembling, his fear, the mental torment which never left him, his physical paralysis” kept him from ever daring to commit a similar crime, and, by reminding him of what he had done, helped him achieve greater self-­control.183 The fact that he was protected from hostile attack also shows God’s active concern for the well-­being of others. For these measures ensured that Cain would continue to serve as an object lesson.184 It was with this same intent, as we have already observed, that God rained fire and brimstone upon Sodom and branded Uzziah on the forehead. Visibility was the point. And to this same end, God saw to it that their stories were recorded in scripture “so that in the future none of us would be able to take refuge in ignorance.”185 The rich person, shuddering in dread that his talents might be taken away, can learn from this story; so too can the one in love with earthly life, who trembles at every death, fearing his own demise. Listening to the tale, each can recognize that “he lives a life more wretched than Cain himself.”186 In a similar manner, the adulterer, even if no one discovers his sin, 181.  Adv. Jud. 8.2 (PG 48.930). 182.  God asks this question—­not out of ignorance—­but for the same reason that he had asked Cain why he was annoyed when his gift was rejected and, indeed, had asked Adam about his location, namely, as an invitation to confession (Hom. Gen. 19.2, 18.6 [PG 53.160–61, 156]). 183.  Adv. Jud. 8.2 (PG 48.930); Stag. 1.3, 4 (PG 47.431, 434); Diab. 1.3 (PG 49.248–49). This is typical of the punishments of God: they are inflicted not out of anger or vengeance, but out of loving concern (Theod. laps. 4 [SC 117.96]). Unlike earthly judges, God considers “not how he may make [the sinner] pay the penalty, but how he may amend him and make him better” (Stat. 7.4 [PG 49.96]). God “contrived the kind of punishment which could set Cain free from his sin” (Adv. Jud. 8.2 [PG 48.930]). And it was effective: by the long passage of time, Cain’s punishment cleansed him from the sin he had committed (Exp. Ps. 144.3 [PG 55.468]). 184.  The sight of Cain’s trembling body served as a lesson to everyone he met (Hom. Gen. 20.1 [PG 53.166–67]; Adv. Jud. 8.2 [PG 48.930]; Paenit. 2.1 [PG 49.286]; Exp. Ps. 144.3 [PG 55.468]; Stag. 1.3 [PG 47.431]). 185.  Hom. Gen. 18.8 (PG 53.158). It was in order to ensure their wide diffusion that God caused ­stories to be recorded in scripture, “as though engraved on a bronze column” (καθάπερ ἐν στήλῃ χαλκῇ) (Stat. 1.2 [PG 49.18]; see also, Hom. Jo. 10.1 [PG 59.74]; In illud: In faciem ei restiti [PG 51.374]; Hom. 2 Cor. 18.3 [PG 61.528]). Names of people and places function in a similar manner; for an example of each, see Hom. Gen. 39.3, 47.4 (PG 53.365, 433). 186.  “From every direction, many kinds of fear and anguish and trembling afflict them [i.e., the rich]” (Hom. 1 Cor. 30.5 [PG 61.256]; Hom. 2 Cor. 7.5 [PG 61.449–50]); this is especially true if they have seized the goods of others (Hom. Phil. 8.1 [PG 62.229]). The story of Cain proves that no amount of money can make up for a bad conscience (Comm. Prov. 3.24 [Bady, “Commentaire,”]. For the fear

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experiences the misery of Cain. Condemned by his own conscience, he goes in constant dread: “[H]e fears the narrow alleys and trembles even at shadows.” He is alarmed by his own slaves, who know what he has done, and apprehensive of those who know nothing; he is uneasy about the woman he wronged and afraid of the husband he insulted. Like Cain, he knows no rest: “[N]ot for a moment can he exhale. In bed, at table, in the marketplace, at home, by day, by night—­even in his very dreams—­he sees the image of his sin.”187 Another set of messages, elaborated by Chrysostom, presents Cain not as an example of what we should avoid but as a figure with whom we should actively identify. In his treatise on child-­rearing, Chrysostom stresses the father’s obligation to make Cain’s experience not only clear, but also accessible to his son. “And so [God] took the one [Abel] up to heaven immediately, but the other, the murderer, lived for many years in unceasing misery; living in a state of fear and trembling (phobō kai tromō), he suffered ten thousand terrible things and was punished every day.” Lay stress on the punishment: do not simply say, “He heard from God, ‘Groaning and trembling you will be on the earth.’” For the young boy does not yet know what this means, but tell him, “Just as you, when you are standing before your teacher, in agony over whether you are about to be whipped, you tremble and are afraid, just so did this man live all his days, because he had offended God.”188

Initially, one might suppose that encouraging the boy’s identification through analogy is simply a way of conveying the terror in which Cain lived, a means of translating adult experience into terms appropriate to a child’s understanding. But as one reads on, it becomes clear that Chrysostom’s goal is rather that the child should adopt this same fear. Once a boy absorbs the point that nothing is hidden from God, Chrysostom promises, “he will not need a pedagogue, since this fear, this total fear that comes from God, has taken charge of the child and shakes his soul.”189 The appeal to the figure of the tutor suggests that it is the inhibitory aspect of fear that John has in mind: that instead of being restrained by an external agent, an internalized fear will hold the boy back from doing that which he should not do. Other passages from this child-­rearing manual suggest

endured by the “lovers of earthly life” (φιλοσωμάτων), see Hom. Matt. 38.4 (PG 57.434); Hom. Phil. 5.1 (PG 62.205). 187.  Laz. 1.11 (PG 48.979); Hom. Rom. 12.7 (PG 60.504); on the perpetual fear of an adulterer, see also Exp. Ps. 7.16, 112.1 (PG 55.105, 292); In illud: Vidi Dominum 3.3 (SC 277.120). An awareness of sin “makes the sinner a timid being that trembles at any sound” (Stat. 8.2 [PG 49.99]). 188.  Inan. glor. 39.545–54 (SC 188.136). 189.  Inan. glor. 40.566–68 (SC 188.138). Chrysostom succinctly expresses his confidence in the power of stories: “For if some fictive story (μῦθος) can so seize their [i.e., children’s] soul as to seem entirely believable, how would things that are actually true not seize and fill it with great fear?” (Inan. glor. 44.615–17 [SC 188.142]; see also ibid., 39.537–45 [SC 188.134–36]).

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this same goal.190 We encounter it also in his praise of David, who, instead of putting to death the man who had caused him so much suffering, chose virtuously “to live in fear and trembling.”191 Chrysostom’s confidence in the outcome of this program is striking and can be clarified by returning to his remarks on the superiority of threats over corporal punishment. Precisely because they prolong fear indefinitely, threats are more effective than actual blows. The child should come to expect punishment, but not receive it, “so that his fear may not be quenched but may endure, like a raging fire that consumes the brushwood on every side, or like a strong and sharp mattock that strikes to the very depth.”192 This internalized fear looks remarkably like that of Cain. Once a child has identified fully with this feeling, he will be changed by it. It will certainly moderate his behavior, but it will also do more. It will strengthen and make real the doctrine of God the judge and inscribe the final reckoning firmly on the horizon. Living in its shadow, he will know that as a father guides his children, “so God controls the world through fear of hell and the promise of the kingdom.”193 In his homilies, preached to diverse congregations, Chrysostom makes clear that adult listeners might also profitably internalize the fear that seized Cain. Indeed, upon reflection, they have further grounds for apprehension. For unlike Cain, who did not have the advantage of cautionary tales and thus perhaps deserved some mitigation of his punishment, Chrysostom’s congregation has no such excuse.194 For if that man—­I am speaking of Cain—­was not in a position to find anyone living before him who did anything of that kind, and yet was subjected to that severe and unbearable punishment, . . . what is it likely that we will suffer—­we who have committed those same sins and even worse ones despite having received such an 190.  The characteristic work of the pedagogue is mentioned in Inan. glor. 56.735–37, 597.46–47 (SC 188.154–56). As the child grows older and feels the first stirrings of sexual desire, he should be told “more frightening stories” (φοβερώτερα διηγήματα), such as the account of the flood, the destruction of Sodom, and the sufferings of hell (Inan. glor. 52.695–703, 58.742–45, 76.921–23 [SC 188.150, 156, 178]). These tales are effective, presumably, because they directly address the consequences of sexual sin. 191.  In illud: Si esurierit inimicus 7 (PG 51.185). It is quite possible that John is here thinking equally of Paul’s injunction: “With fear and trembling, work out your own salvation” (Phil 2:12). 192.  Inan. glor. 30.420–23 (SC 188.122). When the father sees that the child has profited from this fear, he should relent, “seeing that our nature needs some relief.” In a similar way, Chrysostom claims that God made the accusations of our conscience continual (so that we might not lapse into carelessness) but not continuous (so that we might have periods of relief) (Laz. 4.5 [PG 48.1013]). 193. Οὕτω γὰρ καὶ ὁ Θεὸς τὴν οἰκουμένην διοικεῖ τῷ φόβῳ τῆς γεέννης καὶ τῇ τῆς βασιλείας ἐπαγγελίᾳ (Inan. glor. 67.810–11 [SC 188.166]); a point repeated later in conjunction with Prv 1:7, “The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom” (ibid., 85–87.1029–39 [SC 188.192]). 194.  Lamech received a greater punishment for committing murder, since he had Cain’s crime “before his eyes” (Hom. Gen. 20.2 [PG 53.169]).

Fear    149 abundance of grace? Will it not certainly be everlasting fire, the undying worm, gnashing of teeth, exterior darkness, the fires of hell, and all those other inescapable punishments awaiting us? . . . For surely we all know what we should do, and the kind of things we should not do.195

Because they have heard Cain’s story, and heard it not once, but many times, Christians cannot suppose that they can hide their sins from God and escape judgment. They have heard the threats; they know the penalties.196 They too should be living all their days in fear and trembling. The language is harsh, but Chrysostom’s goal is pastoral. He is convinced that if his listeners can internalize the same dread that Cain learned only belatedly, they can avoid condemnation. This fear, by acting as a bridle for sin and a goad to confession, will promote virtuous behavior and thus build confidence. Above all, it will install the certainty of judgment in their minds, and this belief will lead, in turn, to a reassessment of their current situation. They will know that only sin is fearful, that nothing else has size. And they will remember the future, which is near. If they enjoy a carefree life, despite committing serious sins, they will not feel confident and secure, but will rather tremble with dread; for if they escape punishment here, they know that they will be condemned in the next life, where the suffering will be far worse.197 Living in this fear proves that one believes in the gravity of sin and the certainty of judgment. It shows, in fact, that one is a Christian.

195.  Hom Gen. 18.8 (PG 53.158) 196.  God deliberately terrorizes the minds of his listeners with threatening images. For this reason, scripture says, “He has strung his bow, and prepared it,” not that “He fired it,” and John the Baptist announced, “Even now the axe is lying at the root of the trees,” and “the winnowing fan is in his hand” (Exp. Ps. 7.11 [PG 55.98]). “There is nothing that strikes and presses us so readily as the expectation of evil” (Hom. Rom. 12.7 [PG 60.503]). For a vivid compilation of scriptural texts describing the terrors of the judgment, see Oppugn. 3.1–2 (PG 47.349–50). 197.  Virginit. 24.1 (SC 125.168–72). Some are punished only here, others both here and hereafter, yet others only hereafter. It is the last of these three groups that suffers most (Laz. 3.4–5 [PG 48.996–99]).

4

Chrysostom’s Goal Stimulating Zeal

In the preceding chapters, we have seen how carefully and perceptively John Chrysostom analyzes emotional triggers, traces outcomes, and offers corrective strategies. Frequently, his goal is to diminish or redirect emotional responses, as when he offers strategies for quelling violent anger or checking excessive grief. But just as often, he is intent on deliberately provoking feeling. This is true even with anger, but it becomes more marked as we turn to grief, and especially to fear. This encouragement of strong, and often painful emotions is a key feature of his ethical program and, as such, demands focused attention. Its purpose becomes clear in light of his overarching goal, which is, above all, to motivate. His preaching is designed to arouse concern and stimulate enthusiasm; and in order to achieve these ends, he is prepared to disturb and upset his listeners. To appreciate why zeal is of such paramount importance, we must first grasp Chrysostom’s understanding of basic human nature and, in particular, its besetting weakness. R HAT H YM IA

For Chrysostom, the fundamental sin afflicting all humanity is rhathymia.1 Usually translated idiomatically, if somewhat weakly, as “indifference,” this term expresses a fundamental slackness of will or general carelessness that dampens 1.  Various scholars have noted the importance of this concept, but none to date have offered a comprehensive study. See Hill, “Chrysostom as Old Testament Commentator,” 74–75; Reading the Old Testament, 180; and Eight Sermons, 18. Laird, Mindset, 42n60. Straw, “Chrysostom’s Martyrs,” esp. 522–24.

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arousal and inhibits initiative. Words like lethargy, sloth, or even torpor capture this sense and explain why it often occurs in conjunction with laziness (nōtheia) and slackness (blakeia). But rhathymia has another side. It also describes the disinclination to resist customary action or to change habitual behavior: an aspect that seems better expressed by acquiescence, heedlessness, or even inertia. Both of these aspects are crucial to Chrysostom’s analysis and explain the ubiquity of this term in his preaching. Rhathymia occurs at every step of his retelling of the Fall, where it is not so much the consequence of the first sin as its enabling disposition. When the serpent first spoke to the woman, it was rhathymia that prevented her from rejecting him at the outset. Had she immediately resisted his invitation to listen and to talk, the devil would not have been able to misrepresent the Creator. But instead of turning away from his words, she acceded to his design and fell into easy conversation. Once established, the pattern was quickly repeated. To his subsequent insinuation that it was out of jealousy that God had commanded them not to eat of any tree in the garden, she should have vigorously retorted: “Get lost! You are a cheat! You do not know the force of the commandment given to us, or the greatness of our enjoyment, or the abundance of our good fortune. For you said that God told us to eat from no tree; but the Lord and Creator, out of his great goodness, gave them all to us to use and enjoy, and ordered us to abstain from only one—­this one—­on account once again of his great solicitude for us, lest we eat from it and die.”2 But instead of rejecting his words, she heedlessly spilled “the whole secret of the Lord’s direction.” This negligence allowed the serpent to tempt her with dreams of equality with God; and swayed by his words, she ate the fruit and gave some to her companion. Adam, for his part, was also guilty of “great indifference.” As soon as the fruit was placed in his hand, he put it into his mouth. He did not resist, question, or even pause to reflect, although he too had heard God’s command not to eat the fruit. The command was, moreover, very easy to keep: just like the woman, he had experienced firsthand the bounty of life in the garden. His ready acquiescence can only be explained by a disregard so deep that it verged on contempt. The preacher concludes: “It was not the tree that introduced evil, but careless choice.”3 Exile from the easy life and the imposition of labor was thus an appropriate remedial response.4 2.  Hom. Gen. 16.3 (PG 53.128). Even the devil, who was created good, became wicked through laziness (Paenit. 1.2 [PG 49.279]). 3.  [Ἡ] προαίρεσις ἡ ῥᾴθυμος (Hom. Gen. 16.6 [PG 53.134]); “Flee the emulation of Adam (τὸν τοῦ Ἀδὰμ ζῆλον), seeing how many evils come from indolence” (Diab. 2.5 [SC 560.188]; Serm. Gen. 4.1, 8.2 [SC 433.220, 360]). 4.  Hom. Jo. 36.2 (PG 59.205–06); Diab. 1.3 (PG 49.248–50).

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As John works his way through the book of Genesis, he consistently locates rhathymia as the root cause of sin. Had it not been for heedlessness, Cain would not have murdered Abel. In making this assertion, Chrysostom does not deny that Cain was motivated by envious anger, which was in turn enabled by a lack of fear. He focuses instead on the prior question of why God did not look favorably on the elder brother’s cereal offerings. The reason lies in the disposition of the giver.5 Abel’s sacrifice was pleasing precisely because the younger man had chosen his offering with earnest care, selecting only the fattest of the firstborn of his flock. John finds support for this reading in the fact that scripture calls Abel’s offering a gift, thereby suggesting that the animals were not only precious, but also of choice quality, and free of any imperfection.6 In Cain’s case, however, “nothing of the kind is suggested; rather, [it is written] that he brought ‘an offering of the fruits of the earth,’ as if to say, whatever came to hand, without any show of eagerness (spoudēn) or concern (akribeian).”7 Such inattention to the selection of his gift suggests a willful disregard for the recipient. The fact that God ignored such an offering was completely understandable and entirely Cain’s fault. And having begun so slackly, Cain continued carelessly. At any time, he could have aroused himself, caught hold of things, and prevented the tragedy, but he made no effort. Instead, at each step, he said to himself, “This matters nothing.”8 The danger of indifference was also one of the main messages of the destruction of the Cities of the Plain. Chrysostom derives this moral not from the unruly actions of the citizens of Sodom, but rather from the contrasting reactions of Lot and his wife. For whereas Lot acted admirably, with eager hospitality, inviting the angelic visitors into his house and heeding their warning to flee without a backward glance, his wife responded culpably with slack indifference. Like the first woman in the garden, she too disregarded an explicit heavenly command. Despite the clear injunction of the angels, she looked back, and “paid the penalty for her indifference.”9 The pillar of salt into which she turned thus stands as a concrete example of the dangers of rhathymia. And it is this function that makes the sight worth visiting. John urges his listeners to go and see the remains for themselves, and promises that they will benefit from its strong message.10 5.  This solution to the textual puzzle is not unique to Chrysostom; he follows a dominant interpretation in both Jewish and Christian sources. For a survey of these positions, see Glenthøj, Cain and Abel, 80–83. 6.  Hom. Gen. 18.5 (PG 53.155). 7.  [Ὡ]ς ἂν εἴποι τις, τὰ τυχόντα, οὐδεμίαν σπουδὴν οὐδὲ ἀκρίβειαν ἐπιδειξάμενος (Hom. Gen. 18.5 [PG 53.155]); cf. Stag. 1.4 (PG 47.434). 8.  Οὐδὲν παρὰ τοῦτο (Hom. Rom. 12.8 [PG 60.505]; see also Hom. Matt. 86.3 [PG 58.767]). 9.  Hom. Gen. 43.5 (PG 54.405); see also ibid., 44.1 (PG 54.407). For further analysis of this episode, see my “Lot’s Wife,” 62–63. 10.  Hom. Gen. 42.5 (PG 54.392).

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In his New Testament homilies, Chrysostom continues to rely on the explanatory power of indifference. It provides the interpretive key for many of the parables. It explains why the rich man didn’t even see the poor man, Lazarus, lying at his gate, and why the seed that falls by the wayside remains unfruitful.11 It clarifies obscure sayings, such as why Jesus commanded his followers to “Enter by the narrow gate”: “He called it narrow, not because it happens to be narrow by nature, but because our mindset, which generally inclines to laziness (rhathymian), thinks that it is narrow. Nor did he call it narrow in order to turn us away, but in order that we, understanding each from its end, might shun the width of the other and choose this one instead.”12 Emphasizing the difficulty of passage was therapeutic; it was designed to correct ingrained indolence. The tendency to heedlessness also explains troubling events in the life of Jesus, such as his betrayal by one of his own closest followers. Judas wanted the money, to be sure, but his avarice was itself a result of lethargy.13 For despite accompanying Jesus “every day” and receiving the benefit of his instruction by word and example, he had learned nothing. Clearly, he had made no effort to shake off his covetousness. Thus he became a traitor. Indifference is also the reason why not everyone who saw the sun darkened at the time of Jesus’s crucifixion was converted. If they had bestirred themselves and inquired into the matter, they would have realized that the darkness was a miraculous event and not the result of a solar eclipse. For an eclipse comes and goes in a few minutes, “as they know who have seen it,” but this darkness lasted for three hours.14 Laziness kept them from belief. The lamentable consequences of indolence were not limited to biblical times but continued to wreak havoc in Chrysostom’s own day. Heedlessness explains why parents neglect to correct their children, why people fail to come, or to return to church, and why clergy betray their calling.15 It accounts for why people find obeying the commandments difficult, and pursuing virtue laborious, and why they turn so readily to blasphemy.16 And it provides both the proximate and 11.  Hom. Matt. 44.3 (PG 57.468); Sac. 6.4.9–13 (SC 272.314). Virtue is the result of earnestness (Hom. Matt. 59.2–3 [PG 58.576]; Laz. 7.4 [PG 48.1051]). 12.  Laz. 7.2 (PG 48.1048). 13.  From indolence, avarice “is born . . . from there it grows” (Hom. Matt. 85.3 [PG 58.728]). Jesus’s efforts to break through Judas’s rhathymia were unrelenting (Laz. 1.4–5 [PG 48.968–69]). 14.  Hom. Matt. 88.1 (PG 58.775). 15.  It is the reason fathers do not correct their children (Hom. Matt. 49.6, 86.3 [PG 58.503–4, 767]), why people fail to come to church (Lucian. 1 [PG 50.521]; Phoc. 1. [PG 50.699]), and why clergy stumble (Sac. 3.10.201–5; 4.1.69–74 and 164–67, 4.8.21–22, 6.8.22–35, 6.13.58–62 [SC 272.180, 230, 238, 276, 330–32, 360]). It can be increased by bad decisions: from priests entering into business matters “comes much carelessness (ἀμέλεια πολλὴ) about scripture, slackness in prayers (εὐχῶν ῥᾳθυμία), and disregard (ὀλιγωρία) of all other [spiritual] things” (Hom. Matt. 85. [PG 58.764]). 16.  “It is not the nature of the commandments that makes them seem difficult, but rather the laziness (ῥᾳθυμία) of the majority” (Exp. ps. 111.1 [PG 55.291]). See also Hom. 2 Cor. 10.4 (PG 61.472);

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remote cause of the riots that troubled Antioch in the spring of 387.17 For if citizens had made an effort to restrain the violence of the few initial rioters, the entire disastrous train of events would have been avoided. If they had not shown such entrenched indolence in the first place, God would not have been moved to send the calamity upon them as a form of divine correction.18 From this diagnosis, the remedy becomes obvious. What is needed is resolve and concerted effort, and it is this that God requires of us. As Chrysostom observes: “When we wish to attain something, we must also contribute something from our own resources (for this is the way God wants it); small and paltry though it is, we must nevertheless contribute it, not lying around idle, sleeping and snoring, not reclining on a couch, but active and eager for our salvation.”19 But if focus and drive are key to shaking off indifference, how can they be stimulated? How can Chrysostom make the careless care? His solution is twofold. On one hand, he actively cultivates desire. On the other, he deliberately provokes uncomfortable emotions. And if the ­former strategy expresses his highest aspiration, it is to the latter that he turns most often. A R OU SI N G AV E R SIO N

Chrysostom, as we have seen, was well aware of the invigorating properties of anger, sadness, and fear and for this reason was prepared to cultivate them, at least in certain situations. In so doing, he understood himself to be following the example of Jesus, who not only soothed, but also deliberately aroused the emotions of others: “Being soothing and gentle is not always helpful; but there comes a time when a teacher needs to be somewhat offensive. When a student is sluggish (nōthēs) and dense (pachys), it is necessary to use a goad on him to get through his great sluggishness. This even the Son of God did from time to time.”20 Even at the Last Supper, Jesus was still trying to deflect Judas from his plans by alternately Hom. Jo. 36.2 (PG 59.205–6); Hom. Matt. 42.4, 59.2–3 (PG 57.456, 58.576–78). For indifference leading to blasphemy, see Laz. 3.7–8 (PG 48.1002). 17.  Stat. 5.3, 15.1 (PG 49.73, 154–55). Both Chrysostom and Libanius insist that the riot was fomented by strangers (Stat. 2.2, 3.1, 6.1 [PG 49.38, 48, 81]; Libanius, Or. 19.36). For the sequence of events, see van de Paverd, Homilies on the Statues, 19–160. 18.  Stat. 1.12, 2.4, 3.7 (PG 49.34, 38, 57). For an analysis of rhathymia in this context, see, Brottier, “Jeu de mots intraduisible.” 19.  Exp. Ps. 12.1 (PG 55.345). “The contests are made easy, so that you may conquer by striving, not so that you may sleep and use the magnitude of grace as an excuse for laziness” (Hom. Rom. 13.7 [PG 60.517]). See also Exp. Ps. 6.4 (PG 55.76). 20.  Hom. Jo. 44.1 (PG 59.247). For a discussion of mixed pedagogical approaches see Rylaarsdam, John Chrysostom, 79–80.

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rebuking, threatening, and mourning over him.21 A conscientious preacher has to be willing to act in the same way. Sometimes, he has to cause his listeners distress and annoyance. Like a skilled artisan who knows how to use a hammer or sledge to straighten what is dented or deformed, he has to know when to make his words “heavy” in order to correct faults.22 Like an experienced surgeon in a world before anesthesia, he has to have trained himself to ignore the shrieks and protests of his patients. In order to cure them, pain is inevitable: “I cut, you scream—­but I am not afraid of your outcry: I desire your salvation.”23 Fear was especially motivational because of its ability to deliver a raw jolt to the system, to trigger the so-­called fight or flight response.24 As a result of this surge of autonomic activity, heart rate increases and breathing quickens; stress hormones, like adrenaline and cortisol, are released and blood rushes to supply the major muscle groups.25 The emotion produces, in fact, Chrysostom’s ideal disposition of concentrated attention, eager concern (spoudē) and zeal (prothymia).26 It was to arouse this reaction that Jesus behaved as he did during the storm at sea. He allowed the waves to swamp the boat precisely so that his disciples would feel afraid, and he exacerbated their alarm by deliberately falling asleep. If he had been awake, Chrysostom reasons, the disciples would have trusted that he would protect them. He slept “to give occasion for their cowardice and to make their perception of what was happening more distinct.”27 For if they had not feared for their own safety, they would never have truly understood Jesus’s ability to perform miracles. Simply hearing about them from others would not have had the same effect, since “no one looks with the same eyes on what happens in the bodies of others, as in his own.” To understand his power, they had to experience it for themselves; and to do so, they first had to feel imperiled. From the ambo, Chrysostom follows a similar program. When intent on stimulating zeal, he often deliberately cultivates fear.28 Many of his more lurid d ­ escriptions 21.  Hom. Matt. 80.3 (PG 58.727). 22.  Hom. Phil. 7.6 (PG 62.227–28); Sac. 5.3 (SC 272.286). 23.  Ἐγὼ τέμνω, σὺ κράζεις· ἀλλ’ οὐ φοβοῦμαί σου τὴν φωνὴν, ποθῶ δέ σου τὴν σωτηρίαν·ἰατρὸς γάρ εἰμι (In illud: Ne timueritis 1.4 [PG 55.505]); “my words are stinging medicine” (ibid., 1.6 [PG 55.508]); his severity is tempered by love (Laz. 7.2 [PG 48.1046]). Talking about pleasant things does not help the soul, whereas discussing “painful and distressing things . . . reforms and braces it” (Hom. 2 Thess. 2.3 [PG 62.476–77]). 24. Miller, Mystery of Courage, 86. See also ch. 3. 25.  Öhman, “Fear and Anxiety,” 709–29. 26.  “There is nothing, there is absolutely nothing more powerful than the person who has the fear of God rooted in them with much enthusiasm” (σπουδῆς) (Dros. 4 [PG 50.688]; see also Laz. 6.1. [PG 48.1027]). Meyer, Saint Jean Chrysostome, 132–40. 27.  Hom. Matt. 28.1 (PG 57.351). 28.  He follows the precedent established by the author of scripture, who intentionally increased fear by amplifying the description of the flood (Hom. Gen. 25.5 [PG 53.226]).

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of the sufferings of hell should be understood as part of an ongoing effort to break through the indifference of his listeners. Closely allied to this project, but conceptually distinct, is the arousal of two other related feeling states: awe and shame. Awe As Chrysostom looked out over his congregation, the problem was patent. Many appeared half asleep; others were chatting or even joking with one another: all gave evidence of “great indifference and sluggishness.”29 To get them to care, he had to shake them awake. To this end, he presents the liturgy in startling terms: “The Mystical Table has been prepared; the Lamb of God is being sacrificed for you; the priest is exerting himself on your behalf; spiritual fire is pouring forth from the undefiled table; cherubim are standing by and seraphim are flying; the six-­winged creatures are covering their faces; all the bodiless powers together with the priest are interceding on your behalf; spiritual fire is descending; blood from the immaculate side is pouring into the cup (en tō kratēri) for your purification.”30 The events as he describes them have a fearsome aspect—­they have proximity and size—­but the danger is diffuse and implicit rather than pointed and pressing.31 They convey less a sense of threat than an impression of vastness and power that because of its excessive nature, demands mental adjustment. These features, as Keltner and Haidt have argued, are the essential components of awe: a feeling that, in the ancient world, was typically expressed by shudders (phrikē).32 29.  Hom. Gen. 50.2 (PG 54.450–51); Hom. Act. 24.4 (PG 60.190–91); his listeners are too easily distracted (Serm. Gen. 4.3 [SC 433.240]). For conversation during the liturgy, see also Hom. 2 Cor. 2.8 (PG 61.404); Anom. 4.344–49 (SC 28bis.256); Hom. Matt. 88.4 (PG 58.780–81). For slackness in prayer, see also Pecc. 10 (PG 51.362); Bapt. 4 (PG 49.370). For services used as an opportunity to ogle women and boys, see Hom. Matt. 73.3 (PG 58.676–77). Additional evidence comes from a homily, classified among the spuria, but still containing authentically Chrysostomic sentiments: “Your lips move, but your ears are not listening . . . your knees are bent, but your minds are wandering around outside; your body is inside the church, but your mindset outside; your mouth recites the prayer, but your brain calculates interest, pledges, contracts, acreage, goods, get-­togethers with friends” (Hom. de Chananaea 10 [PG 52.458]). 30.  Paenit. 9.1 (PG 49.345). For a similar description, see Sac. 6.4.41–44, 3.4.32–45 (SC 272.316, 144–46); Hom. Heb. 15.4 (PG 63.122); Catech. jur. 2.1 (SC 366.168–70); Natal. 6 (PG 49.360–62). The description of seraphim covering their faces is derived from Isaiah 6:2 (Serm. Gen. 2.1 [SC 433.190]). For the place of the Sanctus in early Christian liturgy, see Gerhards, “Crossing Borders.” For Chrysostom’s evocation of awe as a way to build and sustain community, see Papadogiannakis, “Prescribing Emotions,” esp. 345–51. 31.  Elsewhere, he makes the threat more explicit: “Who, other than a mad person or someone out of his mind, could despise this most awe-­inspiring (φρικωδεστάτης) rite? Or are you unaware that no human soul could endure that sacrificial fire, but if it were not for the great help of God’s grace, everyone would be completely obliterated?” (Sac. 3.4.45–50 [SC 272.146]). 32.  Keltner and Haidt, “Approaching Awe.” For more recent developments in the study of awe, especially the distinction between threat–based and more positive types of awe, see Allen, “The Science of Awe,” 85–107.

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To heighten this reaction, Chrysostom asks a series of pointed questions. How, in the face of these awe-­inspiring events, can his listeners not feel fear? Why are they not afraid of being exposed as liars, given the fact that to the priest’s bidding to lift up their minds and hearts, they have already replied affirmatively, “We lift them up to the Lord”? To cement the point, he turns again to an analogy based on imperial protocol. If those who enter the presence of the emperor in order to lodge a petition stand “motionless, silent, and steadfast, and do not turn their eyes here and there,” although he is only a “visible, perishable, temporary, and earthly” ruler, what should be their demeanor when they come before God to ask for forgiveness? Certainly not slackness or laughter.33 The likely repercussions of any lapse in decorum needed no elaboration, and Chrysostom gives none. Everyone knew what behavior was required of subordinates in the presence of a powerful leader and what might occur if these expectations were violated.34 By evoking this familiar response to social dominance, Chrysostom makes palpable the grandeur of God and with it, the necessity of a watchful and vigilant demeanor. Visualization is central to his efforts. For although sounds can elicit awe, it is triggered far more effectively by sight, as Chrysostom seems to have known:35 Fearful and most awe-­inspiring (phobera men gar kai phrikōdestata) were the things before the time of grace—­such as the bells, the pomegranates, the stones on the breastplate and on the ephod, the mitre, the diadem, the full-­length tunic, the plate of gold, the holy of holies and the deep silence within—­but if anyone examines carefully the things of grace, he will find that those fearful and most awe-­inspiring things are insignificant. . . . For when you see the Lord sacrificed and lying outstretched, and the priest standing over the victim and praying, and everyone reddened with that 33.  Paenit. 9.1 (PG 49.345); Hom. Heb. 15.4 (PG 63.122); Hom. 1 Cor. 36.5 (PG 61.313); Virginit. 32.1 (SC 125.194). A similar argument recurs in connection with the liturgy of the word: given that everyone stands in perfect silence during the reading of imperial letters, how can anyone dare to discuss business matters, when “prophets are chanting, apostles are singing hymns, and God is talking?” (Hom. Matt. 19.8 [PG 57.285]). By means of the same analogy, Chrysostom censures those who pray too loudly (ibid., 19.3 [PG 57.277]). For the preacher’s hostility to laughter, see Mesick, “Perils and Virtues of Laughter.” Shepardson argues that this concern over lax behavior is motivated by a fear of demonic possession, which would in turn vitiate the holiness of the church (Controlling Contested Spaces, 118–26). 34.  Chrysostom often invokes awe to inhibit bad behavior. For its use in connection with oaths, see Stat. 7.5 (PG 49.96–97), Hom. Matt. 17.5 (PG 57.261). This use was traditional; see Cairns, “Short History,” 90. Konstan agrees on the connection between phobos and sebas, but maintains that the terms “seem to belong to a distinct semantic sphere” (Emotions, 153–54). 35.  Experiments designed to measure awe usually show participants images (Allen, “Science of Awe,” 26–37). For the importance of visualization in ancient awe, see Cairns, “A Short History,” esp. 88–96; and Chaniotis, “Empathy,” esp. 57–79. In classical thought, the shock of awe (ekplēxis) was also associated with music (Konstan, Emotions, 152).

158     Chrysostom’s Goal precious blood, how can you think that you are still among human beings, that you are still standing on the earth?36

The level of detail is striking, but perhaps also necessary. For despite the p ­ reacher’s asseverations, church services lacked the panoply of the ancient temple rites, and the sight of Eucharistic consecration was an ordinary one.37 In order to elicit the characteristic shudder of awe, attendant numinous events had to be conjured and made to feel real.38 To this end, he populates the sanctuary with the rush of wings and the presence of many-­eyed powers, and amplifies the danger of receiving the consecrated elements carelessly. For this, he insists, is the meaning of the deacon’s cry, “Holy things for the holy.” It is a warning, delivered precisely so that no one can subsequently claim, “I didn’t know; I didn’t realize that danger attends the matter.” All must approach “the royal table” cautiously, having made sure ahead of time that they are suitably attired: that their souls are “adorned with gold, clad in a spotless robe, shod with royal shoes, and belted with the golden sash of truth.”39 To awaken the shiver of awe, imagination is crucial. The mental adjustment intrinsic to awe, while often disorienting and somewhat threatening, can also produce feelings of wonder and enlightenment—­an effect that explains why this kind of fear includes a vibrant streak of pleasure, and clarifies why Chrysostom assumes that all beings, even the blameless angels, feel fear in the presence of God.40 Encircling the altar, they bow their heads, “as you would

36.  Sac. 3.4 (SC 272.142–44). 37.  Chrysostom admits that unbelievers, like children, “will laugh, if they are brought into the mysteries” (Hom. Matt. 54.5 [PG 58.538]). The rituals of the Jews, as Wilken observed, were far more visually arresting (John Chrysostom and the Jews, 66–94). 38.  Hom. 1 Cor. 36.5 (PG 61.313); God “gives himself to those who wish to enfold and embrace him, and all of them do so then, by means of their eyes” (Sac. 3.4.27–29 [SC 272.144]). Georgia Frank has identified visualization strategies as the means by which fourth-­century preachers, Chrysostom among them, “reconciled conflicting sense impressions” (“Taste and See,” 621). 39.  Hom. Heb. 17.4–5 (PG 63.132–33), quotation on 133; Hom. Matt. 82.5 (PG 58.743–44). How, he wonders, do people who habitually use abusive language dare to taste the consecrated elements? Why do they not shudder at the idea of using mouths that spew filth to sing “Holy, Holy, Holy,” with the seraphim and cherubim? (Hom. Eph. 14.4 [PG 62.104–06]; see also Hom. Heb. 1.3–4 [PG 63.17]; De beato Philogonio 3–4 [PG 48.753–56]). 40.  Chrysostom ascribes this same feeling to his beloved friend, Olympias. Given her virtuous life, the prospect of divine judgment “cannot strike her with fear, except insofar as it strikes the angels” (Ep. Olymp. 8.3 [SC 13.559]). The pleasure of awe, David Schurtz et al. suggest, springs from the contrast between the initial appraisal that powerful others have the capacity to harm (which creates a reaction that is a blend of fear, surprise and defense), and the subsequent assessment that they will not do so if they encounter a submissive response (which creates an intense positive experience) (“Exploring the Social Aspects,” 206).

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see soldiers bowing in the presence of a king.”41 Gazing on the vastness and power of God, their reaction is one of submission and heightened attention: precisely the dispositional traits that Chrysostom desired to instill in his congregation. As Douglas Cairns notes, his rhetoric seems designed to “conjure up something of the experience of the emotion rather than merely labeling it.”42 As a means of solidifying social hierarchies, awe has obvious adaptive functions and raises the question of whether Chrysostom’s stress on the fearful nature of the liturgy was self-­interested. Did he magnify its numinous reality as a means of augmenting his own status as a priest?43 His writings provide ample evidence of his belief in the exalted nature of the sacerdotal office.44 Even his worries about the extraordinary purity required of those exercising such a role (“I do not think that even the confidence of a Moses or Elijah is adequate for this great intercession”) convey his understanding of the priest’s lofty status.45 But far more to the point was surely a concern with formation. In the same way that Chrysostom believed that being Christian meant living in fear of God’s judgment, so too he was convinced that it entailed an attitude of focused attention and heighted concern during the liturgy. To see the church as an ordinary building and the assembly as a time for relaxation—­for easy chatting or joking—­was tantamount to an admission that one was not really a believer. Thus we hear him insisting in his Discourses against Judaizing Christians that it is the churches, and not the synagogues, that are “truly frightening and filled with fear.”46 It was in the service of this pastoral program, 41.  This vision is attributed to an anonymous man (Sac. 6.4.45–56 [SC 272.316–18]). 42.  “Short History,” 97. Cairns notes that this language appears frequently “in Christian writers’ representations of Christian dogma and practice, especially the sacrament,” citing Chrysostom’s works, where the term φρικώδης and its cognates appear eighty-­four times (ibid., 100 n76). 43. Muehlberger, Angels, 192–202. 44.  Chrysostom’s sense of the exalted nature of the priestly calling is especially apparent in his early work On the Priesthood. The priesthood is instituted not by humans, angels, or archangels, but by the Paraclete himself (Sac. 3.4.1–8 [SC 272.142]). The priest is “an ambassador” (πρεσβεύοντα) of the whole inhabited world; his status is higher than that of the angels (ibid., 6.4, 3.1, 2.2 [SC 272.314, 138, 104–06]). At the same time, Chrysostom complains about a lack of respect and a pervasive climate of criticism (ibid., 2.7, 3.9, 3.11, 3.10, 3.12, 5.1, 5.5–8 [SC 272.132, 162–64, 188–200, 182–86, 204, 284, 290–304]). For arguments supporting the early date of this treatise, see Lochbrunner, Über das Priestertum, 110–17. Keltner and Haidt argue that the social function of awe may be its primordial form (“Approaching Awe,” 306–8). 45.  The priest must be as pure as if he were standing in heaven itself (Sac. 3.4, 6.4, 3.10, 3.14 [SC 272.142, 316, 172, 224]); his status and power are superior to those of Elijah, Levitical priests, kings, or parents (ibid., 3.4–6 [SC 272.142–156]). Elsewhere, Chrysostom can stress the equality of the priest and the people: they pray for each other, receive the same bread and cup, speak the same prayers, offer the same thanksgivings, and stand with the heavenly powers (Hom. 2 Cor. 18.3 [PG 61.527]). 46.  Adv. Jud. 1.4 (PG 48.848). An awareness of its awesome nature would also galvanize believers to pay attention to their lives (Hom. Rom. 8.8 [PG 60.465]).

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rather than of his own prestige, or even any of the disciplinary purposes of deportment discussed above, that he poured his energy into inculcating awe as a durable disposition.47 Shame Shame was another imaginative emotion with strongly stimulating properties. In Bernard Williams’s elegant summary, “the basic experience connected with shame is that of being seen, inappropriately, by the wrong people, in the wrong condition. It is straightforwardly connected with nakedness.”48 Aristotle also noted the central role of perception, and quoted Euripides approvingly that “Shame is in the eyes.”49 But in defining the emotion, Aristotle focuses less on simple exposure than on the loss of reputation. Shame is “a pain or disturbance concerning those ills, either present, past, or future, that are perceived to lead to disgrace.”50 Thus, not every exposure leads to shame, but only those that seem likely to diminish our reputation in the eyes of those we admire or by whom we wish to be admired.51 In order to feel shame we must imagine how our actions might appear in the eyes of others. Chrysostom understands the power of this emotion and often uses the language of nakedness to jolt people out of habitual behaviors. He uses it, for example, to shame the covetous. Like the demon-­possessed who tear off their clothes, they too are “naked with respect to virtue.” In fact, they are even less decent. For whereas the possessed confine their nakedness to deserted places, the covetous parade their shame in the middle of cities.52 They too cut themselves—­not with stones, but with the passions—­and attack others. But instead of biting and hurling rocks at passersby, they strip innocent people of their livelihood and rip their bellies apart with hunger.53 The imagery is strong, but in order to be effective, the cov47.  Francis Leduc also concluded that Chrysostom’s eschatological descriptions had a pedagogical purpose; despite his vivid rhetoric, he may not have actually believed that the end of the world was imminent (“Eschatologie,” 121). 48. Williams, Shame and Necessity, 77–79, 85, 89. See also Clark, “Sex, Shame, and Rhetoric,” esp. 228–30. 49.  Rhet. 2.6, 1384a34, citing a line from Euripides’ play Cresphontes (T.G.F. frag. 57). 50.  Rhet. 2.6, 1383b12–14; Konstan, Emotions, 98. 51.  Aristotle gives some examples. Throwing away one’s shield appears shameful because it is a sign of cowardice, or refusing to render financial assistance (when one could easily do so), because it is evidence of stinginess. These are faults that, when known, tarnish a person’s reputation. And because caring about one’s reputation involves caring about the people who hold opinions about us, it follows that we feel shame before those whom we esteem, or before those who might divulge our discreditable actions to those whom we admire or by whom we wish to be admired. 52.  Γυμνοὶ περιπατοῦσι κατὰ τὴν πόλιν· ἱμάτιον γὰρ αὐτοῖς οὐκ ἔστιν ἀρετῆς (Hom. Matt. 81.3–4 [PG 58.735], on 81.4). 53. Their behavior is worse in that they inflict wounds by “paper and ink” (διὰ χάρτου καὶ μέλανος), that is, presumably, by extortionary contracts or bills of sale (Hom. Matt. 81.3 [PG 58.735]).

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etous must accept the comparison. They must agree that their behavior would seem dishonorable to others they respect. But this seems not to have been the case. Instead, they felt supported in their choices and values by those who surrounded them. Just like people who feel no shame at walking around unclothed at the baths, since there everyone is naked, they are desensitized by their context. For them to perceive their nakedness and feel ashamed, Chrysostom must get them to envisage themselves among the fully clothed—­that is, those who live virtuous lives. This alternate audience is wholly imaginary, but the mechanism of shame is largely the same; it springs from caring about the presumed assessment of an authoritative gaze. If he can arouse this feeling, he will have opened the eye of their conscience: the interior and thus inescapable judge that God placed within each person.54 Such vigilance is always helpful, but it becomes truly indispensable when combatting avarice. For the love of money, Chrysostom notes, derives not from “natural” drives like anger or sexual desire, but solely from slackness and insensibility.55 Only effort and motivation can cure it—­and these, the shame of judgment can supply. Shame can also spur remedial action. For even when full of regret, people often recoil from penance. They do so precisely because it seems shameful to confess to wrongdoing, to expose their faults deliberately to the eyes of others. It appears more honorable—­as well as much more comfortable—­to temporize, to put it out of mind and do nothing. Against this kind of sluggishness, Chrysostom urges timely action. He offers reassurance. God is like a physician, to whom one can confess one’s deficiencies in private; self-­accusation does not increase their magnitude, but makes it lighter.56 But he is also prepared to provoke a greater shame in order to overcome a lesser one, and to this end crafts mortifying scenarios of future judgment. To make real the agony of that total exposure, he uses comparison: “Think about this: if a secret deed committed by any one of us were made public today in the sight of just the church, how that person would pray to die and have the earth swallow him rather than have so many witnesses of his wickedness. What, therefore, will we feel then, when everything is made public in the sight of the whole world, in a theater so brightly lit and visible from The description seems influenced by the gospel account of the Gerasene demoniac (Mk 5:1-­20 and parr.); cf. Hom. Matt. 28.2-­4 (PG 57.352-­54). 54.  “In the house, in the neighborhoods, at table, in the market, on the roads, often even in our own dreams, it sets before us the images and appearances of our sins” (Laz. 4.4 [PG 48.1012–13]). “God sowed shame in our nature, since fear was not sufficient to correct us” (Hom. Phil. 5.4 [PG 62.210]). 55.  Hom. Matt. 81.5 (PG 58.737). 56.  Laz. 4.4 (PG 48.1012). Shame, as Foucault acknowledges, lies at the heart of confession: “The desire to hide authenticates the awareness that ones has done wrong, and the gesture which exposes it shows that one is not afraid to reveal this awareness to everyone” (Les aveux de la chair, 398–401, on 400).

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all sides, and with those both known and unknown to us observing everything minutely?”57 The postmortem scenario is distinctly Christian, but it rests upon a classical assumption about the nature of shame. To the preacher as to Aristotle, it makes no difference whether the cause for shame is in the past, the present, or the future.58 Both men assume that one can feel as deeply ashamed at the prospect of an imagined scenario as at the recollection of an actual deed: it is enough to perceive one’s actions, whether actual or hypothetical, as being disgraceful in the eyes of others. The purpose of this searing emotion is to overcome inertia and mobilize concern. In the same way that awe and shame broaden the stimulating impact of fear, anger also has its extensions. Like fear, anger was a useful tool in combatting various kinds of laziness. These included not only the slackness of giving in to every pleasure or of regarding the sufferings of others as of no concern, but also the equally self-­serving tendency to pass off sluggishness as the virtue of gentleness. With care, Chrysostom distinguishes the two dispositions: just as hitting a person is not always a mark of harshness, so sparing someone is not necessarily a sign of self-­restraint. To react mildly to wrongdoing is not virtuous, but rather the action of “someone who is lethargic and indolent and no better than a corpse.”59 Indeed, by dispelling the indifference that creates a hospitable environment for sin, anger can actually foster the growth of gentleness.60 Thus, Chrysostom does not shy away from prompting anger in his listeners. One of the more visceral ways in which he does this is by evoking disgust. Disgust Although disgust does not figure in Aristotle’s social analysis, many since Darwin have placed it among the most primal emotions. At its core, it is linked with the sense of taste. Specifically, it names the reaction to the ingestion—­either real or imagined—­of an offensive object, an embodied belief that a rejected item is both distasteful and dangerous.61 It is thus predictably triggered by bodily products (feces, urine, vomit, blood, and mucus), and by corpses (or any violation of the body “envelope”), as well as by creatures that commonly come in contact with rotting flesh (flies, rats, vultures, and other scavengers). Its characteristic facial expression of nose wrinkle, upper lip retraction, and mouth gape—­with or 57.  Hom. Rom. 5.6 (PG 60.430). 58.  Konstan, “Shame in Ancient Greece,” 1040–41. 59.  Exp. Ps. 131.1 (PG 55.380). 60.  [Ν]ωθείας . . . ῥᾳθυμίας (Exp. ps. 123.2 [PG 55.355]). See also Hom. Act. 17.4 (PG 60.139–40). For a more extended analysis, see ch. 1. 61. Darwin, Expression of the Emotions 256–57; for a brief overview of the literature, see Rozin, Haidt, and McCauley, “Disgust,” 757.

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without tongue extension—­mimics an instinctive expulsive reaction and can be readily identified across cultures.62 But disgust can also be elicited by purely ethical violations, especially those connected to notions of divinity.63 On the basis of these two quite different triggers, Paul Rozin and colleagues have termed disgust “the body and soul emotion.”64 Chrysostom shows himself adept at evoking disgust and typically binds the two kinds of elicitors tightly together. References to vomit, snot, and excrement occur throughout his homilies, where they serve to arouse his listeners by contaminating behaviors that they find unproblematic or pleasurable. Consider, for example, the following description of the effect of sin: “They do not see like a healthy person, nor hear clearly, nor speak articulately, but are full of gas, and go about with saliva dripping from their mouths. If only it were saliva and nothing worse! But as it is, they vomit out words fouler than any muck and—­what is more intolerable—­ they cannot spit away this saliva of words, but instead, taking it in their hand really grossly, they smear it on again, thick and coagulated.”65 He knows that his words disgust his listeners, since he immediately adds, “You’re probably sickened (nautiate) at this description.” But triggering nausea is his intention: “Be more so at the reality.” To arouse his congregation from their slack indifference, he intentionally evokes the disgust reaction. To this same end, we find numerous references to pigs. Pigs were familiar figures in the great cities of late antiquity. As scavengers, they performed the vital service of seeking out and devouring all kinds of organic waste: a category that included not only rotting foodstuffs, but also feces, and corpses.66 Such alimentary choices made the animal a ready elicitor of disgust. Chrysostom evokes the pig’s proclivity for dirt—­in all its nastiest forms—­to correct a range of moral failings, and in particular, covetousness and illicit sensuality. Where Chrysostom uses piggish language to describe greed, the imagery targets both the quantity of food consumed and the avidity with which delicacies are sought out. “As a hog loves to wallow in sewer filth,” John intones, so are the greedy.67 Like a pig rooting in the dirt for delicacies, they poke about mines and 62.  Keltner and Cordoro, “Understanding Multimodal Emotional Expressions.” 63.  Noted by Rozin, Haidt, and McCauley, “Disgust: The Body and Soul Emotion,” 436–37; see also Rozin et al., “Disgust,” 762–63. 64.  Rozin et al., “Disgust,” 762. 65.  Hom. Rom. 10.5 (PG 60.481). For an extended comparison of wickedness to snot, see Laz. 1.8 (PG 48.974), and of gossip to vomit and excrement, see Hom. Matt. 42.1 (PG 57.452). 66.  Scobie, “Slums, Sanitation, and Mortality,” esp. 418–21. Feces and other bodily wastes figure prominently among possible offensive objects (Rozin and Fallon, “A Perspective on Disgust”); Feder, “Contagion and Cognition.” 67.  Laed. 6 (PG 52.467); Hom. Matt. 57.4 (PG 58.564); Hom. Heb. 25.3 (PG 63.176).

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caverns searching for precious metals and gems.68 Their houses may be made of gold, but their heads are “smeared with sin.”69 Their constant talk of meals, dishes and sauces, of wine, unguents and clothing is nothing other than the grunting of swine.70 While others rise for work, the gluttonous man, “like a pig, goes out at first light to find fodder for his belly, searching for means to spread a lavish table.” The next morning, he can barely drag his bloated body out of bed.71 What emotion can the sight of such a man hauling along his obese body arouse if not disgust? The language is intentionally harsh and degrading and insofar as it touched his wealthy listeners, we must imagine that they felt soiled by the contact and demeaned by the association. For those who did not have the means to indulge in such behaviors, it would have aroused strong feelings of revulsion. It was a powerful means of combating complacency and puncturing admiration. The pig’s delight in dirt affords Chrysostom a different set of associations, namely those pertaining to illicit sexual pleasures. Swine designate those who live a licentious life, who, like pigs, defile themselves “with the worst filth.”72 Like a boar luxuriating in muck, the soul immersed in sensuality can no longer perceive the stench of its sins.73 Whatever place it enters, “it fills with bad odor and the reek of feces.”74 To Chrysostom’s mind, it is this link with sexual immorality that 68.  Instead of looking up to the sky, they “bow their heads down to the earth like swine, eagerly poking about mines and caverns” (Hom. Matt. 89.3 [PG 58.785]). See also, Hom. 1 Cor. 23.5 (PG 61.196); Hom. Heb. 12.4 (PG 63.100); Hom. Rom. 15.6 (PG 60.547). 69.  In illud: Ne timueritis 1.8 (PG 55.510–11). The goods of the marketplace are nothing other than filth and mire (Hom. Ps. 48:17.1 [PG 55.499]; Hom. Matt. 49.5 [PG 58.503]). To revel in the goods of another is “to smear oneself with filth” (Hom. 2 Cor. 23.6 [PG 61.652]). Malice is also piggish: to delight in the ills of others is to be like a sow in mire (Hom. Matt. 40.3 [PG 57.442]). 70.  Hom. Matt. 13.5 (PG 57.214); Hom. 1 Cor. 13. 5 (PG 61.114). But unlike animals, greedy people never get enough (Hom. Matt. 57.5 [PG 58.565]). To make the point, Chrysostom recasts a common proverb, “May it be pleasant and sweet, and may it choke me!” ( Ἔστω .  .  . ἡδύ τι καὶ γλυκὺ, καὶ ἀποπνιγέτω με) in piggish terms: “Have it your way! Even if the thing strangles you, if everyone who meets you spits on you, if they all smear your face with filth, if they drive you away as a dog, put up with it! If pigs had a voice, what else would they say?” (Hom. Matt. 73.4 [PG 58.678]). Such behavior is typical of those outside the church, “who behave like swine and, in the manner of animals, roll in the mire of sin” (Hom. Gen. 16.2 [PG 53.128]). For an analysis of the implicit spatial argument in these animal metaphors, see my “Locating Animals.” 71.  He wastes the day in darkness, “just as if he were a hog being fattened up” (Hom. Act. 35.3 [PG 60.256]). Here, the porcine imagery focuses attention on the body of the glutton: its smooth and heavy bulk (Hom. Act. 27.2 [PG 660.207]). See the analysis of de Wet, “The Preacher’s Diet.” 72.  [Κ]αὶ χοίρους τοὺς ἐν ἀκολάστῳ βίῳ διατρίβοντας διαπαντὸς (Hom. Matt. 23.3 [PG 57.311]). When I see you committing fornication, Chrysostom asks, “How am I to call you a human being and not a porker?” (In illud: Ne timueritis 1.1 [PG 55.500]). See also Oppugn. 2.9 (PG 47.346); Hom. Rom. 24.3 (PG 60.626); Virginit. 19.2 (SC 125.158); Exp. Ps. 142.2 (PG 55.448); Hom. Matt. 57.4 (PG 58.564). 73.  Hom. Gen. 22.4 (PG 53.191). 74.  Hom. I Thess. 5.1 (PG 62.424).

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explains the pig’s unclean status in the Bible. For had the prohibition against pork arisen simply from the animal’s diet, he reasons, the flesh of fish, birds, and stags would also have been forbidden.75 Piggish language is thus appropriately applied to the theater, which is another paradigmatically dirty place: its lascivious songs are nothing other than the sounds of “swine grunting on the dunghill.”76 In all of these passages, Chrysostom’s aim is the same: to breach the indifference of his listeners. He does this by using imagery calculated to elicit “the disgust face,” the instinctive reaction that bespeaks an embodied belief that some things—­in this case, greed and illicit sexuality—­are both distasteful and dangerous.77 Because he knows that his listeners are comfortable with their habits and largely indifferent to his moral strictures, he must jolt them out of their complacency. To get them to care, he triggers recoil. Disgust, like fear, mobilizes eagerness—­what Chrysostom calls spoudē—­and infuses vigor. Grief can also galvanize people into action—­indeed, this is one of its primary purposes. God first implanted it in our nature to break the stupor of indifference, to heal, correct, and strengthen.78 Thus, after Adam was expelled from paradise, God settled him close by the garden, so that he might have “unending anguish” at the sight of all that he had lost. The pain was beneficial because of its stimulating sharpness: it encouraged the sinner to pay attention and not make the same mistake again.79 The sensation of sorrow moved Phineas to take drastic corrective action. When he saw a Hebrew man leading a Moabite woman into his tent, he was not indifferent. Instead, grief enflamed him and drove him to grab his spear and transfix them both.80 The verb “enflamed” is unusual and draws attention—­we would expect it to be used of anger rather than of sorrow. Its appearance here underscores the arousing properties of grief: the way in which it too can sting a person into action. Even rivalrous emotions such as envy, which Chrysostom typically allies with sadness, can usefully spur concern. This function emerges clearly in a homily on the parable of the workers in the vineyard (Mt 20:1–16). When all receive the same 75.  Hom. 2 Cor. 28.2 (PG 61.592). 76.  Hom. Matt. 68.4 (PG 58.645); as pigs rush to filth, so demons cluster where there are lascivious songs (Exp. Ps. 41.2 [PG 55.157]). 77.  This kind of animal imagery also seems designed to fuel desire for change by triggering shame. Chrysostom notes that scripture calls humans in the grip of disturbing passions by animal names so that “they may feel ashamed of their behavior and later return to their proper nobility” (Hom. Gen. 12.3 [PG 53.102]). 78.  Theod. laps. 1.16 (SC 117.176–78); Hom. Jo. 78.1 (PG 59.419). Leduc, “Penthos.” 79.  Hom. Gen. 18.3 (PG 53.152). 80.  Chrysostom connects Phineas with Abraham as men who were willing to shed blood out of obedience to God, rather than under the pressure of revenge. The actions of both men were connected to the idea of sacrifice. For his action, Phineas was honored with the priesthood (Hom. Matt. 17.6 [PG 57.262]; Adv. Jud. 6.3 [PG 48.907]); “he not only did not defile his hands with blood, but he actually made them cleaner” (Adv. Jud. 4.2 [PG 48.874]; Ep. Theod. 2.3 [SC 117.62]).

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wage at the end of the day, those who had been hired first, early in the morning, seem to protest: “These last have worked for only one hour, and you have made them equal to us who have borne the burden and heat of the day.” Chrysostom acknowledges that the words appear invidious, but denies that this is their meaning. For how could those who had proved themselves by their long and faithful service and pleased their master be “possessed by the worst of all vicious feelings, by malice and envy”?81 The objection must serve another end. It is designed to reveal not the feelings of those who have served God long and faithfully (“Certainly not!” John adds), but rather the extent of the honor that God bestows upon those who respond, even belatedly, to his call. Its greatness is such as would inspire envy in others.82 The apparently envious words thus capture the point of the parable, which is to prompt vigor and spur eagerness.83 An intense desire to wrench his listeners out of their customary indifference thus accounts for much of Chrysostom’s embrace of the hard emotions. In the face of ingrained sluggishness, he is prepared to arouse strongly uncomfortable feelings. Anger, sorrow, fear, awe, shame, and disgust all play an important role in arousing zeal. Even emotions that he usually condemns, such as envy, find a place in this agenda. Stimulating aversive emotions, however, is only part of his invigorating pedagogy; instilling a desire to pursue the good for its own sake remains his highest goal. I N SP I R I N G E M U L AT IO N

A concern to spur enthusiasm is evident throughout John’s preaching. Injunctions to cultivate eagerness (spoudē) and zeal (prothymia) occur repeatedly, and often in conjunction. These, as we have seen, are general terms that express focused desire and drive. As such, they capture Chrysostom’s main agenda, which is to overcome rhathymia by instilling a durable disposition or mindset. A related but conceptually distinct term is emulation (zēlos).84 In Aristotle’s influential ­discussion, emula81. [Β]ασκανίᾳ καὶ φθόνῳ (Hom. Matt. 64.3 [PG 58.612]). 82.  [Ἄ]παγε (Hom. Matt. 64.3 [PG 58.613]). To the related question of why the master did not hire everyone at the same time, Chrysostom replies that there was no difference in the timing of the invitation, but only in the response. The crucial factor—­then as now—­is a person’s mindset. It was because of his mindset that the thief on the cross was saved (Serm. Gen. 7.4 [SC 433.332]). 83.  Chrysostom’s comments on the interpretation of parables anticipate modern biblical scholarship: “The saying was a parable. It is not necessary to investigate everything in the parables word by word, but rather, having learned the point for which it was composed, to glean this and not take further unnecessary trouble” (Hom. Matt. 64.3 [PG 58.613]). 84.  Our word zeal is, of course, derived from zēlos. But the meaning of the Greek term is expressed more faithfully, if somewhat awkwardly, by emulation. Our sense of the meaning of zeal corresponds more closely to prothymia, and it is thus that I have rendered it.

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tion falls under the rubric of competitive emotions, all of which are painful. Like envy, to which it is closely allied, it arises from the perceived presence of highly valued goods in the possession of those who are like us.85 But unlike envy, emulation is a virtuous disposition.86 Its pain springs not from the fact that another possesses goods, but from the simple fact that we lack them. The focus rests on the valued things and spurs a positive desire to have them, whereas in envy, it centers on the possessor and triggers resentful anger that he has them. In order to arouse emulation, therefore, the valued goods must be obtainable: they cannot seem to be in short supply or to be limited to other kinds of people.87 When we see others enjoying these goods, we feel inspired to strive to acquire them. Chrysostom’s homilies on the martyrs show indebtedness to Aristotle’s influential formulation and articulate their goal clearly.88 “Blessed Barlaam has summoned us .  .  . not so that we might praise him, but so that we might emulate (zēlōsōmen) him; not so that we might become listeners of his great deeds, but so that we might become imitators (mimētai) of his achievements.”89 In order to arouse emulous feelings in his listeners, however, the preacher must surmount several difficulties. He must show that martyrdom is a highly valued good that his listeners should both want to obtain and be capable of obtaining. The effort might appear doomed from the outset, for who could possibly want to experience what the martyrs endured? John cannot downplay their suffering, since a detailed recitation of their torments was a required element of martyrological accounts. He must dwell on the systematic ravaging of their bodies by describing the exposed cavities, the dislocated joints, the shattered spines, and the burning, oozing flesh.90 Even watching such horrors is difficult, and many, he acknowledges, feel light-­headed at the mere sight of blood. How then could anyone want to suffer what the mother of the Maccabean martyrs endured?91 “Let’s imagine then what this woman is likely to have suffered . . . seeing fingers quivering 85.  Rhet. 2.11, 1888a32–36. Emulation, like envy, reflects a person’s values (Goldie, Emotions, 222). 86.  It seems likely that Chrysostom emphasized zeal precisely in order to distinguish a good striving (for virtue) from a tainted striving (for honor). Zēlos is thus the approved counterpart to discredited philotimia. See the discussion in Konstan, Emotions, 226. 87.  For the concept of limited good and how this informs the agonistic nature of societies, especially that of late ancient Mediterranean society, see Foster, “Anatomy of Envy”; Neyrey and Rohrbaugh, “‘He must increase.’” 88.  Straw notes that Chrysostom’s panegyrics “reveal how the cult of the martyrs served as a critical means of inspiring zeal and motivating Christians to shake off their laziness and negligence” (“Chrysostom’s Martyrs,” 549), but she does not subject the emotion of zeal to analysis, nor does she describe how these homilies function to arouse it. 89.  Barl. 1, 4 (PG 50.675, 680), on 675. 90.  Mart. 1–2 (PG 50.708–9); Barl. 2 (PG 50.677–78); Dros. 4 (PG 50.688); Aeg. 1 (PG 50.695). 91.  Macc. 1.3 (PG 50.622). For an overview of early Christian perspectives, including that of Chrysos­tom, on the Maccabean mother, see Doerfler, Jephthah’s Daughter, 127–43.

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over the coals, a head swelling up, an iron claw attacking the head of another child and tearing off the skin, and the one suffering these things still standing and talking. How could she open her mouth? How could she move her tongue? How did her soul not fly out of her flesh?”92 The task of making such horrors seem, in Aristotle’s terms, “highly valued goods” seems insurmountable. To achieve this end, the preacher underscores the martyrs’ glorious status with God and their heavenly reward. Despite his lurid descriptions, he urges his listeners to focus not on the flowing blood, but on “the crowns being woven” and “the eternal dwellings being built,” and he amplifies the point by mobilizing long-­ standing military and athletic metaphors.93 The instruments of their torture are actually trophies, and the sound of skin bursting over the flames a clanging of bronze that strikes fear into the enemy.94 The wounds in their torn bodies flash with light like gems, gleaming in an imperial diadem, and afford them special access to the divine emperor.95 Crowds like those that welcome home famous athletes greet their remains with acclamations.96 Their fame surpasses even that of emperors, and their honor, unlike earthly renown, does not fade in memory or diminish over time.97 Such language already had a long pedigree by the time of Chrysostom, but the fact that it was traditional detracted nothing from its power. In addition to describing the accolades of others, he also dwells on the martyrs’ own perceptions and feelings. They went to meet their tortures with joy, “as if they were dancing”; and “lying on coals as if on roses, they observed what was happening with pleasure.”98 Such calmness and courage in the face of dire adversity were remarkable signs of virtue. And virtues, he insists, are the most valuable of all goods.99 Here, he seems on firmer ground, for who would not yearn to feel such serenity and fortitude? 92.  Macc. 1.3 (PG 50.621). 93.  Macc. 1.2, 1.3 (PG 50.620, 621). The sight was both “extremely bitter and utterly pleasant.” Chrysostom often turns to athletic metaphors. For a partial catalog of these, see Sawhill, Use of Athletic Metaphors; Krautheim, Öffentliche Auftreten; Druet, Language, images et visages, 215–32. 94.  When Drosis’s skin burst in the fire, it repelled the opposing powers like the clanging sound of the weapons wielded by a well-­armored soldier (Dros. 4 [PG 50.689]). See also Barl. 4 (PG 50.680–81). 95.  Macc. 1.1 (PG 50.618); Aeg. 1 (PG 695); the liquefaction of Drosis’s flesh was like gold being purified, or cloth being dipped in imperial purple (Dros. 4 [PG 50.689]). Their bodies were adorned with wounds as the sky with stars (Mart. 1 [PG 50.707]). 96.  Ign. 5 (PG 50.594); Mart. 2 (PG 50.710). 97.  De omnibus martyribus 8 (Stavronikita 6, f.141v–142r), trans. Mayer, Cult, 246–47. 98. [Ὥ]σπερ χορεύοντες .  .  . καθάπερ ἐπὶ ῥόδων κείμενοι τῶν ἀνθράκων .  .  . μεθ’ ἡδονῆς τὰ γινόμενα ἐθεώρουν (Mart. 1 [PG 50. 707–8]). See also Rom. mart. 2 (PG 50.609); Dros. 4 (PG 50.688). 99.  In this assertion, he follows Aristotle, who also reasoned that “if highly valued goods are the object of emulation, it necessarily follows that virtues must be such” (Rhet. 2.11.4, 1388b10–13, trans. Freese, 245).

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But in order to elicit emulation, Chrysostom must do more than show that martyrs possess desirable goods; he must also prove to his listeners that they can obtain them. This task poses several problems. Chief among them is the fact that the time for martyrdom is past. The emperor, far from persecuting Christians, is now a baptized member of the church and its substantial patron. How then can a person obtain a martyr’s crown?100 A related problem concerns the goods themselves. Is not the glory of the martyrs a superlative and thus necessarily limited good? Would it not seem offensive—­a kind of derogation from their honor—­to attempt to achieve it? And finally, does not the extraordinary heroism of the martyrs suggest that they are fundamentally different from ordinary Christians, that they are made of sterner, finer stuff than the likes of us? Each of these implicit objections Chrysostom addresses. The time of persecution, he grants, is past: “[W]e all enjoy calm and the word of piety has extended itself to the ends of the world and those who rule over us keep a close and precise watch over the faith.”101 But the honor enjoyed by the martyrs—­their highly valued good—­lies not in their death, but rather in their intention.102 They triumphed precisely because they were not sleepy and indolent, but “ablaze with eagerness.”103 As a matter of choice, this disposition is an ongoing, daily opportunity for all Christians. His listeners do not need to trample on live coals or spar with wild animals; it is enough that they subdue burning desire and bridle their ferocious anger.104 If they can show as much resolve against the irrational passions as the martyrs showed in their torments, they can share the same crown.105 They can imitate the demeanor of Juventinus and Maximinus, who were stripped of their assets and “thrown naked into prison.” But instead of repining, they rejoiced. “What’s 100.  “‘How is it possible,’ someone asks, ‘to imitate the martyrs now? For it is not a time of persecution.’ I too know this. But while it is not a time of persecution, it is a time of martyrdom” (Barl. 1 [PG 50.677]; Hom. 2 Cor. 1.4 [PG 61.389]). Straw argues, to the contrary, that persecution did not seem remote, since she assumes that martyrdoms occurred under Julian (“Chrysostom’s Martyrs,” 530–34). This assumption has been decisively disproved: see Teitler, “Ammianus, Libanius, Chrysostomus.” 101.  Ign. 3 (PG 50.590), trans. Mayer, Cult, 107. 102.  [Μ]άρτυρα οὐχὶ ὁ θάνατος ποιεῖ μόνον, ἀλλὰ καὶ ἡ πρόθεσις (Eust. 2 [PG 50.601]); proof lies in Paul’s statement, “I die every day” (1 Cor 15:31) (Ign. 3 [PG 50.590]). The value of a gift is determined not by the object, but by the zeal (προθυμίᾳ) of the giver (Macc. 2.1 [PG 50.623]). See Brottier, L’Appel des “demi-­chrétiens,” 348–52. 103.  Dros. 4 (PG 50.688). “Just as it is not possible for a contestant to obtain crowns by sleeping and indolence (ῥᾳθυμίας) . . . so it is not possible for the faithful to attain the promised good things by spending his life in laziness” (Aeg. 2 [PG 50.698]). 104.  Barl. 1 (PG 50.677). Suffering for reproving blasphemers is another kind of martyrdom (Stat. 1.12 [PG 49.32]). 105.  Macc. 1.3, 2.2 (PG 50.622, 626); Barl. 1, 4 (PG 50.677, 682). Gus George Christo notes this theme (Martyrdom According to John Chrysostom, 186–91).

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wealth to us,” they said, “or an expensive robe?”106 Chrysostom’s listeners can do likewise. By bearing the suffering that comes with sickness—­their own, certainly, but even more so that of their children—­without complaint or recourse to illicit healing charms, they too can win a martyr’s glory.107 These analogies insist that the martyrs were no different from us, and Chrysostom asserts this premise plainly. They were “ordinary people who were insignificant and known to none before they died.”108 They include women as well as men, the old and the young, children and slaves.109 His listeners cannot exempt themselves, by saying, “He was Peter!”110 They must make an effort. Neither age nor gender matters, but rather “zeal, emulation, and kindled faith.”111 Chrysostom insists upon the point: “Let us not be looking slackly to others. For the prayers of the saints have great power—­but only when we ourselves repent and become ­better. . . . And I say this, not that we should stop supplicating the saints, but rather that we should stop being indolent and entrusting our concerns only to others, while we lie back and go to sleep.”112 Nor should anyone think that the martyrs would begrudge others the goods they enjoy. To the contrary, they welcome everyone to share in them.113 Romanos was so focused on inspiring everyone with eagerness that he continued to speak, miraculously, after his tongue had been cut out.114 In this generosity, martyrs differ profoundly from those who seek worldly honor. Instead of feeling jealous of their 106.  Juv. 2 (PG 50.574). Chrysostom’s listeners can imitate them by welcoming additional austerities, such as vigils, fasting, and almsgiving (Mart. 2–3 [PG 50.710–11]; Dros. 3 [PG 50.687]; Lucian. 3 [PG 50.525]; Barl. 4 [PG 50.681]), or by doing good works and giving thanks in all situations (Stat. 1.11 [PG 49.32]). 107.  A person in ill health will find patience by contemplating the martyrs’ sufferings (Dros. 3 [PG 50.687]; Adv. Jud. 8.7, 8 [PG 48.938, 940]). For enduring the sickness and death of children, see Macc. 1.3 (PG 50.621); Hom. Col. 8.5 (PG 62.357); Hom. 1 Thess. 3.5 (PG 62.412–13); Hom. 2 Cor. 1.4–5 (PG 61.389–90). For a discussion of amulets used to protect children, and of Chrysostom’s views of these practices, see my “‘Keep Me, Lord.’” 108.  [Ο]ἱ ἰδιῶται καὶ ἄσημοι καὶ οὐδενὶ γνώριμου πρὶν ἤ τελευτῆσαι (De omnibus martyribus 8 [Stavronikita 6, f.141v], trans., Mayer, Cult, 246). 109.  “Young girls, women, men (young and old), enslaved persons and free: every status, every age, and both sexes” (Ign. 1 [PG 50.587]). See also Dros. 2 (PG 50.685); Barl. 4 (PG 50.681); Macc. 1.2 (PG 50.619); Eleaz. puer. 5 (TU 133.603–04); Scand. 19.3 (SC 79.234). 110.  Ἀλλ’ ἐκεῖνος Πέτρος ἦν, φησί (Hom. Rom. 7.8 [PG 60.452]). 111.  [Π]ροθυμία . . . καὶ ζῆλος, καὶ πεπυρωμένη πίστις (Dros. 3 [PG 50.688]). 112.  Hom. Matt. 5.4–5 (PG 57.59–60); Hom. Eph. 24.3 (PG 61.173); Laz. 3.10 (PG 48.1005). 113. Through their prayers, we come to share their dwelling and lifestyle (σύσκηνοι .  .  . καὶ ὁμοδίαιτοι) (Ign. 5 [PG 50.596]). By showing their wounds, the martyrs obtain blessings for others from God (Juv. 3 [PG 50.576–77]). Ignatius embraced his death precisely so that “he might make all the on-­lookers emulators of his own achievements” (Ign. 5 [PG 50.594]). For Stephen’s fervor on behalf of those who stoned him, see Cruc. 5 (PG 49.406). 114.  Rom. mart. 3–4 (PG 50.610–12). Emulation can be contagious (Stat. 6.6 [PG 49.91]).

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reputation when they see others attaining their level, it is then that they “gain the clearest sense of their own honor.”115 In addition to rational arguments, Chrysostom recommends practical measures to arouse and fuel desire. He urges his listeners to visit the shrines of the martyrs, to touch their tombs and kiss their relics.116 God left us the relics of the saints for this reason: not only that we might be healed of ills or protected from evils, but also that we might “be led by the hand towards the same emulation.”117 At home, his listeners should recall their stories, recounting again and again their vivid details. They might even paint pictures of the martyrs on the walls of their houses, John suggests, but the real goal is to engrave their image on the walls of their minds.118 For these are the kinds of things that lovers do: they haunt the streets where their beloved lives, cherish her clothing, and kiss his shoes.119 They enjoy speaking the name of the person dear to them, and hearing it on the lips of others stirs up their affection.120 John reminds his congregation that it was in these ways that they showed their warm feelings for bishop Meletius. While he was still with them, they named their children after him, so that his name might echo not only in their houses but also “in the neighborhoods and in the market, in the fields and on the roads.”121 And after he was sent into exile, they did everything they could to keep his image before their eyes. They engraved it on rings, seals, and bowls—­even on their bedroom walls. The effect of hearing his name and seeing his image “all over the place” was twofold: it increased desire and it repelled “every irrational feeling and thought.”122 These are closely related goods for Chrysostom.

115.  Barl. 1 (PG 50.675). 116.  Juv. 3 (PG 50.576); Phoc. 1 (PG 50.699); Bern. 7 (PG 50.640). Looking at the tombs of the martyrs helps the soul: “[I]f it is lazy (ῥᾴθυμος), it quickly becomes invigorated; if it is roused up and enthusiastic, it becomes more zealous” (Dros. 1–2 [PG 50.683–85], on 683). For more on cult practices, see Mayer and Allen, John Chrysostom, 96. 117.  Ign. 5 (PG 50.596). 118.  The memorials of the saints are not sarcophagi or chests or columns or inscriptions, but good deeds and zealous faith” (πίστεως ζῆλος) (Eust. 2 [PG 50.600]). 119.  Stat. 20.2 (PG 49.201). Lovers thrill to the sight of the places where their beloved lives (Hom. Jo. 79.4 [PG 59.431]); love and enthusiasm inspire people to attend the martyrs’ festivals (Eleaz. puer. 5 [PG 50.530]; see also, among the spuria, Hom. in Ps. 50 2.9 [PG 55.585]). Chrysostom knows that many in his congregation say, “I would like to see Christ’s form, the imprint [of the nails], his clothes, his shoes” (αὐτοῦ τὴν μορφὴν . . . τὸν τύπον, τὰ ἱμάτια, τὰ ὑποδήματα) (Hom. Matt. 82.4 [PG 58.743]). He himself wishes that he could see the relics of Paul’s body, the chains that bound him, and the place where he was imprisoned (Hom. Rom. 32.3–4 [PG 60.678–80]; Hom. Eph. 8.1 [PG 62.56–57]). 120.  Melet. 1 (PG 50.515). 121.  Melet. 1 (PG 50.516). 122. [Ἐ]ν δακτυλίων σφενδόναις, καὶ ἐν ἐκτυπώμασι, καὶ ἐν φιάλαις, καὶ ἐν θαλάμων τοίχοις (Melet. 1 [PG 50.516]). The relics of the martyrs guard against the assaults of enemies and demons and shield us from God’s righteous anger (Aeg. 1 [PG 50.694–95]). His panegyric on Meletius ends with an

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He is confident that fervent desire will dispel rhathymia, the slack indifference that forms such a hospitable environment for sin. On the basis of this passage, among others, Carole Straw has argued that Chrysostom exalts love as the highest good and ultimate goal.123 Certainly, Paul asserted this and Chrysostom, as we know, consciously modeled his own preaching on that of his beloved apostle. But within the bulk of John’s preaching, appeals to love are relatively rare, whereas exhortations to eagerness are pervasive and can be found in connection with a wide range of emotions, including the most painful ones. Love plays a role in his program, but it is adjuvant to zeal. Its value lies in its ability to trigger intense and sustained eagerness and to do so readily, easily, and immediately. Its role as a spur to emulation is clear, as Chrysostom traces the incremental process of change. First, people will notice a modest change: even if they are not persuaded, they are not entirely unconvinced. Gradually, they find themselves approving the martyrs’ virtuous acts and praising them.124 Then they develop a fondness for them; this feeling will grow warmer and more fervent.125 Finally, they will emulate and strive to imitate them.126 When Chrysostom sees that they have shaken off their apathy and are showing signs of eagerness and resolve, he will know that the program is working. Although the goal of fostering emulation is especially marked in his homilies on the martyrs, it characterizes all of his preaching. In his very first homily on the Statues, Chrysostom enjoins: Do not give up, or abandon your zeal (prothymian), or become hesitant, but press on with greater zeal, since even the apostles, despite being whipped, stoned, and repeatedly imprisoned when they were preaching, proclaimed the message of truth with greater eagerness not only after deliverance from dangers, but even in the midst of them. . . . You too, emulate (zēlōsin) the saints, and do not give up doing good works as much as you can. . . . As often as we fail in spiritual works, so often let us take them exhortation that all who are listening pray “that this love be increased in us” (Melet. 3 [PG 50.520]). For early Christian mural decoration, see Bowes, “Christian Images.” 123.  “Chrysostom’s Martyrs,” 521–54, on 526, citing Anom. 10.7 (PG 50.795). Her thought is influenced by Trakellis, “Being Transformed,” 220–23. Mitchell also speaks of Chrysostom’s “love hermeneutic” (Heavenly Trumpet, 38–40). 124.  Lucian. 1 (PG 50.521); Laz. 1.2, 2.1, 6.2 (PG 48.964–65, 981, 1029). 125.  “Surely a great desire (πόθος) for these holy women has arisen in you” (Bern. 7 [PG 50.640]). The martyrs were moved by fervent feelings: Ignatius was motivated by passionate love (Ign. 5 [PG 50.594]); the mother of the Maccabean martyrs “seethed with the emulation of piety” (τῷ ζήλῳ τῆς εὐσεβείας ἔζεεν) (Macc. 1.2 [PG 50.620]). 126.  Chrysostom traces the progression: “to come together in memory [of the martyr], to share his story . . . to marvel at what occurred, to imitate his virtue, to convey to others his noble deeds” (Lucian. 1 [PG 50.522]). Mothers specifically should emulate (ζηλούτωσαν) the Maccabean mother’s courage and love for her offspring (Macc. 1.3 [PG 50.621]); but all should imitate (μιμείσθωσαν) her (ibid., 2.2 [PG 50.626]).

Chrysostom’s Goal    173 up again, and let us not ask, “Why did God allow these impediments?” He allowed them for this reason: so that you might show to many your zeal and affection. For the most characteristic trait of a lover is never to desist from the things that seem good to the beloved. The person who is sluggish and indolent (chaunos kai rhathymos) will slack off immediately at the first assault, but the one who is keen and energetic (sphodros kai diegēgermenos), even if thwarted countless times, will apply himself that much more to the works of God, bringing to fulfillment everything required of him, and giving thanks in all things.127

Paul too, as Margaret Mitchell has amply shown, is often held up as a model.128 His superlative excellence, however, as one of the apostles, formed something of an impediment. Chrysostom’s listeners seem to have objected that his example was too lofty and one that they could never hope to imitate.129 They needed a more approachable figure, a person with the kinds of faults and hesitations to which they could relate. This is, in part, how the portraits of figures from the Hebrew Bible, such as those of David and Job, function. The fact that they excelled in virtue, even before the time of grace, proves what can now be achieved. Even more apposite examples lay to hand in the minor characters of the gospels. The two blind men who called out to Jesus (Mt 20:29–30), for example, were not deterred by blindness and poverty, but persisted in their request. Their eagerness was not dampened by the fact that their cries seemed to go unheard by Jesus or that they incurred the rebuke of the crowd. “Such is the nature of a fervent and laboring soul.”130 The chief jailor, who imprisoned Paul and Silas (Ac 16:27–30), presented another admirable model. When he saw the prison doors flung wide open by the earthquake, he immediately concluded that the prisoners must have escaped, and despaired of his life. At the sound of Paul’s reassuring voice, however, he rushed in and fell at his feet and asked, “What must I do to be saved?” Chrysostom underscores the alacrity of his response: “Do you see the fervor (thermotēta)? Do you see the eagerness (spoudēn)? He did not delay. When he was released from fear, he was not released from doing good but immediately rushed to the salvation of his soul. It was night—­indeed, it was midnight—­but he didn’t say, ‘Let me think about it. Let me wait until day comes.’ He immediately ran towards salvation.”131 127.  Stat. 1.11 (PG 49.31–32). 128.  Heavenly Trumpet, esp. 49–55. See Hom. Rom. 32.4 (PG 60.682). Paul is distinguished by his force of will and zeal (Piédagnel, Panégyriques, 228 n1). 129.  “What prevents you from becoming like Paul, O human? Was he not a poor man (πένης)? A tentmaker? An uneducated person? . . . He worked with his hands and supported himself by his daily labors” (Stat. 5.2 [PG 49.71]). They balked even more at the idea of imitating Jesus (Hom. 1 Cor. 13.3 [PG 61.110]; Cruc. 5 [PG 47.105]). Chrysostom’s exhortations thus stress Jesus’s lowliness and poverty; see for example, Hom. Matt. 64.5, 66.2 (PG 58.615, 628). 130.  Hom. Matt. 66.1 (PG 58.626). 131.  Hom. Ps. 145.1 2.4 (PG 55.524).

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His enthusiasm was met with corresponding ardor: despite being bound in chains and still in the stocks, Paul immediately began his initiation. The example of women was even more useful, since no one could object that the model they offered was too exalted. As a case in point, Chrysostom holds up the Canaanite, or Syro-­Phoenician woman. Her virtue, as John presents it, is wholly that of focused drive. She perseveres despite the fact that Christ rebuffs her request to heal her daughter not once but twice. The first rejection alone would have been crushing, “had her intent not been firmly fixed, her desire fervent and her eagerness in full force.”132 As it was, she became more insistent in pursuing her request. In response, Christ delivered what John himself describes as “an even more vehement and abrasive reply”: “It is not right to take the children’s bread and toss it to the dogs.”133 But the woman was not put off by the comparison. Instead, she responded in kind—­that is, doggedly. She refused to be turned away or deflected from her desire, but remained focused on her goal. She showed prosedreia, the attitude of a dog sitting down before a closed door, and because of this earnestness, she gained her request.134 She received that which “the children” had lost through their negligence.135 Chrysostom draws the lesson overtly for his listeners. They should show similar zeal. When approaching God with their requests, they should do so not lazily—­ supine and yawning—­but eagerly and persistently.136 They must not let worries about their status hinder them. They should not say, “I’m unworthy; I don’t pray.” For the Syro-­Phoenician woman was also unworthy and yet she did not give up.137 132. [Ε]ἰ μὴ συντεταμένην εἶχε τὴν διάνοιαν, καὶ ζέοντα τὸν πόθον, καὶ τὴν προθυμίαν ἀκμάζουσαν (Hom. Gen. 38.3 [PG 53.354]); she showed zeal (προθυμίαν), perseverance (καρτερίαν), vigor (εὐτονίαν), and tenacity (προσεδρείαν) (Hom. Matt. 52.2–3 [PG 58.520–21]); Broc–Schmezer, Figures féminines, 85–87. 133.  [Ἀ]λλὰ καὶ σφοδροτέραν καὶ τραχυτέραν ποιεῖται ἀπόκρισιν (Hom. Gen. 38.3 [PG 53.354]). For dogs at table, see Hom. Col. 1.5 (PG 62.307). 134.  Hom. Gen. 38.3 (PG 53.354); Non esse desperandum 7 (PG 51.370); Prof. evang. 12 (PG 51.319); Hom. Jo. 22.1 (PG 59.134); Hom. Heb. 27.4 (PG 63.189); Exp. Ps. 7.3 (PG 55.85). In the spuria, we find a similar expression: “She came before him, as a dog licks the feet of its master” (Hom. de Chananaea 5 [PG 52.543]). 135.  Hom. Gen. 38.3 (PG 53.354). Christ not only fulfilled her request, but also praised her faith. His initial rejection was designed to teach his disciples “and everybody else,” the power of entreaty. See also Hom. Matt. 22.5 (PG 57.306), and the comments of Broc-­Schmezer, Figures féminines, 95–102. 136.  [Χ]ασμώμενοι καὶ ἀναπεπτωκότες (Hom. Matt. 22.5 [PG 57.305]); cf. Hom. de Chananaea 10–11 (PG 52.458). In a similar fashion, Chrysostom cites the paralyzed man of John 5, who prayed for thirty-­eight years without giving up (Hom. Jo. 36.1–2 [PG 59.204–5]); Hannah too serves as an example of zeal; she did not temporize or say, “I will wait until the child is grown up” to offer him to God (Hom. Eph. 21.2 [PG 62.151]). Chrysostom often invokes women praying for their sick children as an image of persistent prayer; see Exp. ps. 129.1 (PG 55.374). 137.  Μὴ εἴπῃς, Οὐκ εἰμὶ ἄξιος, καὶ οὐκ εὔχομαι· καὶ γὰρ ἡ Συροφοινίκισσα τοιαύτη ἦν (Hom. Matt. 22.5 [PG 57.306]).

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Her story proves that God considers not a person’s deservingness, but her disposition.138 Nor should anyone say, “Look, I pray, but nothing much happens.”139 For this proves only that she is not praying persistently. And no one, finally, should worry that he is being too persistent or asking for something at the wrong time. For this is impossible. “Just as breathing is never untimely, so praying is never untimely. . . . [A]s we need breath, so we need the help that comes from God, and if we are willing, we shall easily draw him to us.”140 In short, Chrysostom uses the pericope to drive home his point regarding eager persistence. The fact that she was a Gentile and a woman proves that anyone can obtain the goods that she received—­if only they show comparable zeal.141 Simply making an effort will bring about positive change. For as laziness leads to laziness, so “eagerness begets eagerness.”142 C O N C LU SIO N

The central importance of zeal in Chrysostom’s thought is thus directly related to his understanding of basic human nature and, in particular, to its besetting weakness. Because of rhathymia, the inertia that comes with indifference, people often fail to restrain themselves from bad behavior or initiate positive change. If they are to make progress in virtue, they must first be motivated to change: they must be made to care. But arousing concern—­let alone enthusiasm—­is not easy. As allies in this task, Chrysostom turned to emotions. On one hand, he deliberately triggers aversion. Many of his lurid descriptions of the sufferings of hell should be understood as part of his ongoing effort to break through the indifference of his listeners by inciting terror. Closely allied to this project, but conceptually distinct, is the arousal of shame and disgust. The recoil triggered by these uncomfortable feelings marks a triumph over rhathymia: it not only puts people on alert, it gets them moving. Even awe, which is perhaps the most pleasurable form of fear, has a bracing impact; it instills decorum and heightens attention. On the 138.  [Ο]ὐ γὰρ τὴν ἀξίαν ὁ Θεὸς σκοπεῖ, ἀλλὰ τὴν γνώμην (Hom. Matt. 22.5 [PG 57.306]). Gnome or “mindset” is a crucial term for Chrysostom, as Laird’s work attests (Mindset). 139.  Ἀλλ’ ἰδοὺ εὔχομαι, φησὶ, καὶ οὐδὲν γίνεται πλέον (Hom. Matt. 22.5 [PG 57.306]). “When I say to someone, ‘Call on God! Compel him! Beseech him!’ he replies, ‘I have called on him once, twice, three times, ten times, twenty times—­and never received anything’” (Hom. de Chananaea 10 [PG 52.458]). 140.  Hom. Matt. 22.6 (PG 57.307). 141.  Clark argues that Chrysostom uses the example of women to shame male listeners (“Sex, Shame,” esp. 230–34). But this goal, although sometimes evident, cannot wholly account for his use of female exemplars. More often, he holds up female and male scriptural figures, as well as martyrs of both sexes, for universal admiration and emulation. 142.  Σπουδὴ γὰρ, φησὶ, σπουδὴν γεννᾷ, καὶ ῥᾳθυμία ῥᾳθυμίαν (Hom. Act. 8.2 [PG 60.72]).

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other hand, he actively cultivates desire. Through narrative expansion he delves into the admirable feelings of scriptural and historical figures, explores their thoughts, and traces their outcomes to evoke not simply wonder at their virtue, but strongly emulous desire. To instill zeal as a durable disposition remains his highest aspiration. The stories of scripture provide Chrysostom with abundant exemplars of zeal, but it is usually to the minor characters that he turns. Their lowliness and diversity conveyed his message clearly that zeal is a universal virtue, not one limited to elite males. For a particularly fine example of how he uses these figures to arouse emulous feelings, we may turn to his homilies on the Samaritan woman at the well. Imitating Zeal: The Samaritan Woman Over the course of several homilies on the gospel of John, Chrysostom makes the case for the Samaritan woman as an imitable model of zeal.143 Her enthusiasm is perfectly apparent at the end of the story, when she abandons her water jar and runs back home to rouse her entire village to come out and meet Jesus. Not even the apostles, Chrysostom notes, acted with such fervor: they waited to be called before leaving their nets, and even then, spread the word tentatively, calling first one person and then another. But her soul was set on fire, and she ran to tell everyone the news. “She did the work of an evangelist, having been given wings by joy.”144 Such vigorous action certainly expresses zeal, but in John’s retelling of the story, he focuses more on the fervor implicit in her conversation with Jesus. From the outset, when Jesus asked her, “Give me a drink,” her response revealed “a great desire for knowledge.”145 She had not come to the well to speak with Jesus; she had not seen his deeds or heard his teaching. She came simply to get water. But when he spoke to her, she used his words “extremely wisely” as an opportunity to question him.146 Her very first question reveals a discerning and inquiring mind. Having recognized that he was a Jew (whether by his clothing or his manner of speech, John does not know), she was surprised that he spoke to her. But she framed her question thoughtfully: instead of speaking on her own behalf and replying brusquely, “Samaritans do not associate with Jews,” 143.  In addition to these homilies, there are twenty-­two other references to the Samaritan woman in Chrysostom’s writings. She is the only woman in the New Testament on whom he comments at such length, as Broc-­Schmezer observes (Figures féminines, 33). Broc-­Schmezer also argues that Chrysostom presents the Samarian woman as a model for his listeners, but construes her exemplarity differently: she is a model of close attention to the divine word and of the confession of faults (ibid., 57, 63–68). 144.  [Κ]αὶ εὐαγγελιστῶν ἔργον ποιεῖ ὑπὸ τῆς χαρᾶς ἀναπτερωθεῖσα (Hom. Jo. 34.1 [PG 59.193]); a “prostitute” became an “evangelist” (Homilia dicta in templo sanctae Anastasiae 1 [PG 63.493]). 145.  [Π]ολλὴν φιλομάθειαν (Hom. Jo. 31.3 [PG 59.180]). 146.  [Σ]φόδρα συνετῶς (Hom. Jo. 31.4 [PG 59.180]).

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she considered the situation from his point of view. Her observation that “Jews do not approach Samaritans” suggests concern for him, a worry that his actions might leave him open to censure, as well as a desire to correct what might seem an infraction of the law. By his response, Jesus showed that “she deserved to be heard and not overlooked.”147 He told her that he could give her living water. The words were puzzling and she did not grasp his meaning: “he said one thing, but she understood another.”148 But she proved an ideal listener. Although she thought that he was an ordinary person and might therefore have retorted scornfully, “If you had living water, you would not be asking me for a drink!” she did not react with hostility or contempt. Nor did she say, “You’re just boasting,” even though, as Chrysostom notes, high-­sounding claims tend to annoy. Instead, she remained patient and polite. Despite the heat of the day and the midday hour, she addressed him respectfully and called him “Sir.”149 And because she listened and paid attention, she understood something important: that there was a kind of water that was better than that found in Jacob’s well. The fact that she grasped this lofty point shows her admirable mindset. She did not dismiss his words contemptuously, like a prejudiced person, nor simply accept them, like a gullible person, but she kept an open mind.150 Although confused, she wanted to learn, and was prepared to consider the evidence.151 So she pursued the matter, and made further inquiries: “Was he really greater than the patriarch Jacob?” When Jesus pointed out that anyone who drank his water would not thirst again, she still misunderstood his meaning; but although she thought that he was speaking of material water, she nevertheless perceived its superiority and replied, “Give me this water.” This request suggests to Chrysostom that she was beginning to suspect that he might be greater than the patriarch. Because of this reaction, Jesus revealed himself more fully to her, but again, he did so gradually.152 He told her to call her husband, and only when she admitted that she had no husband did he disclose to her his knowledge of the intimate details of her life. Her response to his words fills Chrysostom with admiration. She might well have reacted with resentment and abuse. Convicted of sexual 147.  Hom. Jo. 31.4 (PG 59.181); Laz. 6.2 (PG 48.1029). 148.  Ἄλλο πρὸς αὐτὴν ἔλεγεν, ἄλλο δὲ ὑπώπτευεν ἐκείνη (Hom. Jo. 31.4 [PG 59.181]). 149.  Hom. Jo. 31.4, 55.1 (PG 59.181, 303). 150.  She was not gullible (εὔκολος), nor held back by prejudice (καὶ οὐ κατεσχέθη τῇ προλήψει), nor was she intractable (ἀπειθὴς) and contentious (φιλόνεικος) (Hom. Jo. 32.2 [PG 59.185]; see also ibid., 33.2 [PG 59.191]). 151.  Hom. Jo. 55.1 (PG 59.303). 152.  Hom. Jo. 32.2 (PG 59.184–85). Broc-­Schmezer notes that the progressive revelation of Christ’s divinity is, for Chrysostom, an essential aspect of the story. It is mirrored by the gradual revelation of the Samaritan woman’s worthiness (Figures féminines, 33, 36).

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irregularity, she might even have run away in shame. Instead, she expresses astonishment and wonder.153 She focuses not on her own reputation, but on his identity: on the proof constituted by his words. “I see that you are a prophet.” The verb I see, however, as John notes, expresses a certain reservation. She means, “You seem to me a prophet.”154 And because she remains somewhat unsure, she probes further. She tests him by asking a question—­not about the “worldly” matters with which people typically approach sources of divination (i.e., bodily health, property, or wealth)—­but about doctrine.155 She asks him about correct worship. Jesus does not answer the question directly or explain why her ancestors worshipped on the mountain and the Jews in Jerusalem, but speaks instead of a new kind of worship. His answer fills her with confusion. In her bewilderment, she refers to the expected Messiah, “who will tell us all things.” At this point, having brought the Samaritan woman along slowly from water, to prophecy, to recollection of the Messiah, Jesus finally reveals himself fully to her. Her response is immediate: she leaves her water jar by the well and rushes home to tell her fellow townspeople the news. Chrysostom underscores the message of the story: We need much fervor and thoroughly aroused enthusiasm (spoudēs diegēgermenēs), for without this it is not possible for us to attain the good things promised us. To show this, Christ said at one time: “If anyone does not take up his cross and follow me, he is not worthy of me.” And at another: “I have come to throw fire upon the earth, and what do I desire but that it were already kindled?” By both of these sayings he wishes to portray for us a fervent and ardent disciple, who is prepared to risk any danger. Such a one was this woman.156

The importance of zeal, however, has been clear all along. Chrysostom has stressed it by direct comparison with two different groups: the Jews at the time of Jesus, and his own contemporary listeners. Both groups are important, but their significance is not the same. The former is simply a foil, whereas the latter represents the target audience. Comparison with the Jews allows John to highlight the Samaritan woman’s exemplary disposition. Whereas they were persuaded neither by Jesus’s teachings nor by his extraordinary deeds, she was won over by a simple request.157 And if she did not always grasp his meaning, her incomprehension still compares favorably with the reaction of Jewish interlocutors. For Nicodemus also failed to understand 153.  Hom. Jo. 32.2 (PG 59.185–86). 154.  Τὸ γὰρ, Θεωρῶ, τοῦτό ἐστι, Φαίνῃ μοι προφήτης εἶναι (Hom. Jo. 32.2 [PG 59.186]). 155.  [Ο]ὐδὲν βιωτικὸν αὐτὸν ἐρωτᾷ, οὐ περὶ σώματος ὑγιείας, οὐ περὶ χρημάτων, οὐ περὶ πλούτου, ἀλλὰ περὶ δογμάτων εὐθέως (Hom. Jo. 32.2 [PG 59.186]). 156.  Hom. Jo. 34.1 (PG 59.193). 157.  [Ἀ]πὸ ψιλῆς ἐρωτήσεως (Hom. Jo. 31.4 [PG 59.181]; see also ibid., 61.1 [PG 59.337]).

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Jesus’s words, despite the fact that he was a teacher of the law.158 And even if puzzled and doubtful, she did not react with scorn or ridicule. When Jesus claimed that he could give her superior water, she did not say, “He’s crazy and out of his mind; he’s tricking me about a fountain and a well, making inflated promises but producing nothing.”159 Nor did her lack of understanding lead to hostility. Unlike the Jews, she did not forbid or try to prevent others from approaching him. Instead, she kept an open mind and pursued the matter; and having heard his responses, she believed.160 When Chrysostom draws comparisons with his listeners, he is drilling his message home. Thus, he stresses their indifference to spiritual matters. He makes the point even before he comes to the moment in the story when the Samaritan woman arrives at the well. The fact that Jesus is sitting there alone at the sixth hour, having sent the disciples off to buy food, shows his casual disregard for bodily needs: that he had expended no thought on packing provisions for the journey, or on procuring them before dinnertime. He waited until everyone was eating even to think about food. Far different was the usual behavior of Chrysostom’s listeners. From the moment they get out of bed, their thoughts turn to dinner. They summon cooks and stewards and give them orders. While they prioritize their physical comfort and social position, Jesus acted quite otherwise. Weary from traveling, he rested beside the road, sitting not on a chair or a cushion, “but simply and casually on the ground.”161 Like Jesus, the Samaritan woman also focused on spiritual rather than bodily matters. She did not consider her comfort, but put up with heat, fatigue, and discomfort. And when Jesus offered her heavenly goods, she did not cling to earthly matters but disregarded her need for water and even abandoned her water jar. “Look at her enthusiasm and intelligence!” John urges.162 And when she openly admitted to her fellow villagers that Jesus had told her everything that she had ever done, she showed that she did not care about her reputation. She took no account of her shame, because “her soul had been set on fire.”163 It was, indeed, precisely to reveal her virtue that Jesus rebuked her. He spoke not in order to insult her, but in order to show her zeal, “that not even when exposed did she desist.”164 158.  Hom. Jo. 31.4, 32.1 (PG 59.181, 184). Comparison between the Samaritan woman and Nicodemus is, as Broc-­Schmezer notes, very frequent (Figures féminines, 34). 159.  Hom. Jo. 31.4 (PG 59.182). “They questioned him, not to gain knowledge, but just to mock him” (Hom. Jo. 33.2 [PG 59.191]). Although Jesus spoke more plainly to the Jews, they were scandalized, and abused and insulted him (Hom. Jo. 32.2 [PG 59.185]). 160.  Hom. Jo. 32.1, 55.1 (PG 59.184, 303); Homilia dicta in templo sanctae Anastasiae 1 (PG 63.493). 161.  Hom. Jo. 31.3 (PG 59.180). 162.  Σκόπει σπουδὴν καὶ σύνεσιν (Hom. Jo. 34.1 [PG 59.193]). 163.  [Π]υρωθῇ ψυχὴ τῷ πυρὶ τῷ θείῳ (Hom. Jo. 34.1 [PG 59.193]). 164.  Hom. Matt. 52.2 (PG 58.521).

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She was not an educated person—­Chrysostom insists on the point165—­and she did not always understand Jesus’s words, but she showed eagerness to learn. She persisted and paid attention. The contrast with Chrysostom’s congregation is ­patent: “If then the Samaritan woman showed such eagerness (spoudēn) to learn something useful and remained with Christ, although she did not know him, what forgiveness shall we receive—­we who know him and are not beside a well, nor in a deserted place, nor in the middle of the day, with the sun beating down, but in the early morning, under a roof such as this, enjoying shade and coolness—­if we do not persevere in listening to anything that is said, but show weariness?”166 Just as Jesus spoke to the Samaritan woman face-­to-­face, so, Chrysostom insists, Jesus stands now in the midst of the congregation, speaking to each person individually “through the prophets and the disciples.”167 His listeners should emulate her eagerness to learn by paying attention.168 But whereas she was not diverted from her quest for knowledge by the time of day, the heat, or the task at hand, they remain indolent and evince no interest in doctrine. None of them, he complains, studies scripture at home. Most do not even own books—­although everyone has dice and games—­and the few who do show as little interest in reading them as those who have none. Because they value them only for their costliness—­for the fineness of their parchment and elegance of their lettering—­they keep them tied up and stored away in chests: no one picks up a Bible or peruses its contents.169 But the Samaritan woman not only listened and believed, she also converted others.170 Her zealous action is the final proof of her fervent disposition. Having drunk from the spiritual spring, she did not want to keep the waters to herself but desired to share them with others. “The woman, the Samaritan, the foreigner, immediately became herald.”171 In her enthusiasm, she ran home to tell everyone what she had learned. Her zeal, however, was matched by her prudence. Adopting the same gradual approach that Jesus had used with her, she did not 165.  Hom. Jo. 33.2, 3 (PG 59.191); Homilia dicta in templo sanctae Anastasiae 1 (PG 63.493). It is on this basis that Chrysostom defends Jesus against objections that he should have cited other biblical passages in support of his identity (Figures féminines, 40); for other aspects of the Samaritan woman’s “social exclusion,” see ibid., 55–56. 166.  Hom. Jo. 31.5 (PG 59.182). 167.  The comparison, as Broc-­Schmezer notes (Figures féminines, 58–62), also implicitly suggests a likeness between Christ and Chrysostom. The comparison is made overt in his sixth homily on Lazarus (Laz. 6.2 [PG 48.1029]) and developed in Homilia dicta in templo sanctae Anastasiae 1 (PG 63.493). 168.  “Let us imitate the Samaritan woman: let us talk with Christ” (Hom. Jo. 31.5 [PG 59.182]). 169.  Hom. Jo. 32.3 (PG 59.186–87). For the prohibitive cost of books in late antiquity, see Bagnall, Early Christian Books, 50–69. 170.  Hom. Jo. 33.2 (PG 59.191). 171.  Hom. Gen. 44.1 (PG 54.406); Hom. Jo. 12.2 (PG 59.83).

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urge her fellow villagers to “Come and believe,” but issued the easier and therefore more attractive invitation: “Come and see.” And instead of immediately asserting his identity, she posed a question, “Can he be the Christ?”172 As Jesus had acted with her, so too she prompted her listeners to take initiative.173 In her eagerness to bring them to belief, she did not even try to conceal Jesus’s reproof: she willingly exposed her private life. And because of this openness, they believed her: they realized that her testimony was not motivated by gratitude or a desire to ingratiate herself.174 In his retelling of the episode, Chrysostom consistently presents the Samaritan woman as a model of zeal. She certainly exhibits this virtue in the evangelization of her village. Her initiative in spreading the news and her success in bringing others to belief compare favorably with the efforts of the other apostles, and John does not hesitate to call her a disciple. Like them, she cast her net effectively, and reeled in an impressive catch.175 But her decisive action is only one expression of her fervor. A far more important indicator is her attentive and teachable disposition. Throughout her conversation with Jesus, she stays focused, patient, and alert. Even when she doubts his assertions and has trouble understanding his point, she remains open to his instruction and examines the evidence. In her questions as well as in her responses, she shows an eagerness to learn and a consistent willingness to value spiritual goods ahead of bodily comfort or material needs. The point of the portrait is perfectly clear: John’s listeners are to shake off the careless indifference that hampers their spiritual progress and emulate the Samaritan woman’s fervor. The fact that she shows such enthusiasm means that anyone can imitate her mindset, since, as Chrysostom emphasizes, she was not only poor and uneducated, but also a foreigner with a disreputable past. He stresses these qualities not to shame his audience by suggesting that if someone like her managed to act well, they could surely do better—­for there can be no doubt that he truly admires her attitude and behavior and holds her up as a positive example. Her impressive zeal shows, rather, that the disposition is readily obtainable, that it is not in short supply or limited to nobler people. Her evident success in inspiring enthusiasm in others offers further proof that his listeners can acquire it. Hearing her story should therefore arouse in them emulous feelings, a desire to have the highly valued good that she enjoyed. Her example is effective precisely because 172.  Hom. Jo. 34.1 (PG 59.193). 173.  Hom. Jo. 32.2 (PG 59.186). 174.  Hom. Jo. 34.2 (PG 59.196). 175.  Chrysostom stresses the similarities between the Samaritan woman and the other disciples. Christ acted toward her as he did toward Nathanael: only after Nathanael asked, “How do you know me?” did Jesus reveal that he was a prophet (Hom. Jo. 32.2 [PG 59.186]). With Peter, he acted the same way (ibid., 19.1 [PG 59.121]); Broc-­Schmezer, Figures féminines, 48–49.

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it is achievable: her excellence lies, above all, in being an alert listener, in paying close attention and trying to understand, and then, after having grasped the point, in sharing it with others. This pedagogical sequence lies at the heart of Chrysostom’s program. He mobilizes the story of the Samaritan woman to inspire his listeners to want to change: to break free from the torpor of rhathymia by imitating her zeal.

Conclusion

Chrysostom’s engagement with the emotions is deep and sustained. It is evident throughout his massive corpus and shapes the exegetical as well as the paraenetic portions of his homilies. Indeed, it is especially evident in the former. Much of his scriptural commentary is devoted to exploring the feelings of biblical characters and to showing how those feelings arise from certain thoughts and ultimately influence their actions. These careful explorations are often prefaced by an exhortation to his listeners that they not pass quickly over a passage. In a letter written from exile, for example, he focuses Olympias’s attention on how the patriarch Joseph would have felt, when he was sold into slavery: Do not pass over lightly what has been said, but imagine what it was like for a wellborn young man, raised in his father’s house with every freedom and surrounded with such paternal love, to be sold suddenly by his brothers—although they had no charge to bring against him—and to be handed over to barbarians who spoke a different language and had strange customs and were more like wild beasts than humans; to become a city-­less person, a migrant and foreign slave instead of a free citizen, and after having enjoyed so much good fortune to be brought down to the extreme wretchedness of slavery, to which he was completely unaccustomed, and to receive exceptionally harsh masters and be taken away to a foreign and alien land.1

He lingers over feelings, noting their triggers, analyzing their complexity, and discussing exacerbating factors. 1.  Ep. Olymp. 10.11c (SC 13bis.284).

183

184     Conclusion

Certain emphases characterize his treatment of the three major emotions on which this study has focused. He labors the social logic of anger, the implicit values articulated by grief, and the imaginative aspect of fear. These themes, although telling and distinctive, are not exclusive. Anger also depends on an estimation of value, since it arises from a perception of an insult’s significance; and because this significance is partly based on an assessment of the potential impact of the slight on one’s standing in the eyes of others, it too involves imagination. Sorrow’s social aspect is patent inasmuch as it can be deepened and prolonged by the reactions of others; and the fact that it typically includes reflection on the goods and experiences that one might have enjoyed—­had loss not intervened—­shows that it too has a strongly imaginative component. Fear, moreover, never arises without an estimation of value, that something precious is threatened, and its clear social aspect is evident in the fact that it too can be caught, and intensified or diminished by the behavior or even the appearance of others. Like others of his time, Chrysostom was concerned to limit the dangers associated with strong feelings. Uncontrolled anger with its tendency to veer into violence was especially problematic, but sorrow did not lag far behind. To check the potential for excess, he offers a comprehensive array of therapeutic strategies, including behavioral modification, but he privileges rational argument. Many of these interventions are quite familiar from the late antique repertoire of emotional regulation, but to them he has added some distinctively Christian elements, such as the use of the sign of the cross and meditation on the afterlife, as well as the deliberate recall of scriptural stories. It cannot be said, however, that his goal is the suppression of emotion. To the contrary, he insists again and again on its utility. This conviction springs from a commitment to scripture, with its implicit endorsement of a wide range and a great intensity of feeling, but it derives more centrally from his analysis of the human condition and, in particular, its besetting weakness. Hampered by indifference and arrested by inertia, humans all too often lack motivation to make progress in virtue. They readily give in to lethargy and lazily accede to whatever seems easiest. Thus, to prompt caring and stimulate action, Chrysostom deliberately triggers feelings. Negative ones, precisely because of their powerful aversive charge, are especially effective goads, and it is for this reason that he prizes them. His preaching aims at the inculcation of zeal. Once fully internalized, this fervent disposition provides not only the initial impetus to virtue, but also its steady, reliable fuel. In addition to stimulating vigor, feelings also reinforce particular beliefs. A strongly internalized fear makes real the doctrine of the Last Judgment, even as awe supports the mystical reality of the Eucharist; penitential sorrow brings home the gravity of sin; and anger expresses the obligations of justice and compassion. To feel these feelings—­and to feel them sharply—­is proof that one has internalized

Conclusion    185

these beliefs and values: as the signs of effective formation, they show that one is in fact a Christian.2 The centrality of emotions to Chrysostom’s homiletic program demands some adjustment in our assessment of his self-­understanding. In important ways, it supports the growing consensus that he saw himself as a medical-­philosophical therapist.3 Medical imagery shapes much of his analysis of the passions. It informs his explanations of the physiological sensations that signal their arousal as well as many of his recommended therapeutic responses. In the extensive writings of Galen, one can find intriguing parallels. Chrysostom’s recourse to medical language and reliance upon its theoretical substrate seems, however, quite uneven: although marked in his discussion of sadness, and significant in his conception of anger, it is not noticeably present in his treatment of either fear or zeal, arguably the two emotions most vital to his constructive program. His reliance on the philosophical tradition is similarly ambiguous. His use of the terms philosopher and to philosophize, is both frequent and positive, and his dependence upon Aristotle’s definition of the pathē is everywhere apparent. For his descriptions of the impact and treatment of the emotions, he draws readily on the traditions of various philosophical schools. But at the same time, the depth of his engagement with these systems remains elusive, and his precise commitments hard to pin down. He may recommend certain therapeutic techniques and even adopt technical phrases, but these borrowings do not seem to signal wholehearted allegiance. In particular, his identification of indifference as the major impediment to virtue and thus his sustained endorsement of fear and, to a lesser degree, sadness and anger must preclude any conclusion that his program is essentially Stoic. What emerges far more clearly from his writings is the importance he attributes to scriptural stories. These form the core of his teaching and constitute much of what is most distinctive about his approach. Any presentation of his program that would seem to suggest that they could be stripped away from his thought, as though clothing deeper commitments, must be resisted.4 His teaching cannot be presented accurately apart from the stories that inform it. 2.  Chrysostom’s program of individual formation, if sustained, would presumably have had an impact on the congregation as a whole, forming perhaps what Barbara Rosenwein has termed an “emotional community” (Emotional Communities, 20–29). 3.  Mayer, “Shaping the Sick Soul”; “Persistence in Late Antiquity”; Leyerle, “Etiology of Sorrow.” 4.  Mayer makes this suggestion (“Shaping the Sick Soul,” 153), although it perhaps should be taken as a thought experiment. Veronica Easterling criticizes Martha Nussbaum’s work for seeming to assume that stories function solely as a kind of ethics lab to help people perceive and work through moral complexities (“Cognitive Theory,” 84). Johnston’s argument, to the contrary, that myth was central to ancient religion (Story of Myth), and that its impact stemmed largely from the fostering of complex ties between individuals and mythic characters resonates strongly with Chrysostom’s agenda.

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Through stories, Chrysostom explores the sensations associated with the various emotions, discloses their underlying thought patterns, and traces their impact. But the end he seeks is not purely cognitive. He consistently urges his congregation to enter these narrative worlds, and promises that doing so will transform them. By exposing them to new patterns of feeling and reaction, these narratives enlarge his listeners’ understanding of others and of themselves. They teach them that no matter how instinctive or imperative feelings may appear, emotions are neither inevitable nor immutable: they can be altered, and people can react differently. By encouraging identification with the feelings and decisions of the protagonists, as well as execration of the reactions of the antagonists, stories arouse both aversion and longing. Both, if sustained, will effect change. To have this transformative effect, however, stories must become deeply internalized or, in Chrysostom’s words, “inscribed” on the mindset. In his manual on child-­rearing, he makes this goal explicit and sets out a clearly articulated program. He makes no effort to conceal its deliberately corrective nature: scriptural stories must replace the classical myths, which installed a pattern of feelings and beliefs contrary to Christian teaching. To break the hold of these traditional tales, he offers new stories. Instead of Jason’s quest for the golden fleece, he relates the offering of Abel. To aid in the internalization of these stories, he recommends a deliberate program of narrative installments, intentional repetition, and invited recall. He urges parents to give thought to the artistry of their narration: they must try to make their stories attractive and appealing to their children by adding scenic details and by forging connections to their lived experience. This advice corresponds to his own homiletic practice. In his preaching, we see him routinely breaking stories into smaller units and stimulating recall by the deliberate use of questions. He consistently fills out plotlines by adding contextual detail, by inserting dialogue and imagined thoughts, and by drawing contemporary analogies. To his way of thinking, such amplification does not add anything new; it simply clarifies what is already implicit in the scriptural record. These stories are, in many cases, prompted by the lectionary readings, but he develops them with an eye toward the classical canon. In place of Achilles’s wrath, he tells the counter-­story of David’s gentleness. Above all, he returns again and again to the same scene or scriptural verse: I am saying the same things again, so that I might root them, plant them, lodge them deeply . . . so that even when you leave you will not be able to lose them. For just as when I put gold in a money bag, I tie it up and seal it, so that no robber may take it while I am away, so I do with respect to you, my beloved: with my continual teaching, I tie up and affix seals, and make your mindset secure, so that it may not become feeble through indifference. . . . These words stem not from a desire to hear myself speak, but from a teacher’s concern, affection, and longing that his words not

Conclusion    187 come to nothing. To say these things is not burdensome for me, and it is in your best interest. I want to teach, not simply make a display.5

Redundancy is essential to his purpose and designed to drive home the message. Reiteration also allows Chrysostom to exploit the narrative potential inherent in the philosophical notion of the unity of the emotions: the conviction that any strong feeling inevitably entails all the others. He often revisits a story to explore the impact of different emotions, as well as to trace the relationship between them. Depending on how it is told, for example, the story of Cain can illustrate the dynamics of anger, grief, or fear. As a tale of revenge, it shows how anger typically arises from an unexpected and undeserved slight and can be exacerbated by the presence of admired others. Delving into the elder brother’s train of thought allows Chrysostom to uncover the illogic of this reaction and to show convincingly that sorrow would have been a more honest reaction. The story yields itself just as readily, however, to an exploration of fear. By highlighting the contrasting fates of the two brothers, John can build a persuasive argument against fear: that death, even in its most unjust and violent forms, is not an evil, and thus not something to be feared. Far more often, however, he recounts the story to convey the benefits of fear. Had Cain not suffered from a lack of fear, he would never have committed murder, nor would he have thought that he could hide his crime. The sentence God laid upon him, of living in constant fear and trembling, was thus remedial, as well as appropriately retributive: it punished his crime, even as it instilled the virtuous feeling-­ state that had been lacking. By attributing different emotions—­and the thoughts that sustain them—­to the same literary figures, Chrysostom gives the characters roundness, and enhances his listeners’ sense of their reality. Because the figures seem more real, they gain credibility as exemplars. At the same time, this narrative richness enables listeners to experience the philosophical conviction that feelings are interconnected, that to correct one, one must reorient them all. To achieve this goal, simply coming to church and listening to the preaching is not sufficient. Adults, like children, must reinforce these lessons by reviewing and discussing the stories at home.6 The process, as he enjoins it, is an active one: while the memory of his preaching is still fresh, “the husband should ask his wife about the passage of scripture read and the things said there [in church], and the wife her husband.”7 The emotional impact of these stories, as Chrysostom 5.  Laz. 6.9 (PG 48.1042). Members of his congregation must arouse themselves to listen attentively and retain what they have heard (Serm. Gen. 7.1 [SC 433.304]). If they continue in the same state of indifference, they will reap no advantage even if Chrysostom “were to make this spiritual teaching ring in [their] ears day in and day out” (Hom. Gen. 21.6 [PG 53.183]; see also Hom. Eph. 1–2 [PG 62.151]). 6.  Phoc. 4 (PG 50.706). 7.  Hom. Eph. 20.8 (PG 62.147); see also Phoc. 4 (PG 50.706).

188     Conclusion

tells them, increases the likelihood of this sharing, as modern studies suggest that people actively want to pass on information that they find emotionally arousing.8 Recall and discussion should ideally be paired up with a domestic program of reading. They should “take the sacred books in their hands and diligently receive the benefit of their contents.”9 Children too, should be exposed to biblical stories from the earliest age and be encouraged “to spend their time reading scripture.”10 Those among his listeners who could not read, or who lacked access to books, could still recite the stories they had heard.11 The setting that John envisages for this activity is the same as that found in his advice on child-­rearing: the dinner table, after the meal had been served and eaten.12 The recommendation was perhaps informed by a desire to supplant other, more traditional kinds of postprandial entertainment, but it seems principally designed to promote a practical program that most people could follow, and that would lead to the memorization of biblical stories.13 Once they have been thoroughly internalized, relevant scenes will spring to mind in situations of heightened emotional arousal. When anger flares, for example, a single phrase can effectively stem the impulse to vengeance—­and the scriptures are full of apposite examples.14 If his listeners find themselves growing heated as a result of verbal exchange, they can recall Jesus’s words to the high priest’s servant, “If I have spoken badly, bear witness to it, but if not, why do you hit me?” (Jn 18:23). Alternatively, they can repeat the injunction that “we must reconcile with our enemies,” or reflect on the maxim that “we suffer for Christ.”15 This latter phrase, he promises, will provide sufficient consolation in whatever situation we encounter.16 8. Berger, Contagious, 93–124, esp. 122–24. 9.  Hom. Gen. 29.2 (PG 53.262). “The grace of the Spirit caused the Lord’s words to be transmitted in writing,” so that we might benefit from them (Laz. 7.2 [PG 48.1048]). Women, because they spend much of their time at home, “can be attentive to prayers and readings, and other such disciplines” (Hom. Jo. 61.3 [PG 59340]). 10.  Hom. Eph. 21.1, 2 (PG 61.151). 11.  “Let the husband recount what was said, and let the woman learn, and let the children also hear, and let not even the household slaves be deprived of this opportunity to listen” (Serm. Gen. 6.2 [SC 433.296]). 12.  The sequence is especially clear in his sixth sermon on Genesis: “[A]fter the material meal, let the spiritual meal be set before you” (μετὰ τῆς σωματικῆς τραπέζης καὶ ἡ τράπεζα ὑμῖν παρατιθέσθω ἡ πνευματική) (Serm. Gen. 6.2 [SC 433.296]). For this “second table,” see also ibid,. 7.1 (SC 433.300); Hom. 2 Thess. 2.3 (PG 62.477). 13.  For jesting and laughter, see Hom. Eph. 17.3 (PG 61.120); for theatrical entertainment (skits and songs), see Hom. Matt. 48.5 (PG 58.495–96); Hom. Rom. 24.3 (PG 60.626); Hom. 2 Thess. 2.3 (PG 62.477). 14.  Hom. Act. 29.4 (PG 60.219). 15.  Stat. 20.5 (PG 49.205); Hom. 2 Tim. 9.3 (PG 62.654). In suggesting these maxims, Chrysostom may have had specific passages in mind (e.g., Mt 5:24–25), but it is equally possible that he is summarizing the gist of several scriptural passages. 16.  Hom. 2 Tim. 9.3 (PG 62.654).

Conclusion    189

At times, the process can sound almost automatic, and Chrysostom’s recourse to medical language increases this effect. He touts the words of scripture as a kind of “divine medicine” that calms the inflammation and wounds of every irrational passion “as soon as it enters the soul of each person through his hearing.”17 But his expanded comments show that this perception is somewhat misleading. Scripture does indeed have profoundly curative powers and, like medicine, heals from within, but its potency depends upon active mental engagement. In order for short sayings to be effective, listeners must call to mind the entire narrative: they must imagine “the one speaking, and to whom and about what he speaks.”18 Chrysostom’s characteristic command, and one that he employs over nine hundred times, is Ennoēson. This imperative is typically rendered as “Consider,” which, although accurate, fails to capture the emotional investment of the process. Strenuous mental activity is required, but not of the type needed to grapple with intellectual propositions. It is rather that listeners must place themselves imaginatively into the scene. As John clarifies in the letter to Olympias with which this chapter began, it is not enough simply to know the plot; she must enter into the narrative and share the feelings. A better translation for the exhortation would therefore be “Imagine.” It urges listeners to engage with both feeling and reflection. And to help them do so, a vivid description usually follows. When this kind of total investment occurs, even short excerpts can have a powerful effect. Abraham’s words to Sarah, “Hurry and mix,” offer an apt example. These simple words are designed to trigger a scene from the patriarch’s story. When three visitors arrived at the Oak of Mamre, the couple had no idea who they were. Indeed, Chrysostom suggests that the patriarch and his wife “thought that 17.  It is a kind of medicine (Laz. 3.2 [PG 48.993]); “it wards off despondency, preserves good s­pirits .  .  . and destroys suffering” (In illud: Ne timueritis 2.1 [PG 55.513]; see also Hom. Jo. 37.1 [PG 59.207]; Hom. Gen. 29.2 [PG 53.262]; Hom. 2 Tim. 9.3 [PG 62.654]). It works as a “divine chant” (θείας. . .ἐπῳδῆς) (Bapt. 1 [PG 49.363]). The use of the language of song, and of chanting (“Let the mouth sing and the mind be instructed” [καὶ ψαλλέτω τὸ στόμα, καὶ παιδευέσθω ὁ νοῦς]), might seem to suggest the psalms (Hom. Rom. 28.2 [PG 60.651]), and John does explicitly recommend “continual meditation” on particular psalm verses and proverbs, when walking about in public (Comm. Prov. 6.20 [Bady, “Commentaire,” 240]; In illud: Ne timueritis 1.3 [PG 55.503]). Andrew Mellas thus interprets the injunctions in this way (“Tears of Compunction,” 165–68). But Chrysostom is clear that all scripture (stories as well as exhortations [ἐν  ἱστορίᾳ ἢ  παραινέσει]) functions similarly (Hom. Act. 29.4 [PG 60.219]). The attribution of healing powers to song is ancient. For a brief discussion, see my “Etiology of Sorrow,” 375–76. 18.  Καὶ ἐννόησον τὸν λέγοντα καὶ πρὸς τίνα φησὶ καὶ τίνος ἕνεκεν (Incomp. 1.396–9 [SC 28bis.136]). Brottier makes a similar argument, but stresses the visual rather than the narrative nature of the process and identifies Chrysostom’s goal as properly theological (that his listeners should grasp the economy of salvation and the imbrication of history within eternity, and identify with Christ) rather than as largely ethical (that his listeners should learn to regulate their emotions and thereby change their behavior) (Appel des “demi-­chrétiens,” 239–83, esp. 274–83).

190     Conclusion

they were some poor people.”19 But despite the unprepossessing appearance of the travelers, the heat of the day, and the fact that Abraham and Sarah were elderly, and had many servants whom they could have delegated to tend to the strangers, they themselves rushed to make them welcome.20 Abraham ran into the tent and urged his wife, “Hurry, hurry. . . . Hurry and mix three measures (Gn 18:6).”21 The directive, John notes, was demanding and burdensome, the manual labor of mixing so much flour, considerable. But Sarah did not retort angrily; she did not say, “What is this? Was it with these hopes that I married you: that you would make me, a woman who has so much wealth, into someone who turns a mill and makes bread? You have three hundred and eighteen slaves—­and yet you choose not to give them orders, but press me into this service?”22 Instead of spurning the request, she responded to it with enthusiasm.23 Her zeal was so great that she did not even notice the effort involved in mixing three measures of flour. “Observe how everything is done with speed, with ardent enthusiasm, with gladness, with joy, with great delight.”24 Chrysostom exhorts his listeners—­both men and women—­to imitate her.25 For when it comes to zeal, there is no difference between the genders.26 The hortatory verbs, “Hurry, mix,” are stimulating in themselves, and their effect is amplified by the narrative arc they conjure, which is one of unforeseen, even staggering reward for acts of ready generosity. The immediate context in which John delivers the advice is, as one might have anticipated, that of almsgiving—­and he takes every opportunity to drive the familiar point home—­but it is the story itself that gives the exhortation its persuasive force. At the center of Chrysostom’s preaching lies an investment in stories as a means of emotional therapy, and it is this that forms the core of its appeal. Even though we encounter his words mediated through writing, and attenuated by a distance of over sixteen centuries, their power remains palpable. One can only imagine the heightened impact of the original auditory performance. The church historian 19.  Ἐνόμιζον γὰρ αὐτοὺς πένητας εἶναί τινας (In illud: Ne timueritis 1.7 [PG 55.509]). 20.  Hom. Gen. 41.3–4 (PG 53.378–79); Abraham was “an old man, a gray-­head, a centenarian” (ὁ  γεγηρακὼς, ὁ πεπολιωμένος, ὁ ἑκατονταέτης) (ibid., at 41.4 [PG 53.379]). He was perspiring with the heat (In illud: Ne timueritis 1.4 [PG 55.506]). 21.  [Σ]πεῦσον, σπεῦσον. . . . Σπεῦσον, καὶ φύρασον τρία μέτρα (In illud: Ne timueritis 1.5 [PG 55.506–7]). 22.  In illud: Ne timueritis 1.5 (PG 55.507). 23.  Hom. Gen. 41.5 (PG 53.381). 24.  Hom. Gen. 41.6 (PG 53.382). 25.  In illud: Ne timueritis 1.5, 1.6 (PG 55.506, 508); Hom. Gen. 41.5 (PG 53.381). 26.  Broc-­Schmezer reaches a similar conclusion: the qualities that Chrysostom celebrates in biblical women are not particularly “feminine,” but pertain to all people (Figures féminines, 474–79, 518). Drawing attention to the lowliness of biblical figures—­as conveyed by conventional indicators, such as menial status, barbarian ethnicity, or female gender—­can accentuate the ready availability of those good qualities and thus support the preacher’s efforts to arouse zeal.

Conclusion    191

Sozomen has left us a description: “He helped the majority of those who heard him in church to live more virtuously, and he brought them to share his views about holiness. For by conducting himself in a godly way, he instilled emulous desire (zēlon) in his listeners by his own virtue. And he convinced them easily, since he did not force them by some trick of speech or strength of rhetoric to adopt his beliefs, but he simply narrated (exēgeito) the holy books in all their truth.”27 He changed his listeners by expounding stories. According to friends and enemies alike, John Chrysostom was a passionate man and, as he preached, his feelings intensified. He did not hold himself up for emulation, but his audience reacted sympathetically to his words. By his own account, they shared his righteous anger at the inhumanity of the rich man, and the pity he felt for the poor man, Lazarus. They grieved with him over the ravages of sin and the plight of unrepentant sinners, and they trembled with fear at the prospect of the Judgment.28 Above all, they felt his zeal. His fiery intensity roused them from their natural indifference and stimulated caring. It was this response that he hoped they would make their own: he hoped that they would leave church with the words, “Hurry and mix” ringing in their ears, go home, and put them into action.

27.  Hist. eccl. 8.2 (SC 516.234–36). The technical term exegesis, or explanation, comes from this Greek verb. But it is quite possible that Sozomen uses the word in its more general sense. 28.  Establishing an emotional bond between preacher and audience, Yannis Papadogiannakis notes, is crucial to the efficacy of Chrysostom’s pastoral program (“Homiletics and the History of Emotions,” 305).

Bi bliogra phy

Abbreviations follow the SBL Handbook of Style. Galen’s works are abbreviated as follows: Aff. Pecc. Dig. = De Propriorum Animi Cuiuslibet Affectuum Dignotione et Curatione, De Animi Cuiuslibet Peccatorum Digotione et Curatione [The Diagnosis and Treatment of the Affections and Errors Peculiar to Each Person’s Soul] Ind. = De Indolentia [Avoiding Distress] Loc. Aff.= De Locis Affectis [On the Affected Parts] MM = De Methodo Medendi [The Therapeutic Method] QAM = Quod Animi Mores Corporis Temperamenta Sequuntur [The Capacities of the Soul Depend on the Mixtures of the Body] P R I M A RY L I T E R AT U R E

Editions: John Chrysostom Bady, Guillaume. “Le Commentaire inédit sur les proverbes attribué à Jean Chrysostome. Introduction, édition critique et traduction.” PhD diss., Université de Lyon, 2003. Barone, Francesca P., ed. Iohannis Chrysostomi. De Davide et Saule. Homiliae Tres. CCSG 70. Turnhout: Brepols, 2008. Brottier, Laurence, ed. Jean Chrysostome. Sermons sur la Genèse. SC 433. Paris: Cerf, 1998. Daniélou, Jean, Anne-­Marie Malingrey, and Robert Flacelière, eds. Jean Chrysostome. Sur l’incompréhensibilité de Dieu. SC 28bis. Paris: Cerf, 2000. Dumortier, Jean, ed. Jean Chrysostome. A Théodore. SC 117. Paris: Cerf, 1966. ———, ed. Jean Chrysostome. Les cohabitations suspectes: Comment observer la virginité. Paris: Belles Lettres, 1955. ———, ed. Jean Chrysostome. Commentaire sur Isaïe. SC 304. Paris: Cerf, 1983. 193

194     Bibliography ———, ed. Jean Chrysostome. Homélies sur Ozias (In illud, Vidi Dominum). SC 277. Paris: Cerf, 1981. Festugière, André-­Jean, O.P., and Bernard Grillet, eds. Sozomène. Histoire ecclésiastique. Livres VII–IX. Paris: Cerf. 2008 Grillet, Bernard, and Gérard H. Ettlinger, S.J., eds. Jean Chrysostome. A une jeune veuve: Sur la mariage unique. SC 138. Paris: Cerf, 1968. Leanza, Sandro, ed. Procopii Gazaei catena in Ecclesiasten necnon Pseudochrysostomici Commentarius in eundem Ecclesiasten. CCSG 4. Brepols: Turnhout, 1978. Malingrey, Anne-­Marie, ed. Jean Chrysostome. Lettre d’exil. SC 103. Paris: Cerf, 1964. ———. Jean Chrysostome. Lettres à Olympias. SC 13bis. Paris: Cerf, 1968. ———. Jean Chrysostome. Sur la providence de Dieu. SC 79. Paris: Cerf, 2000. ———. Jean Chrysostome. Sur la vaine gloire et l’éducation des enfants. SC 188. Paris: Cerf, 1972. ———. Jean Chrysostome. Sur le sacerdoce. SC 272. Paris: Cerf, 2007. Malingrey, Anne-­Marie, and Philippe Leclerq, eds. Palladios: Dialogue sur la vie de Jean Chrysostome. SC 341. Paris: Cerf, 1988. Musurillo, Herbert, and Bernard Grillet, eds. Jean Chrysostome: La virginité. SC 125. Paris: Cerf, 1966. Peleanu, Adina, ed. Jean Chrysostome: Homélies sur l’impuissance du diable. SC 560. Paris: Cerf, 2013. Périchon, Pierre, S.J., and Pierre Maraval, eds. Socrate de Constantinople: Histoire ecclésiastique. Livres IV–VI. Paris: Cerf. 2006. Piédagnel, Auguste, ed. Jean Chrysostome: Panégyriques de Saint Paul. SC 300. Paris: Cerf, 2013. Schatkin, Margaret A., Cécile Blanc, Bernard Grillet, and Jean-­Noël Guinot, eds. Jean Chrysostome: Sur Babylas. SC 362. Paris: Cerf, 1990. Sorlin, Henri, and Louis Neyrand, S.J. eds. Jean Chrysostome: Commentaire sur Job. SC 346, 348. Paris: Cerf, 1988. Wenger, Antoine, ed. Jean Chrysostome: Huit catéchèses baptismales. SC 50bis. Paris: Cerf, 1957. ———, ed. “Restauration de l’Homélie de Chrysostome sur Eléazar et les sept frères Macchabées (PG 63, 523–530).” In Texte und Textkritik. Eine Aufsatzsammlung, edited by J. Dummer, J. Irmscher, F. Paschke and K. Treu, 599–604. TU 133. Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 1987. Other Ancient Writers Kühn, Karl Gottlob, ed. Claudii Galeni Opera Omnia: Medicorum Graecorum Opera Quae Exstant 1–20. Hildesheim, Germany: Georg Olms Verlag, 1964–65. Von Arnim, Hans. Stoicorum Veterum Fragmenta. Leipzig: Teubner, 1903–1924. Wittern, Renate, ed. Die hippokratische Schrift De morbis I: Ausgabe, Uebersetzung und Erläuterungen. Hildescheim, Germany: Georg Olms Verlag, 1974. SE C O N DA RY L I T E R AT U R E

Abel, F.-­M. “Une croisière a la mer morte (suite).” RB 7, no. 1 (1910): 92–112. Alexiou, Margaret. The Ritual Lament in Greek Tradition. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1974.

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Inde x

Abel, 8–10, 12–13, 15, 26–27, 38–39, 84–85, 114, 129–30, 140–47, 152, 186 Abraham, 39–40, 74, 82–83, 120, 129, 130–31, 165n80, 189–90 acclamations, 60n190, 67, 168 Achilles, 7, 27, 52, 59, 186 adage. See maxims Adam, 94, 151, 165 admiration, 4, 39, 59–60, 164, 177–78 adulterer/adultery, 71, 79n95, 146–47 Ahab, 67, 94 alms/almsgiving, 24n15, 68–69, 76, 96, 118–20, 190 amulets, 61, 83–84, 170 anagnōrisis, 11 analogies, 14, 33, 35, 86, 186; imperial, 132–33, 157, 168; martyrological, 83–84, 170; pedagogical, 9–10, 147 Ananias and Sapphira, 46n136, 67 angels, 68, 136n131, 152, 156, 158–59 Antioch, 48, 52, 100, 128, 131–32, 134, 153–54 appearance: of anger, 32–34, 36; deceptive, 72–73, 106n252; of mourners, 80; of punishment, 133–34; of sin, 161–62; and status, 66–69, 190 applause, 10–11, 36n78 Aristotle, 3, 70, 93, 185; on anger, 21–23, 25–31, 37, 51; on drama, 11, 16–17; on emulation 166–68; on fear, 120–24, 127–28, 141; on shame, 160, 162

ascetics/asceticism, 90–92; lifestyle of, 76–77, 88; perspective of, 42, 97 awe, 20, 156–62, 166, 175, 184 Barlaam (martyr), 167 bile, 30–31, 36, 85–86 blasphemy, 51, 108–9; in response to illness, 85–87, 98; in response to injustice, 84, 108; in response to loss, 65–66, 74–75, 81, 98–99, 101–3; as result of indolence, 153–54 blood, 85, 102, 165n80; of Christ, 156–58; and emotion, 30–31, 162, 155; of Abel, 9, 38, 143; of the martyrs, 167–68 bunching, 123, 125. See also solidarity Cain, 8–10, 12–13, 16, 26–27, 37–39, 91, 114, 116–17, 129–30, 139–49, 152, 187 Canaanite woman. See Syro-­Phoenician woman Carroll, Noël, 11 catechetical instructions, 19, 135–36 catharsis, 11, 17 children, 111, 171; behavior of, 28–30, 36n77, 123; biblical, 8, 14, 77, 102–6, 140, 174; desire for, 84; and greed, 66, 68, 77; how to raise, 7–10, 12, 16, 18, 41–42, 45, 50, 53, 113–15, 139–40, 147–48, 153, 186–88; among martyrs, 167–68, 170; part of household, 72, 91, 188; reaction to, 37, 113, 126–27; sickness and death of, 78, 81–83, 85, 95–96, 103, 170

209

210     Index Christ: actions of, 49, 79, 81, 96, 124–25, 133; relics of, 171n119; suffering of, 41, 51, 62, 82, 188; words of, 37, 42, 75n69, 95, 131, 138, 174, 178 180–81. See also Jesus clergy, 118, 153 cohesiveness. See solidarity commandment, 13, 144, 151–52 comparison, 11, 32, 51, 53, 66–67, 126; source of grief, 70–71, 76, 91, 174; source of consolation, 75–76, 80, 83, 92, 101, 110; to apostles and martyrs, 83–84, 176, 181; to everyday life, 9, 37, 72n44, 160–161, 163n65, 178–80; to Jews, 178–79. See also analogies compassion, 15, 118, 121–22, 127, 184 confession, 37, 95, 143, 145–46, 149, 161, 176n143 confidence, 98, 137–38, 159; opposite of fear, 121, 124n69, 128, 130, 149 congregation(s): address to, 14, 18, 56, 83, 115, 118, 134–35, 159, 163, 185n2, 186–87; behavior of, 118, 124–25, 156, 171, 180; composition of, 7, 20, 24, 43n119, 68–69, 148; opinions of, 10, 24, 28, 49, 99–100, 118, 129, 131, 135 conscience, 73, 95, 134, 146–48, 161; implanted by nature, 143 contagion, 37, 122–23, 126–27, 139, 170n114, 187–88 contempt, 177, 179; cause of anger, 16, 22, 24–26, 38, 41; felt by powerful, 121; linked to indifference, 91, 151; virtuous, 130–31 Corinthians, 47, 91n170, 115 corpse, 81, 102, 130, 135, 142, 162–63 counterfactual speech, 42n114, 74 courage, 44–45, 60, 126, 128n92, 130, 141, 168 cross: sign of, 35, 42, 61–62, 184 curses, 29, 42n114, 57, 86, 108, 145 Darwin, Charles, 162 David, 25, 38, 52–61, 92, 94–95, 145, 148, 173, 186 death: desire for, 86, 90, 170n113; most fearful, 7, 112n1, 128–31; natural, 77, 85, 96, 98–99, 103, 128–30, 134; occasion of grief, 6, 58, 77–79, 81–82, 98, 102–3, 139, 142, 146; premature, 66, 88; unjust/violent, 38, 83, 102, 119, 122, 129, 187 delight: false, 65, 67, 132, 164; increased by fear, 124n67, 135; and narrative, 8, 12, 59; true, 94, 97, 190 demons, 125; and anger, 32n54, 45–46; and despair, 91, 95n198; and vice, 160, 165n76 desire: innate, 21, 105, 114n14, 161; mobilization of, 59–60, 67–69, 154, 171–72, 176, 181; negative, 57, 61, 64, 66–70, 95, 101, 115–16,

169; positive, 43, 48, 50, 54, 137, 155, 166–67, 174, 176–81, 186, 188 despair, 63, 79–80, 82, 90–92, 120; and indolence, 67, 95, 98; remedies against, 99–100, 110–11; in scripture, 6, 14, 74, 83n116, 100, 106, 173 detachment, 65, 68, 99, 101 devil (Satan), 45n133, 106n252, 142n157, 151; and blasphemy, 101–2; and passion, 62n195, 91n166, 95n198, 117n34, 137n136; responsible for misfortune, 64, 101–2, 105n245, 107 dialogue, 40, 60, 186 disciples, 29, 45, 97n209, 174n135, 178–81; and fear, 124, 128, 130–31, 137–38; and grief, 80n101, 83n116 disease, 85–86, 104–5, 122, 133; of anger, 32, 36–37, 46; and luxury, 67, 88; and sadness, 87–88, 90–91, 93, 98; of vainglory, 96 disgust, 4, 16, 20, 33, 162–66, 175; and anger, 43, 51; and luxury, 2, 75, 163–64; elicited by Job, 104; felt by Noah, 6, 15 Dives/the rich man, 11, 73–75, 94n184 and 189, 116, 121–22, 136, 143n168, 153, 191 doctors, 36–37, 47, 54, 67–68, 82–83, 87–88, 133n116, 161 dogs: as figures of shame, 34–37, 75, 129, 174; guardian, 45, 50 domestic violence, 28, 39–40, 115, 126 drunkenness, 23–24, 71, 74, 79n99, 116 eclipse: solar, 153 education, 18–19, 117n31, 139 Eli, 24, 92, 104n241 Elijah, 94, 131, 159 emulation: negative, 7, 151n3; positive, 42, 57–58, 60, 74, 99, 108–9, 111, 166–76, 180–82, 191 engraving. See inscription envy, 16, 43, 95, 165–67; felt by Cain, 12, 27n28, 139–41; and sadness, 20, 64, 70–76, 98, 165 epilepsy, 90 Esau, 8, 11–12, 15 eschatology. See judgment Euripides, 30n45, 160 Eve, 84–85, 142–43, 151 excrement, 33, 43, 72n44, 162–64 exemplars, 53, 61, 64, 79, 95, 109, 173, 181, 187; feminine, 174–76, 178; pagan, 77–78 exile, 9, 86, 131, 171; of Chrysostom, 80n101, 89, 183; of David, 25, 54–55, 58; from Eden, 151 Fall, 151 father(s), 66, 78, 81–82, 119, 183; Abraham as exemplary, 83; as disciplinary figures, 113–14,

Index    211 116, 117n31, 148; Job as exemplary, 77, 102–4; owed honor, 15, 41; as teachers of sons, 7–10, 12–13, 16, 42, 45, 53, 140–41, 147–48 fever, 30–32, 38, 68, 71, 82, 86n132, 87–88 fight or flight response, 113, 155 fights, 23, 35, 38, 113, 155 fig tree, 29 friends: of Chrysostom, 1, 19, 87, 113; and confidence, 121–22; and grief, 80, 96, 107–8; impact on anger, 23, 26n24, 37–38, 45, 55, 58 Galen, 185; on anger, 22n5, 26n26, 28n39, 30, 32n58, 35n70, 37n84, 38n91, 41n112, 42; on grief, 79n99, 88, 90 gender, 33–34, 170, 190 gentleness: of David, 54, 56–58, 186; not always virtuous, 154, 162; opposite of anger, 35–36, 41, 51, 61–62; result of fear, 114–15 Gibbon, Edward, 1 Goldie, Peter, 106 Goliath, 60 Good Samaritan, 130 gratitude, 37, 181; lessens grief, 75, 81, 83–85, 99–100, 107, 110 greed: of Cain, 12, 141; and disgust, 163–65; fosters sadness, 20, 66–68, 72, 76, 88, 98 habit, 17, 91, 100; changing, 118, 160; and vice, 72, 94, 142, 151; and virtue, 18, 35 Hagar, 82–83 Hannah, 23–24, 41n109, 85n126, 109n269, 174n136 hatred, 20, 22, 26, 54, 60, 141. See also hostility heaven, 4, 42, 81–82, 97, 107, 119–20; and Abel, 9–10, 15, 147; and treasure, 68, 119 hell, 16, 23, 115–16, 119–20, 122, 131, 135–37, 148–49, 156, 175 hierarchy, 130–31, 157–59; domestic, 40, 115, 126–27; social, 22–25 Hippocrates, 85n130, 88n150 homily. See preaching honor, 9, 31, 34, 57, 61, 68, 99, 129, 140–41, 144, 161, 166; civic, 7, 67, 71, 105, 121; desire for, 19, 26–27, 50, 69, 80; domestic, 15, 38–39, 41; loss of, 9, 27, 50–51, 53, 59, 141, 161; of martyrs, 168–71 hope, 15, 95, 98–99, 110–11, 120, 124; lack of, 87, 92 hostility, 34, 54, 59–60, 71, 76, 106, 125, 177, 179 humoral theory, 30–31, 36, 85–86, 88 identification: with a character, 14, 59, 147, 186 illness, 36, 54, 61, 64, 67, 72, 82–88, 93, 104, 170

imagination, 5–6, 14, 20, 39, 51–52, 59–60, 71–72, 74, 105, 167, 183–84, 189; crucial to fear, 119, 135–37, 139, 142, 158; intrinsic to shame, 160–62 imitation, 17, 36, 42, 53–54, 58, 76, 103, 107, 167–82 imperial protocol, 132, 157 incantations, 62n195, 68, 89, 92n179 indifference. See rhathymia inflammation, 54, 87, 189 insanity, 32, 36, 45, 86 inscription, 61, 111, 118; as Chrysostom’s goal, 15, 18–19, 61, 135, 139, 148, 171, 186; juridical, 48n145, 133, 144–46, 148 insult, 16, 95, 126, 128, 147, 179; basis of anger, 22–42, 44, 49–54, 57, 60–61, 184; offered to God, 132n114, 140–42 Israelites, 44, 81, 96, 165 Jacob, 8–9, 11–12, 15, 81, 177 Jason, 7, 186 jealousy, 126n80, 151, 170–71 Jesus: calming the storm, 155; cleansing the temple, 24, 49; cursing the fig tree, 29; healing the paralyzed man, 86–87; passion of, 45, 80, 130, 188; and the Samaritan woman, 176–82; sayings of, 22, 153–54; and the two blind men, 173; walking on water, 124, 128, 137–38; weeping 79, 96 Jews, 124–25, 144n173; in scripture, 31n52, 49n148, 176–79, 188 Job, 16, 64, 77, 87, 91, 99–111, 173; wife of, 91, 105–7 Joseph: husband of Mary, 128; son of Jacob, 11n51, 16, 23n8, 71n40, 108n266, 114, 183; joy, 64, 68, 74, 76–77, 168, 176, 190 Judaizing Christians, 48, 124–26, 135, 159–60 Judas, 67, 153–54 judgment: divine, 55, 73, 94, 97, 114, 120, 132–37, 139, 145–49, 159, 161, 184, 191; of spectators, 26, 160 judicial procedure, 132–34, 136 Juventinus and Maximinus (martyrs), 96n201, 169 Keltner and Haidt, 156, 159n44 laughter, 37, 59, 74, 117, 157 Lazarus: of Bethany, 82; the poor man, 11, 72–76, 79, 87n139, 90, 110, 116, 121–22, 129, 153, 191 laziness. See rhathymia legal practice, 144–45 lions, 27, 34, 45n133, 47n138, 50, 52

212     Index Lot, 152 love, 171–73, 183; connected to fear, 65, 124, 126–27; connected to grief, 78, 82–83, 96, 98; divine, 38, 109, 129–30, 137, 173; marital, 39–40, 106; of riches, 67, 146, 161 Maccabean martyrs, 167, 172 madness. See insanity Martha and Mary, 82 martyrs, 83–84, 129, 167–72 masks, 125, 128, 131 Matthew, 49, 67 maxims, 4, 12–13, 64, 68–69, 88, 98, 103, 110, 188 Mayer, Wendy, 3, 93n180, 125n71, 185 medical theory, 30–31, 85–86, 88, 90, 93, 185 medicine, 18n86, 79n99, 87, 88; imagery of, 46, 82n111, 89, 155n23, 189 Meletius, bishop, 79n98, 171 mercy, 14, 80–81, 94, 98, 120, 145 metaphor, 1, 29, 46, 56, 60–61, 145, 168; animal, 27, 34n69, 50 mildness, 24, 28, 31, 35–40, 51, 53, 56–57 Miller, William Ian, 113n4, 123–24, 126 mindset (gnōmē), 3, 107, 120–21, 153, 166, 177, 181, 186 Mitchell, Margaret, 48, 173 monks, 76–77, 90–92, 97 Moses, 16, 44, 47n138, 81, 96, 108, 144, 159 mothers, 12, 78, 82–83, 106, 111, 113, 119, 167, 172n126 mourning, 63, 78–82, 85, 90, 93–99, 102–3, 155 murder, 23, 55–56, 100, 119, 130; committed by Cain, 10, 37, 91, 141–45, 147–48, 152, 187 myth, 7–8, 15, 18, 185n4, 186

Paul: and Alexander the coppersmith, 41–42; as exemplar, 41–42, 46–48, 80, 92n179, 96–97, 102n234, 128n93, 171–74; teaching on marriage 40, 115 peripeteia, 11 Peter, 44–45, 48, 95n194, 145, 170 Pharisees, 24 pharmaka, 46, 87. See also medicine philosophy: Chrysostom’s use of, 1, 3–4, 13, 22, 85n129, 185; and detachment, 65–66, 99, 112; and medicine, 3, 18n86, 30 philotimia, 167n86. See also honor Phineas, 165 physician. See doctor pigs, 34, 163–65 pity, 11, 51, 65, 105–6, 121–22, 191 Plato, 7n28, 44, 113n6, 114n8 Plutarch, 28, 32, 34, 35, 42, 78 poverty: assumptions about, 75, 84, 122; and grief, 64, 69, 70–71, 101, 104, 122; of Job, 100–101; of Lazarus, 11, 73–75, 121, 129, 153, 191; of monks, 76; obligation to relieve, 68, 118; pleasures of, 67n16, 72; of the Samaritan woman, 181; theme of, 19, 118; urban, 92, 100 prayer, 34n64, 57, 59, 81, 92, 135, 170; motivated by fear, 118, 123; slackness in, 42n115, 156n29 preaching, 1–5, 10–11, 13–14, 16, 19, 25, 52, 57, 99, 118, 135, 139, 150–51, 163, 166, 172, 184–87, 190 professional mourners, 80–81, 98, 110 prophets, 96, 131, 178, 180 providence: argument for, 89, 109; questioning of, 72, 74, 83, 98–99, 101

Oatley, Keith, 16–18 Olympias, 87–90, 92, 131n110, 158n40, 183, 189

reconciliation, 39, 45, 51, 54, 58, 118, 188 reputation: concern for, 27, 34, 68, 160, 170–71; damage to, 57; lack of concern for 131n109, 178–79; of Chrysostom, 19; of Paul, 48 rhathymia, 4, 91, 118–19, 150–54, 156, 162–63, 165–66, 172, 175, 179, 181–82, 184–86, 191 Riot of the Statues, 52, 108n260, 116–18, 123, 128, 131–32, 153–54 role model. See exemplars Romanos (martyr), 45n133, 170 Rozin, Paul, 162–63

Pamuk, Orhan, 20 parable: of Nathan to David, 94; of the talents, 138; of the workers in the vineyard, 165–66. See also Lazarus paralysis, 86, 88, 146 pathology. See disease

saints, 170–72 Samaritan woman, 176–82 Sarah, 39–40, 189–90 Satan. See devil (Satan) shame: and anger, 31, 34–36, 50, 59; aversive power of, 178–79; of death, 129–30; of judgment,

nakedness, 101, 121, 160–61, 169 Nathan, 94, 145 natural law, 143 nausea, 33, 163 Noah, 5–7, 13–16, 79n99, 132 Nussbaum, Martha, 4–5, 7n28, 11, 17–18, 65, 127

Index    213 136; of poverty, 74; stimulating power of, 20, 160–62, 166, 175, 181; of wealth, 72 sheep, 7, 45, 120, 125 shepherd, 8, 45, 50, 125 sickness. See illness skythrōpos, 26, 94 slaves/slavery: abuse or discipline of, 25, 28, 39n102, 41, 50, 114–15, 133n116; biblical, 24, 190; household, 10, 60, 100, 108, 126, 147, 170; to passions, 7, 33; and status, 40, 65–66, 69, 71, 73, 101, 183 Sodom, 16, 114, 132–34, 146, 148n190, 152 soldiers, 25, 55–57, 61, 105, 113, 122–23, 158–59 solidarity, 83, 122–27, 139 Sozomen, 1n1, 191 spectators, 26, 43, 76 Stagirius, 90–95 status, 121, 159; allied with envy, 70–71; implicit to anger, 20, 24–26, 29, 31, 33–34, 48, 51, 141; of listeners, 43, 174; of martyrs, 168, 170 stilling the storm, 124, 138, 155 Stoics, 3–5, 21–22, 43n118, 77–78, 112n1, 139, 185 suicide, 79n95, 90–91, 106n253 synagogue, 125, 159 Syro-­Phoenician woman, 37, 174–75 tears, 64, 69, 78–79, 94–98, 118 Temple in Jerusalem, 24, 49, 133n119, 157–58 thanksgiving, 74, 76, 81–82, 85, 87. See also gratitude theater, 43, 67, 71, 76, 118, 161–62, 165

therapy: emotional, 3–4, 18, 21–22, 91, 93, 184–85, 190; therapeutic agents, 61, 75, 78–79, 89, 99, 111, 190 Theodosius, Emperor, 52, 53n158, 116, 128, 131–32, 169 three young men, 108 Thucydides, 122 Timothy, 42, 89n154 transformation, 17–18, 20, 60, 186 unity of the emotions, 65, 124, 187 Uzziah, King, 133, 144, 146 values: Christian, 84, 136, 181, 184–85; cultural, 7, 59, 64, 73, 161, 180; prompt feelings, 3–4, 20, 64, 78, 98, 102–3, 128, 130, 167, 184; reflection on, 107, 113, 131–32, 139; taught by narrative, 15 vomit, 32–33, 36, 43, 72, 162–63 wealth, 178, 190; cause of grief, 65–68, 72–76; source of confidence, 121–22; virtuous attitude toward, 61, 101, 169–70 Williams, Bernard, 160 wine, 42–43, 67, 73, 102, 164; medicinal use of, 32, 79 woman with the hemorrhage, 138 worms, 65–66, 104, 119, 135–36, 149 Zacchaeus, 67 zēlos, 166–67, 172. See also emulation

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