On Abraham

Philo of Alexandria · a new plain-English translation from the Greek

Of the sacred laws, recorded in five books, the first is called and entitled Genesis, from the genesis (coming-into-being) of the cosmos, which it contains at its beginning, and from which it took its name -- even though countless other matters are included in it, whatever concerns peace or war, abundance or scarcity, famine or plenty, or the greatest destructions on earth by fire and water, or, on the contrary, the coming-into-being and flourishing of animals and plants through the good tempering of the air and the seasons of the year, and of men who lived their lives, some in virtue

and others in vice. But since some of these things are parts of the cosmos and others are things that happen to it, and since the cosmos is the most complete and fullest thing of all, he dedicated the whole book to it. Now the manner in which the making of the cosmos is ordered we have set out with precision, so far as was possible, in the previous treatise.

Since it is now necessary, in due sequence, to investigate the laws, let us set aside for later those that concern particulars and are, so to speak, images, and first investigate the more universal ones, which are, as it were, the archetypes.

These are the men who lived blamelessly and nobly, whose virtues have been inscribed, as if on pillars, in the most sacred writings -- not only for their own praise, but also to encourage those who read them and lead them on to the same zeal. For those men became living and rational laws, whom Moses glorified for two reasons: first, wishing to show that the ordinances he laid down are not out of harmony with nature,

and second, that it is no great labor for those who wish to live according to the established laws, since even before any particular law had at all been written down, the earliest men made easy and ready use of an unwritten legislation; so that one might fittingly say that the laws later laid down are nothing other than records of the ancients way of life, preserving in writing the deeds and words they used.

For those men were neither disciples nor students of anyone, nor were they taught by teachers what they must do and say; but, hearing and learning for themselves, and embracing the sequence of nature, and supposing nature herself -- which is, in truth, the case -- to be the most venerable ordinance, they lived their whole life under good laws, doing nothing culpable by deliberate choice, and, over what came by chance, calling upon God with prayers and supplications and propitiating him, so as to share in a whole life brought to fulfillment through both what comes by providence and what comes without deliberate choice.

Since, then, the beginning of a share in good things is hope, and since it is hope that the soul which loves virtue cuts open and lays out, like a highway, in its eagerness to attain the good that is true, he addressed the first lover of hope as "man" (anthropos), bestowing on him, as a special favor, the name common to the whole race.

For the Chaldeans call man Enosh, on the ground that the only man who truly is man is the one who looks forward to good things and has settled himself upon good hopes; from which it is clear that he considers the man who lacks good hope not a man but a beast in human form, having been deprived of the thing most proper to a human soul, namely hope.

Hence, wishing to sing the praises, in the most beautiful way, of the man of good hope, after first saying that this man hoped in the Father and Maker of all things (cf. Gen. 4:26), he adds: "This is the book of the generation of men" (Gen. 5:1) -- although fathers and grandfathers had already come into being; but he supposed that those earlier men were the founders of the mixed race, whereas this man was the founder of the purest and most refined race, which is truly rational.

For just as the poet Homer, though there are countless poets, is called "the poet" pre-eminently, and the ink with which we write is called "the black", though there is much else that is not white and hence also black, and the eponymous archon at Athens, best of the nine archons, from whom the years are reckoned -- in the same way Moses named the man who lives by hope pre-eminently "man", setting the multitude of the rest to rest, as unworthy to share the same title.

Well indeed, and not without purpose, did he call the book "the generation" of the man who truly is man, because the man of good hope is worthy of writing and remembrance -- not the writing that is on scraps of paper destined to be destroyed by moths, but the writing that is in nature, which is immortal, in which noble deeds are, as it happens, recorded.

If, however, one were to reckon from the first man, the earth-born one, one will find that the man called by the Chaldeans Enosh, and in the Greek tongue "man", is the fourth.

Among numbers the four has been honored both by other philosophers, all who embraced incorporeal and intelligible realities, and above all by Moses, all-wise, who, in exalting the number four, says that it is "holy and praiseworthy" (Lev. 19:24); the reasons for which this was said have been stated in the previous treatise.

Holy and praiseworthy is the man of good hope, just as, on the contrary, the man of bad hope is unholy and blameworthy, using fear as an evil counselor in everything. For nothing, they say, is so hostile to another thing as hope is to fear and fear to hope; and perhaps this is reasonable, for each is a kind of expectation, but the one is of good things and the other, on the contrary, of evil things, and the natures of these are irreconcilable

and incompatible with one another. Let this much suffice to say about hope, which nature has stationed at the doors, like a gatekeeper, of the royal virtues within, whom it is not possible to meet without first paying court to her.

Many are the labors that lawgivers undertake, and many those that laws everywhere undertake, to fill the souls of the free with good hopes; but the man who becomes a man of good hope without exhortation, without being commanded, has been schooled in this virtue by an unwritten law -- indeed a self-taught one -- which nature herself has laid down.

Second in rank after hope falls repentance for sins committed, and improvement; hence Moses next records the man who changed from a worse life to a better one, who is called among the Hebrews Enoch, and would be called by the Greeks "one who has found favor" -- of whom it is also said that "Enoch was well-pleasing to God, and was not found, because God transposed him" (Gen. 5:24).

For "Transposition" indicates a turning and a change; and the change is for the better, because it comes about through the forethought of God; for everything that is with God is good and altogether advantageous, since even what lacks divine providence is unprofitable.

Well said, too, is "he was not found", of the man who had been transposed, meaning either that his former, reprehensible life had been blotted out and made to vanish and was no longer to be found, as though it had not even existed at the start, or that the man who is transposed and stationed in the better rank is by nature hard to find; for vice is abundant, and hence known to many, but virtue is rare, so that it is grasped by only a few.

And besides, the base man haunts the marketplace and theaters and law-courts and council-chambers and assemblies and every gathering and company of men, since he lives together with meddlesomeness, letting his tongue loose into unmeasured, endless, undiscriminating talk, confusing and jumbling everything together, mixing falsehoods with truths, things unspeakable with things that may be spoken, private matters with public, profane things with sacred, ridiculous things with serious things -- because he has not been trained in the finest thing for the occasion, silence -- and pricking up his ears for the sake of meddlesome curiosity;

for he is eager to learn the affairs of others, whether good or bad, so that he may straightway envy some of them and delight in others; for the base man is by nature malicious and hates what is good

and loves what is wicked. The man of refinement, by contrast, having become a lover of a life free from meddling, withdraws and cherishes solitude, wishing to escape the notice of the many -- not out of hatred for humankind, for he is a lover of humankind if anyone is, but because vice has been thrust in front of him, which the great crowd embraces, rejoicing over what deserves lament and grieving over what it would be good to rejoice in.

For these reasons he shuts himself up and stays at home for the most part, scarcely crossing his own threshold; or, if because of visitors who call too often he goes outside the city, he spends his time in solitary retreat, preferring as companions the best men of the whole human race, whose bodies time has dissolved but whose virtues the writings that survive rekindle, through both poems and prose compositions, by which the soul is naturally made better.

For this reason he said that the transposed man "was not found", being hard to find and hard to track down. He migrates, then, from ignorance to instruction, from folly to wisdom, from cowardice to courage, and from impiety to piety, and again from love of pleasure to self-mastery, and from love of glory to freedom from vanity; and what wealth, or what possession of kingship and power, is worthier or more beneficial than these?

For if one must tell the truth, the wealth that is not blind but sees keenly is the abundance of the virtues, which one must at once suppose to be the genuine and lawful sovereignty, in contrast to spurious and falsely-named dominions, justly governing all things.

One must not fail to recognize that repentance takes second place after perfection, just as the change from sickness to health takes second place after an unafflicted body. Continuity and perfection in the virtues stand nearest to divine power, while improvement that begins at some point in time is the particular good of a well-endowed soul that does not remain in its childish ways but seeks a settled, fair-weather state with the more mature and truly manly frame of mind, and runs after the vision of noble things.

For this reason he fittingly places next after the one who has repented the man who loves God and loves virtue, who in the Hebrew tongue is called Noah, and in Greek 'rest' or 'just' — titles most fitting for the wise man. He is called 'just' quite plainly, for nothing is better than justice, the leading virtue among the virtues, which, like the fairest dancer in a chorus, takes precedence. He is called 'rest' because, on the contrary, unnatural motion happens to be the cause of disturbances and tumults, factions and wars — which the base pursue — while a calm, quiet, and stable life, and moreover a peaceful one, is pursued by those who have honored nobility and goodness.

Following his own pattern, he also names the seventh day, which the Hebrews call Sabbath, 'rest' — not, as some suppose, because for six days the multitude abstained from their customary labors, but because in truth the number seven, both in the cosmos and within ourselves, is always free from faction, free from war, free from strife, and the most peaceable of all numbers.

Witnesses to what has been said are the faculties within us. The six wage the ceaseless and continuous war on land and sea — the five senses and articulate speech — the senses through longing for the objects of sense, which, if they fail to obtain, cause distress; speech through its unbridled mouth, blurting out countless things that ought to be kept silent.

But the seventh faculty is the one that belongs to the ruling mind, which, whenever it becomes stronger than the six and, having mastered them by a more powerful strength, withdraws — embracing solitude and rejoicing in its own converse with itself, as needing nothing else and being wholly sufficient to itself — then, freed from the cares and troublesome affairs of the

mortal kind, embraces a mild and tranquil life. So greatly does he exalt the lover of virtue that in tracing his lineage he does not, as is customary in other cases, draw up a list of grandfathers or great-grandfathers or ancestors, whether on the father's or the mother's side, but rather of virtues — all but crying aloud that no house, no kinship, and no fatherland belongs to the wise man other than the virtues and the deeds done according to virtue. 'These,' he says, 'are the generations of Noah: Noah was a just man, perfect in his generation; he was well-pleasing to God' (Gen. 6:9).

One must not fail to recognize that here he does not use the word 'man' in its common sense for the rational mortal animal, but rather for the man of true excellence, who verifies the name by having driven out the untamed and raging passions and the most bestial vices of the soul. And here is a sign of this:

After 'man' he adds 'just,' saying 'a just man' — as though no man were unjust (or, to speak more properly, no man but rather a beast), but only the one who is a zealot for justice.

He also says that Noah became 'perfect,' establishing by this that he acquired not one virtue but all of them, and having acquired each, continued to exercise it as occasion demanded.

Crowning him as a victorious contestant, he further adorns him with a most splendid proclamation, declaring that 'he was well-pleasing to God.' What could be greater than this in all of nature? What clearer proof of nobility and goodness is there? For if those who displeased God are ill-fated, then those who succeeded in pleasing him are altogether blessed.

Yet it was not without purpose that, having praised the man for so many virtues, he added that 'he was perfect in his generation' (Gen. 6:9), showing that he was good not absolutely, but by comparison with those who lived at that time.

For soon, not long from now, mention will be made of other wise men who possessed virtue beyond rivalry — not because they were tested against wicked men, nor because, being better than their contemporaries, they were judged worthy of approval and preference, but because, having obtained a well-favored nature, they preserved it undistorted, not by fleeing base practices but by never having fallen into them at all from the start, and having become, above all, practitioners of noble deeds and words, they adorned their whole life.

Those men, then, were most admirable, who employed impulses that were free and noble, not in imitation of or opposition to others, but by embracing the good and the just for their own sake. But admirable too is the man who stood apart from his own generation and shared in none of what the many pursued. He will attain the second prize, while nature will award the first prizes to those others.

Yet even the second prizes are themselves great. For what is not great and worth contending for, of the things God offers and grants? The clearest proof is the abundance of graces which this man received.

For since that age brought forth a flood of wrongdoing, and every land, every nation, every city, every household, and each person individually was filled to overflowing with base practices — all competing willingly and deliberately, as though in a contest, for the prize in wrongdoing (for they vied with one another with all eagerness, each hastening to surpass his neighbor in magnitude of vice, and leaving nothing undone that led to

a reprehensible and accursed life) — at this God, reasonably displeased that the creature reputed to be the best, and judged worthy of kinship with him on account of its share in reason, should, though bound to practice virtue, instead have set its heart on vice and every form of vice, determined the fitting penalty: he resolved to destroy by a flood those then living, not only those dwelling in the plain and lower regions but also those inhabiting the very highest mountains.

For the great sea, raised aloft as never before, poured through its outlets in a single mighty rush into the seas around us, and the floodwaters overwhelmed islands and continents, while the successive torrents of ever-flowing springs and of rivers, both native and winter-swollen, joined together, pouring forth and rising to great heights, advanced upon the land.

Nor indeed was the air at rest; for a deep and unbroken cloud covered the whole sky, and there were monstrous winds, and crashes of thunder, and flashes of lightning, and bolts of lightning falling in succession, with unceasing rains bursting forth, so that one would suppose the parts of the universe were hastening to be resolved back into the single nature of water — until, with the rain crashing down from above and the sea rising up from below, the streams were lifted on high, by which not only the plain and all low-lying ground were submerged and vanished, but also the peaks of the highest mountains.

For every part of the earth sank beneath the water, so that the whole was swept away, and the cosmos, mutilated by the loss of a great portion, seemed no longer whole and complete — a thing neither lawful to say nor to conceive — as though it too were straining to appear submerged. But indeed the air as well, apart from a small portion near the moon, was entirely consumed, overwhelmed by the onrush and force of the water, which by main strength took possession of its domain.

Then, then indeed, all crops and trees at once perished — for both scarcity and excess without measure destroy alike — and the countless herds of animals died, both tame and wild together; for it was natural that, when the noblest race, mankind, was being blotted out, nothing of the lesser kinds should be left behind, since these too existed for the sake of serving human needs, in a manner enslaved and subject to their masters' commands.

When so many and so great evils had fallen in a torrent — which that season rained down, for every part of the cosmos, apart from the heavens, was moved contrary to its nature, as though it had fallen ill with a grave and deadly sickness — one household alone survived: that of the just and God-loving man already spoken of, who received two supreme gifts, one, as I said, that he did not perish along with all the rest, and the other, that he became once again the founder of a new sowing of mankind. For God judged him worthy to become both the end of our race and its beginning — the end of those before the flood, and the beginning of those after it.

Such, then, was the best man of his own time, and such were the prizes appointed for him, as the sacred word has shown. Of the three men — or the three dispositions of soul — that have been spoken of, the order is harmonious: the one is perfect and whole from the beginning; the one who changed is half-finished, having devoted the earlier part of his life to vice and the later part to the virtue to which he migrated and resettled; and the one who hopes, as his very name shows, is deficient, ever reaching after the good but not yet able to attain it, resembling sailors who, eager to put in at harbors, sail the sea unable to find anchorage.

The former triad, then, of those who yearned for virtue, has been set forth. But greater is the other, of which we must now speak. For the former resembles the lessons learned at a boy's age, while this one resembles the exercises of athletic men who anoint themselves for truly sacred contests — men who, disdaining the training of the body, cultivate instead the good condition of the soul, striving for victory over the passions that oppose them.

In what respects, then, each of them differs, while all press on toward one and the same goal, we shall state more precisely later. But what must be said briefly in advance about the three together must not be passed over in silence.

These men, then, happen to belong to a single household and a single lineage — for the last is the son of the middle one, and the grandson of the first — and all alike are lovers of God and beloved of God, having loved the true God and having been loved in return by him, who, as the oracles make clear, judged them worthy, on account of the surpassing virtues with which they lived, to share in the very address by his own name.

By fitting his own name to theirs he united it, applying to himself the compound name derived from the three: for "this," he says, "is my eternal name, the God of Abraham and the God of Isaac and the God of Jacob" (cf. Exodus 3:15)—a name of relation rather than a single, absolute one. And perhaps this is fitting: God has no need of a name, but though he has no need of one, he nonetheless granted to the human race a name proper to itself, so that having a refuge for supplication and entreaty, they might not be without good hope.

These things, then, seem to have been said about holy men, but they are indications of a nature more hidden, and far better than what belongs to the realm of the senses. For the sacred account seems to be investigating the characters of the soul, all of them noble, one striving after the good through teaching, another through nature, another through practice. For the first, called Abraham, is a symbol of virtue acquired through teaching; the middle one, Isaac, of virtue acquired through nature; and the third, Jacob, of virtue acquired through practice.

But it must not be overlooked that each of the three laid claim to all three powers, and was named from the one that predominated and prevailed in him; for teaching cannot be brought to completion without nature or practice, nor is nature sufficient to reach its goal apart from learning and practicing, nor can practice succeed unless it has first been grounded in both nature and teaching.

Fittingly, then, he joined together the kinship of the three virtues—nature, learning, and practice—belonging in speech to men but in reality, so to speak, to virtues themselves, which people also call by another name, the Graces, equal in number to them; either because God has graciously bestowed the three powers on our race for the perfection of life, or because these powers have given themselves as a gift to the rational soul, a perfect and most beautiful gift, so that the eternal name declared in the oracles as belonging to three might be understood as referring not so much to men as to the powers just named.

For the nature of men is perishable, but that of the virtues is imperishable; and it is more reasonable that the eternal epithet be applied to the imperishable rather than to mortal things, since imperishability is akin to eternity, while death is its enemy.

One ought not, however, to be ignorant of this either: that the first man, the earth-born one, he introduced as the father of all those born up until the flood; and the one alone who was preserved, with his whole household, out of so great a destruction, because of his righteousness and other nobility, as the founder of a new race of men soon to grow young again; but the exceedingly venerable and much-contended-for triad, called by a single title, "a royal house and a priesthood and a holy nation" (Exodus 19:6), the oracles so name; and the name itself declares its power.

For in the Hebrew tongue the nation is named Israel, which, translated, means "one who sees God." Now sight through the eyes is the most excellent of all the senses, since through it alone are apprehended the most beautiful of existing things—sun and moon and the whole heaven and universe—while the sight exercised through the soul's governing faculty surpasses all the other powers that belong to it; and this is prudence, the vision of the understanding.

Whoever has attained not only the capacity to apprehend, through knowledge, all the other things in nature, but also to see the Father and Maker of the universe, let him know that he has advanced to the very summit of happiness; for nothing is higher than God, and whoever has stretched the eye of his soul toward him and arrived, let him pray to remain there and stand fast.

For the roads that go uphill are toilsome and slow, while the downward course, which is more of a dragging along than a descent, is swift and very easy. Many things drag downward with force, none of them profitable, except when God, suspending the soul from his own powers, draws it toward himself with a stronger pull.

These things, then, have had to be said first in common concerning the three. Next it must be told what each one, individually, brought forth on his own, taking the beginning from the first. He, then, becoming a zealot for piety, the highest and greatest of virtues, was eager to follow God and to be obedient to what was commanded by him, understanding as commands not only those made known through voice and writing, but also those disclosed through nature by clearer signs, which the truest of the senses apprehends, prior to hearing, which is untrustworthy and unstable.

For one who observes the order in nature, and the constitution—better than any account of it—by which the universe operates, is instructed, though no one speaks a word, to practice a law-abiding and peaceable life, looking toward the likeness of what is noble. And the clearest proofs of piety are those contained in the sacred writings; and the first must be told, since it also stands first in order.

Struck by an oracle to leave his homeland, his kin, and his father's house, and to migrate—as though returning from a foreign land to his own, rather than being about to depart from his own to a foreign one—he hastened, straining every effort, considering it equal to accomplishing the task to carry out swiftly what was commanded.

And yet who else would be likely to become so unbending and unyielding as not to be led captive by the charms of kin and homeland, whose longing has, in a manner, grown up with each person and grown together with him, and has become no less attached than the united parts of the body itself?

Witnesses to this are the lawgivers who have ordained exile as the second penalty after death for those convicted of the greatest crimes—not second, as it seems to me, in the judgment of truth, but far harsher, since death is the end of misfortunes, while exile is not an end but a beginning of new calamities, bringing, instead of a single death free of pain, countless deaths accompanied by full awareness.

Some sail abroad for trade, out of desire for profit, or on an embassy, or to view the sights of a foreign land, out of a love of learning, having powers that drag them toward staying abroad—some by their gains, others by having benefited their city at critical and most necessary and greatest moments, others by the acquiring of knowledge of things formerly unknown to them, providing at once pleasure and benefit to the soul (for those who have not traveled are blind compared to those who see clearly, unacquainted compared to those who have gone abroad)—nevertheless they hasten to see and pay homage to their ancestral soil, and to greet their familiar kin and friends, and to enjoy the sweetest and most longed-for sight of them, and often, seeing the business for whose sake they went abroad being prolonged, they abandoned it, drawn by the most violent longing for their own people.

But this man, with a few companions—indeed alone—migrated the very moment he was commanded, and dispatched his migration in soul before in body, his heavenly love overcoming his longing for mortal things.

Caring nothing, then, for members of his tribe, fellow townsmen, schoolmates, companions, blood relatives on his father's or mother's side, his homeland, ancient customs, shared upbringing, or common life—each of which has a drawing and hard-to-tear-away pull—with free and unrestrained impulses he migrated with the greatest speed: first from the land of the Chaldeans, a prosperous country and at that time flourishing, to the land of Haran (Genesis 12:5); then, not long after, from this land too to another place, of which we shall speak after first saying this.

The migrations just described took place, in the literal sense of the scripture, at the hands of a wise man; but according to the laws of allegory, at the hands of a soul devoted to virtue and seeking the true God.

For the Chaldeans, having labored above all others at astronomy, and having attributed everything to the movements of the stars, supposed that the things in the universe are governed by powers contained in numbers and the proportions of numbers, and revered visible being without grasping any conception of the invisible and intelligible, but, investigating the order among those visible things according to the revolutions of sun and moon and the other planets and fixed stars, and according to the changes of the yearly seasons, and according to the sympathy of heavenly things with earthly ones, supposed that the universe itself was God—impiously making that which came into being equal to that which made it.

Reared, then, in this doctrine, and having practiced Chaldean lore for a long time, as though opening the eye of his soul out of a deep sleep, and beginning to see a pure radiance instead of profound darkness, he followed the light and beheld what he had not seen before: a certain charioteer and pilot set over the universe, safely guiding his own work, exercising care and superintendence over it and over all the parts within it deserving of divine attention.

So that the vision that had appeared might be more firmly established in his understanding, the sacred word says to him again: "Great things, my friend, are often recognized through the sketch of lesser ones, by attending to which one may enlarge one's conception to unbounded magnitudes. Dismiss, then, the bodies revolving in heaven and the Chaldean science, and migrate for a short time from the greatest city, this universe, to a smaller one, through which you will be better able to apprehend the overseer of the whole."

For this reason he is said to have made his first migration from the land of the Chaldeans to that of the Haranites. Now "Haran" in Greek means "holes," symbolically referring to the regions of our senses, through each of which, as through openings, it is natural to peer out toward the apprehension of what belongs to it.

But what use, someone might say, would any of this have been, if an invisible mind, like a puppeteer, had not from within given breath to its own powers, which, now relaxing and slackening, now pulling back and drawing forcibly against, it produced rhythmic motion and again stillness in the marvels? Having this paradigm within yourself, you will easily understand what you so greatly long to grasp knowledge of.

For is it not the case that in you mind is set as ruler, to whom the whole partnership of the body is obedient, and each of the senses follows—while the universe, the most beautiful and greatest and most perfect work, of which all other things happen to be parts, lacks a king who holds it together and justly administers it? And if the king is invisible, do not marvel; for neither is the mind within you visible.

One who reasons on these things, and is instructed not from afar but from close at hand, from himself and from what surrounds him, will know clearly that the universe is not the first God, but the work of the first God and Father of all, who, being himself unseen, makes all things visible, revealing the natures of things both small and great.

Anyone who reasons this out, learning it not from a distance but close at hand, from himself and from the things around him, will know clearly that the cosmos is not the first god, but a work of the first god and father of all things, who, though invisible, makes all things visible, revealing the natures of things both small and great.

For he did not think it fit to be grasped by the eyes of the body, perhaps because it was unholy for a mortal thing to touch an eternal one, and perhaps also because of the weakness of our sight; for it could not have taken in the rays pouring out from That Which Is, since it is not even able to look upon the rays of the sun.

The clearest proof of the migration which the mind made away from astronomy and Chaldean opinion is this: it is said that immediately upon the wise man's relocation, "God appeared to Abraham" (Gen. 12:7) — which makes plain that before this he had not been visible to him, when, practicing Chaldean ways, he attended to the dance of the stars and grasped no nature at all that was harmonious and intelligible beyond the cosmos and sensible substance.

But when he moved on and changed his anchorage, he came of necessity to know that the cosmos is subject and not sovereign, not the one presiding but the one presided over by the cause that made it,

which his mind, looking up for the first time then, saw — for previously a thick mist had been poured over it by the objects of sense-perception, which, having dispersed it with warm and fiery doctrines, it barely managed, as in a clear open sky, to gain a glimpse of the one long hidden and invisible; who, out of love for humankind, did not turn away the soul that came to him, but went out to meet it and showed his own nature, so far as it was possible for the one looking to see.

For this reason it is said, not that the wise man saw God, but that "God was seen" by the wise man; for it was impossible for anyone to grasp on his own the one who truly is, unless that one had let himself be glimpsed and had displayed himself.

The ancient name Abram bears witness to this; he was later called Abraham, a single letter — alpha — being doubled in sound, but by its power indicating the change of a great matter and doctrine.

For Abram, translated, is "exalted father," while Abraham is "elect father of sound"; the former name signifies the one called an astrologer and student of celestial phenomena, so devoted to Chaldean doctrines as a father might devote himself to his offspring, while the latter signifies the wise man.

For through "sound" it hints at the spoken word, and through "father" it hints at the ruling mind — for the father is the one innate by nature, prior to the uttered word and sowing the seeds of what is to be said — while through "elect" it hints at the man of worth; for the base character is random and confused, but the good character is elect, having been judged and chosen out from all as the best.

To the student of celestial phenomena, nothing at all seems greater than the cosmos, to which he also attributes the causes of what comes to be; but the wise man, seeing with more exact eyes something more perfect, intelligible, ruling and governing, by which all else is mastered and steered, found much to blame in his former life, as one who had lived it blind, propping himself upon objects of sense-perception, a thing of unstable and unsettled nature.

So the man of worth, persuaded again by an oracle, undertakes a second migration, no longer from city to city, but into a desert region (Gen. 12:9), in which he continued to wander, not displeased at the wandering and the instability it brought.

And yet who else would not have been distressed, not only at leaving his own home, but at being driven out of every city into pathless and impassable wastes? Who would not have turned back and hurried home again, giving little thought to hopes yet to come, eager instead to escape his present hardship, supposing it foolish to choose acknowledged evils for the sake of uncertain goods?

This man alone, it seems, was affected in the opposite way, holding that the most pleasant life is one lived without the company of the many. And this is natural; for those who seek and long to find God are glad of the solitude that comes with this very pursuit, hastening above all to be made like that blessed and happy nature.

Having given both interpretations, then, the literal one as concerning a man and the one through underlying meanings as concerning a soul, we have shown both the man and the mind to be worthy of love — the man, because, persuaded by oracles, he was drawn away from things hard to tear oneself from; the mind, because, not being deceived to the very end by sensible substance, it did not come to a stop supposing the visible cosmos to be the greatest and first god, but running back up by reasoning, beheld another, better, intelligible nature, and the maker and ruler of both together.

These are the preliminary rites of the man who loves God, and they are followed by deeds not to be despised. Their greatness is not evident to everyone, but only to those who have tasted virtue, who are accustomed to make light of the things admired by the many, because of the greatness of the goods that belong to the soul.

God, then, accepting the deed just described, immediately repays the man of worth with a great gift, preserving his marriage untouched and safe, though it had been in danger of being plotted against by a powerful and unrestrained man.

The cause of the assault had this beginning. There had been a barrenness of crops for a long time, sometimes through excessive and immoderate rainfall, sometimes through drought and scorching winds, and the cities of Syria, pressed by continuous famine, were emptied of their inhabitants, as people scattered here and there in search of food and the necessities of life.

Learning, then, of the abundant plenty and good season in Egypt, where the river's floods had at the proper time turned the plains into standing water, and the sown crops had come up full-eared, nourished by the temperate winds, Abraham set out, bringing his whole household with him.

He had a wife who was best in soul and, in body, the most beautiful of the women of her time; the leading men among the Egyptians, seeing her and struck with admiration at her beauty — for nothing escapes the notice of those in high position — reported her to the king.

The king, having sent for the woman and beheld a most striking sight, gave little thought to reverence and to the laws laid down in honor of strangers, and, yielding to his lack of self-control, planned to take her in marriage in word, but in truth to violate her.

She, being in a foreign land under an unrestrained and savage-hearted ruler, at a loss for anyone to help her — for not even her husband had the strength to ward off the danger threatening from those more powerful, since he too was afraid — took refuge, along with him, in that last alliance, the one that comes from God.

And he, taking pity on the strangers, being gracious and merciful and the champion of the wronged, brought upon the king pains hard to endure and harsh punishments, filling his body and his soul with every kind of evil, hard to heal, so that all his desires leading toward pleasure were cut off, and in their place came the opposite cares, concerned with escaping torments without end, by which, worked upon day and night, he was utterly broken.

And his whole household shared in the punishment along with him, since no one in it had objected to the lawless act, but all, by their mere assent, had all but joined in committing the wrong.

In this way the woman's purity was preserved, and God saw fit to display the man's nobility and piety by granting him the greatest of rewards — a marriage kept unharmed and undishonored, though it had come within a hair's breadth of being destroyed, a marriage that was not to produce a small number of sons or daughters, but a whole nation, and the most God-beloved of nations, which, it seems to me, has received the priesthood and prophetic office on behalf of the whole human race.

I have, however, also heard men versed in natural philosophy allegorize the passage in a manner not beside the point; they said that the man, understood symbolically, stood for the excellent mind, inferring from the meaning given by the interpretation of his name a worthy character in the soul, and that his wife stood for virtue, whose name, in Chaldean, is Sarah, and in Greek, "ruler," because nothing is more fit to rule and to govern than virtue; and marriage —

the marriage that pleasure arranges wins for itself the union of bodies, but the one that wisdom arranges wins the union of reasonings that aim at purification and perfect virtues. And these two marriages just named are the most opposite of each other.

In the union of bodies, the male sows and the female receives the seed; but in the union that takes place in souls it is the reverse—virtue, though it seems to hold the position of the woman, is by nature the one that sows good counsels, earnest words, and instructions in the most beneficial doctrines, while reasoning, though thought to be assigned the man's place, receives the seeds that are sacred and divine. Or perhaps what has just been said is false, owing to a deception of names, since it is the mind that shares the masculine form, and virtue the feminine, in our language.

If someone should wish to strip away the names that cast their shadow over things, and see the realities themselves laid bare, he will know that virtue is by nature male, insofar as it moves and disposes things and instills good conceptions of good deeds and words; while reasoning is female, since it is moved, instructed, and benefited, and is examined, in short, in its capacity to be acted upon—and passion

is for it alone salvation. Now all people, even the most base, honor and admire virtue in word, so far as appearances go, but only the good actually make use of her precepts. This is why the king of Egypt—who symbolically represents the mind that loves the body—play-acting as if on a stage, puts on a counterfeit fellowship with virtue: the intemperate man feigning temperance, the licentious man feigning self-control, the unjust man feigning justice, and calling virtue his own, since he craves the good opinion of the many.

Seeing this—for only God can see into the soul—the overseer hated him, exposed him, and put his counterfeit character to the proof by the harshest torments. And by what instruments were these torments applied? Surely through the parts of virtue, which, when they intrude upon him, cruelly torment and wound him. For frugality is torment to insatiable greed, and self-control is torment to lust; the lover of glory is racked when unpretentiousness flourishes, and the unjust man when justice is praised.

For it is impossible for one soul to house two hostile natures, vice and virtue; hence, whenever they are brought together, irreconcilable factions and wars are stirred up that admit of no settlement—even though virtue's nature is most peaceable, and she is said to take care, whenever she is about to come to blows, to test her own strength beforehand, so that, if she is strong enough to win the contest, she may engage it, but if her strength proves too weak, she may not even venture to enter the contest at all.

For to be defeated is no disgrace for vice, to which ill repute is akin; but for virtue it is a reproach, since good repute is most proper to her of all things, and this is why she is disposed either to win or else to keep herself unconquered,

So much, then, has been said of the inhospitality and licentiousness of the Egyptians. But we must marvel at the humanity of the man who, having himself suffered such things, at midday saw three travelers passing as if they were men—though they were, unbeknownst to him, of a more divine nature—and ran up to beg them earnestly not to pass by his tent, but to come in, as was fitting, and share his hospitality. And they, knowing from his intention rather than from his words that he spoke truly, nodded their assent without any hesitation.

Filled in his soul with joy, he hastened to make every arrangement without delay for their reception, and said to his wife, 'Hurry, and make three measures of cakes baked in the ashes,' while he himself rushed to the herds, brought back a tender, well-fleshed calf, and handed it over to a servant.

He slaughtered it and prepared it with all speed; for in the household of a wise man no one is slow when it comes to hospitality, but women and men, slaves and free alike, are most eager in serving their guests.

And once they had been entertained—won over no less by the host's disposition and by his boundless and unstinting eagerness to honor them than by the fare set before them—they granted him a reward greater than he had hoped for, promising, through the best of the three speaking on behalf of all, the birth of a legitimate son to be confirmed the following year. For it would have been unphilosophical for all three to speak together at once; it was fitting instead that one should speak while the others gave their assent.

Yet even as they made this promise, the couple could not give it their full confidence, because of how incredible the matter was; for having already grown very old, through their long years they had given up all hope of begetting a child.

So he says that when the woman heard this, she laughed at first; but afterward, when they said, 'Is anything too hard for God?', she was ashamed and denied that she had laughed; for she knew that all things are possible for God, having learned this doctrine, one might almost say, from her very swaddling clothes.

It seems to me that it was then, for the first time, that she no longer received the same impression of what she saw, but a more solemn one, once the prophets, or angels, had changed from a spiritual

and soul-like substance into a human-shaped form. We have, then, spoken of the man's love of strangers, which is but a by-product of a greater virtue; and that virtue is piety toward God, of which we have also spoken before, and the clearest proof of it is what has just been told, presented under the guise of strangers.

Now if some have supposed a household to be happy and blessed simply because wise men happened to lodge and stay there—men who would not have thought it worth their while even to glance inside, had they seen some incurable affliction in the souls of its occupants—then I do not know what excess of happiness and blessedness I should ascribe to this house, in which angels consented to lodge and receive hospitality among men: sacred and divine natures, ministers and lieutenants of the first God, through whom, as through ambassadors, he announces beforehand to our race whatever he wishes.

For how would they have consented to enter in the first place, unless they had known that all those within, like the well-ordered crew of a ship, obeyed the single command of the one set over them as if he were their pilot? And how would they have allowed the impression of being feasted and entertained as guests, unless they considered their host a kinsman and fellow servant, one who had taken refuge with their own master? We must suppose, moreover, that at their very entrance every part of the house made still further progress toward the better, breathed upon as it were by a breeze of the most perfect virtue.

And the banquet, as one would expect, was of such a kind that the guests displayed toward their host the simplicity proper to feasts, addressing him with unguarded character and holding the conversation suited to the occasion.

It was indeed a marvel that, without drinking, they gave the impression of drinking, and without eating, of eating. But these are secondary matters; the earlier marvel was the most astonishing of all—that beings without bodies were shaped into the form of men, as a favor to the good man. For to what purpose was this wonder performed, except to give the wise man a perception, through a clearer vision, that his character had not gone unnoticed by the Father?

Let so much be said, then, concerning the literal interpretation; we must now turn to that which proceeds by way of underlying meanings. Words are symbols of things apprehended by the mind alone. So then, whenever the soul is illumined by God as if at midday, and, filled through and through with intelligible light, becomes shadowless amid the rays poured around it on every side, it apprehends a threefold appearance of a single reality—one as truly existing, the other two as though they were shadows cast from it. Something of the sort happens also to those who spend their time in sensible light: whether standing still or moving, they often find two shadows falling together at once.

Let no one, however, suppose that when applied to God 'shadows' is spoken literally; it is only a loose use of the word, meant to give a more vivid impression of the thing being shown, since the truth is not really so.

But rather, as one who stands as close as possible to the truth might put it: the one in the middle is the Father of all, who in the sacred scriptures is called by his proper name 'He who is'; and the powers on either side of him are the eldest and nearest to him who is—the one creative, the other kingly. The creative power is called God, since by it he established and ordered the universe; the kingly power is called Lord, for it is right that what has made a thing should rule and have mastery over what has come to be.

The one in the middle, then, escorted by each of the two powers, presents to the mind endowed with sight sometimes the appearance of one, sometimes of three: of one, whenever the mind, having attained the utmost purification, presses on—having passed beyond not only the multitudes of numbers but even the dyad that neighbors the monad—toward the idea that is unmixed, uncompounded, and in itself in need of nothing whatsoever; of three, when, not yet initiated into the great mysteries, it is still celebrating the lesser rites, and is unable to grasp the Existent by itself alone, apart from anything else, but only through his actions, either as creating or as ruling.

This, then, as the saying goes, is the second-best course, yet it shares no less in an opinion pleasing to God. The former way, however, does not merely share in it, but is itself the God-pleasing opinion—or rather, it is truth, which is older than opinion and more honorable than any mere seeming. But what is meant must be set forth more clearly.

There are three orders of human character, each of which has been allotted one of the appearances just described: the best has been allotted the middle one, that of him who truly exists; the one after it, the power on the right, the beneficent power, whose name is God; and the third, the power on the other side, the ruling power, which is called Lord.

The best characters, then, worship him who exists in himself alone, without anything else, drawn aside by nothing else, since they are stretched, as a unity, solely toward the honoring of the One; but of the rest, some are established and made known to the Father through the beneficent power, and others through the kingly power.

The best of characters worship the One who exists in himself, unmixed with anything else, drawn away by nothing else, because they are stretched singly toward the honor of the One; but of the rest, some are formed and become known to the Father through his beneficent power, others through his kingly power.

What I mean is this. When men perceive that certain people are approaching them under the pretext of friendship, hunting for some advantage, they eye them askance and turn away from their pretended flattery and tameness, fearing it as something deeply harmful.

But God, since he admits no harm, gladly welcomes all who choose to honor him under whatever form, and thinks it right to reject no one whatsoever, but all but openly proclaims this oracle to those who have ears in their soul:

"The first prizes shall be reserved for those who worship me for my own sake, the second for those who do so for their own sake — either hoping to obtain good things or expecting to find release from punishment. For even if the service of these is paid for hire and not disinterested, nonetheless it remains enclosed within the divine precincts and does not stray outside.

The prizes for those who honor me for my own sake will be my very own, but for those who do so out of need, they will not be prizes of friendship — though at least they will not be reckoned as belonging to strangers. For I accept also the one who wishes to share in the good things through my beneficent power, and the one who out of fear propitiates my ruling and masterly authority to avert punishment; for I am not unaware that, besides not becoming worse, they will also become better through the constant exercise of pure and unmixed piety in their service."

For even if characters differ very greatly in the impulses from which they act to please God, one must not find fault, because their aim is one and their end is one: to worship me.

That the threefold appearance is, in its power, of one underlying reality is clear not only from the contemplation found in allegory, but also from the literal text of scripture, which contains the following. For when the sage entreats the three who appear as travelers to be entertained as guests in his home, he converses with them not as with three, but as with one, and says: "Lord, if indeed I have found favor with you, do not pass by your servant" (Gen 18:3); for the words "Lord," and "with you," and "do not pass by," and all such expressions are naturally addressed to one, not to several.

But when, being entertained as guests, they show kindness in return to their host, again one alone promises, as though he alone were present, the begetting of a legitimate son, in these words: "I will return and come to you at this time next year, and Sarah your wife shall have a son" (Gen 18:10).

Most plainly, however, and most elaborately, he reveals what is meant through what follows. The land of the Sodomites, a portion of the land of Canaan which men later named Syro-Palestine, having been filled with countless wrongs, especially those arising from gluttony and lust, and having heaped up the magnitude and multitude of its other pleasures, had already been condemned by the judge of all things.

The cause of the inhabitants' excess in licentiousness was the unbroken abundance of their provisions; for the land, being deep-soiled and well-watered, enjoyed every year a rich yield of crops of every kind. But "the greatest source of evils," as someone aptly said, "is excessive good things."

Unable to bear this surfeit, like cattle kicking free, they threw off the yoke of nature's law, pursuing strong unmixed wine, gluttonous feasting, and unlawful matings. For not only did they, mad for women, corrupt the marriages of others, but also, being men, they mounted other males — the ones who acted showing no shame before the nature they shared with those who were acted upon — and in attempting to beget children were convicted of sowing seed that could bear no fruit; yet the conviction did them no good, since they were mastered by a more violent desire.

Then, by gradually accustoming the males who were born among them to endure what belongs to women, they contrived for them a feminine disease, an evil hard to fight off, not only making their bodies womanish through softness and delicacy, but also rendering their souls more ignoble; and so far as it lay in their power, they were destroying the whole human race. Indeed, if Greeks and barbarians alike had agreed together and taken up such unions in emulation, the cities would in succession have been emptied, as though depopulated by plague.

But God, taking pity, as one who is savior and lover of mankind, increased as much as possible the unions of men and women that occur according to nature for the begetting of children, but the unnatural and unlawful unions he utterly abhorred and extinguished, and against those burning with lust for them he devised punishments that were not among the usual kind, but strange and unprecedented. For he commanded the air, suddenly grown cloudy, to rain down not water but fire, in great abundance.

And as the flame fell in a dense, unceasing, unresting torrent, the fields and meadows and thick groves and dense marshes and deep woodlands were burned; the plain was burned, along with the whole crop of grain and every other sown thing; the wooded part of the hill country was burned as well, the very roots of the tree-trunks catching fire.

Farmsteads and houses and walls and every private and public structure were consumed together in the blaze, and in a single day the once-populous cities became the tomb of their inhabitants, while their structures of stone and wood turned to ash and fine dust.

And when the flame had consumed everything visible above ground, it then began to burn the earth itself, penetrating to its very depths, and destroyed the life-giving power within it to the point of complete barrenness, so that it would never again be able to bear fruit or produce any green growth at all; and it burns even to this day, for the fire from heaven, being scarcely ever quenched, either still feeds there or smolders within.

The clearest proof is what can still be seen: for a memorial of what happened is the smoke that continually rises, and the sulfur that men mine there; and the most vivid remaining evidence of the region's ancient prosperity is a single neighboring city and the land around it — the city populous, the land rich in grass and grain and fruitful in every way — left standing as a rebuke, to prove the justice of the sentence passed by divine judgment.

But it was not for the sake of describing the greatness of the calamities wrought that I have related all this, but because I wished to establish this point: that of the three who appeared to the sage as men, the oracles say that only two came into the land that was to be destroyed, for the ruin of its inhabitants, the third not deeming it right to come—

he who, in my understanding, was the one who truly is, having judged it fitting to bestow good things himself, in person, but to entrust to his powers alone, as ministers, the accomplishing of their opposite, so that he might be regarded as the cause only of good things, and of no evil in the primary sense.

This too, it seems to me, is what kings who imitate the divine nature do: extending favors through themselves, but carrying out punishments through others.

But since of the two powers one is beneficent and the other punitive, each fittingly appeared over the land of the Sodomites, because of the five finest cities in it, four were about to be burned, while one was to be left unharmed by any evil, safe; for it was fitting that destruction come about through the punitive power, but preservation through the beneficent one.

But since even the part that was preserved did not possess whole and complete virtues, it was benefited by the power of him who is, yet was judged unworthy, in the primary sense, to attain a vision of that being itself.

This, then, is the interpretation given openly, for the many; the one given in secret, for the few who search out the characters of souls rather than the shapes of bodies, will now be told. Symbolically, the Five Cities represent the five senses within us, the instruments of pleasures, through which all pleasures, both small and great, are brought to completion.

For either, seeing the varieties of colors and shapes in things both inanimate and animate, we take pleasure, or hearing the most melodious sounds, or in taste amid matters of eating and drinking, or in smell amid the fragrances of vapors, or in touch amid things soft and warm, and also smooth.

Now the most animal-like and most slavish of the five senses are three: taste, smell, and touch; in respect of these, the most gluttonous and most lustful of tame and wild creatures are especially excited, for throughout the whole day and night they either gorge themselves insatiably with food or rush toward mating.

But two are philosophical and ruling: hearing and sight. Ears are somewhat slower and more feminine than eyes, since the eyes, through their boldness, reach out toward visible things and do not wait until those things move them, but go out to meet them and are eager to move toward them in turn. Hearing, then, being slower and more feminine, let it be assigned second rank, but let sight have a certain special privilege; for God declared this to be queen over the others, setting it above them all, and, establishing it as though on an acropolis, made it most intimately akin to the soul. One might find evidence of this from the fact that it changes together with the soul's own changes—

For when grief arises, the eyes fill with gloom and dejection; when joy arises, instead they smile faintly and brighten; when fear prevails, they fill with turbulent disorder, admitting disordered movements, tremblings, and rollings.

But if anger takes hold, the look becomes somewhat harsher and bloodshot; and in reasoning and reflecting on something it grows still and withdraws, all but stretching itself along with the thought, while in relaxations and respites it too relaxes and slackens.

To a friend approaching, it announces in advance, with a serene and calm glance, the feeling of goodwill; but if it should be an enemy, it foretells the soul's displeasure. In boldness the eyes leap forward and run ahead; in shame they rest gently and quietly. In short, to put it briefly, sight, imitated with the utmost skill, presents a vivid image of the soul, a clear likeness, as though reflected in a mirror, of a nature that has no visible form of its own.

But the beauty of the eyes surpasses the other senses not only in this, but also because the functions of the others fail during waking hours — for the inactivity that comes with sleep must not be counted — since whenever nothing external stirs them, they rest; whereas the activities of the open eyes are continuous and unbroken, never sated, and in this too they display the kinship they have with the soul.

But the soul, being ever in motion, rises both day and night, while to the eyes — since they share so greatly in flesh — a sufficient gift was given: to spend fully half of the whole span of time and life carrying out the activities

proper to them. Now what is most necessary about the benefit that comes from the eyes must be stated. For to sight alone among the senses did God cause light to rise, which is both the most beautiful of existing things and was named ‘good’ first of all in the sacred books (Gen. 1:4).

Now the nature of light is twofold: the one comes from useful fire, and being itself perishable, shines forth from what is perishable and admits of extinction; the other is inextinguishable and incorruptible, borne down to us from heaven above, as each of the stars pours out its rays as from ever-flowing springs. With each of these sight has intercourse, and through both it reaches toward visible things for the most exact apprehension.

Shall we still attempt to praise the eyes in words, when God has set up their true praises in heaven — the stars? For the rays of the sun and moon and of the other wandering and fixed stars, for what purpose have they come to be, if not for the service of the eyes’ activity in seeing?

Hence, making use of that best of all gifts, light, the eyes gaze upon the things in the world: earth, plants, animals, fruits, the expanses of the seas, rivers both native-born and torrential, and the differences among springs, of which some pour forth a cold and others a warm stream, and the natures of all things formed in the air — countless are their forms, beyond the grasp of speech — and, above all these, the heaven, which has truly been fashioned as a world within the world, and the beauties in the heavens and the divine images there. Which of the other senses

will ever boast of crossing so great a distance? But let us set aside desire, which fattens in its stalls the creature bred within us, and examine hearing, which lays claim to reason. Its most intense and most perfect course comes to a halt in the air near the earth, whenever the force of winds and the crashes of thunder sound out a great rushing and a harsh, difficult clamor.

But the eyes, from the earth, reach in an instant to heaven and to the ends of the universe — to the rising and the setting alike, to the north and to the south — and having arrived there to contemplate, they draw the mind after what has appeared.

And the mind, having received a like impression, does not rest, but being sleepless and ever in motion, having taken from sight the starting points for its ability to contemplate intelligible things, has come to inquire whether these things that have appeared are without origin or have taken a beginning of generation; and whether they are unlimited or limited; and whether there is one world or several; and whether the four elements are those to which heaven and the things in it, by a more divine nature, have been allotted a portion, and not the same substance as the rest.

And if indeed the world has come to be, by whom has it come to be, and who is its maker in substance or in quality, and with what purpose in mind he made it, and what he does now, and what manner of existence and life is his, and whatever else a mind of surpassing excellence, living together with wisdom, is accustomed to search out.

These things and others like them are devoted to the pursuit of philosophy. From this it is clear that wisdom and philosophy have taken their beginning from none of the other faculties within us but from sight, the leader among the senses — which alone, out of the bodily region, God preserved from among the four that were to perish, because the others were enslaved to flesh and the passions of flesh, while sight had the strength to raise its neck, to look upward, and to discover other delights far better than bodily pleasures, from the contemplation of the world and the things in it.

It was fitting, then, that sight alone, as out of a league of five cities among the five senses, should obtain a special prize and, while the others perish, remain — because it does not, like them, confine itself to mortal things, but claims the right to migrate to the imperishable natures, rejoicing in the sight of these.

For this reason the oracles most beautifully represent this city as both ‘small’ and ‘not small’ (cf. Gen. 19:20), hinting at sight: for it is called small because it is a slight part of what is within us, but great because it reaches after great things, longing to gaze upon the whole heaven and the world.

Concerning, then, the vision that appeared and the celebrated and altogether beautiful gifts of hospitality, in which the host who seemed to be entertaining was himself the one entertained, we have made clear, as far as was possible, an exact account of what pertains to that scene. But we must not pass over in silence the greatest deed worthy to be heard; for I am not far from saying that it surpasses all deeds pleasing to God. We must speak of what is essential concerning it.

A son is born to the sage from his wedded wife, legitimate, beloved, and only — most beautiful in body and best in soul; for already, at his tender age, he was displaying virtues more mature than his years, so that his father was moved not only by the natural affection of a father, but also by judgment, like a judge of character, to a strong tenderness of love.

While he was in this state, suddenly an oracle is pronounced, never hoped for: that he should sacrifice his son upon some very high hill, at a distance of three days’ journey from the city.

But he, though hanging upon his boy with an inexpressible longing, neither changed color nor was bent in soul, but remained unshaken, with unyielding and unwavering resolve, just as he had been before; and, overpowered by a divine love, he conquered utterly all the names and endearments of kinship, and, telling the oracle to none of his household, taking from his many household servants only the two oldest and most devoted to their master, he set out as a fourth with his son, as though for some customary sacred rite.

And having seen the appointed place from far off, as if from a watchtower, he bids the servants remain behind, and gives to his son fire and wood to carry, deeming it right that the victim itself should be burdened with what pertained to the sacrifice — a most light burden, for nothing is less toilsome than piety.

Walking at an equal pace, no more with their bodies than with their minds, along the shortest road, whose end is holiness, they arrive at the appointed place.

Then the father began gathering stones, to build an altar, while the son, seeing everything else made ready for the sacred rite, but no animal, looked at his father and said, ‘Here is the fire and the wood, father — but where is the victim?’

Another man, knowing what he was about to do and darkening it in his soul at what had been said, would have been thrown into confusion, and, filled with tears, would have betrayed, through the intensity of his feeling, by his very calm, a hint of what was to come.

But he, admitting no change either in body or in mind, with a steady gaze and steady reasoning, says in answer to the question: ‘My child, God will see to a victim for himself, even in this great desolation, on account of which perhaps you despair of one being found; but know that all things are possible to God, even those that lie beyond human resource and contrivance.’

And saying this, he quickly snatched up his son, laid him on the altar, drew the sword with his right hand, and brought it down to slay him. But the saving God anticipated the deed, cutting it short with a voice from the air that commanded him to hold back and not touch the boy, calling the father by name twice, so that he might turn and pull back his hand and stop himself from carrying out

the slaughter. And so the son was kept safe, God giving him back as a gift in return, and honoring the one who brought him in the very act by which he had shown his piety. And for the father, the deed itself, even though it was not carried through to its end, has been engraved whole and complete not only in the sacred books but also in the minds of those who read them from that time on.

But to those who love to give offense and find fault with everything, who are in the habit of prizing blame above praise, the deed done does not seem great and marvelous, as we suppose it to be.

For they say that many others too, among men most devoted to their households and their children, have given up their own sons: some to be slaughtered on behalf of their homelands, to serve as ransom against wars or droughts or floods or plagues of disease; others on behalf of some observance held to be pious, even if it was not truly so.

Among the Greeks, the most highly regarded — not private citizens only but kings as well — gave little thought to those they had begotten, and by putting them to death saved great and populous armies drawn up as allies, while on

the enemy's side they destroyed at a single stroke. And barbarian nations for a long time accepted the killing of children as a holy and god-pleasing act — of whose pollution the most holy Moses himself makes mention; for accusing them of this defilement he says that "they burn their sons and their daughters to their gods" (Deut. 12:31).

And among the Indians, the naked sages, to this day, whenever the long and incurable disease of old age begins to take hold, before it has firmly mastered them, heap up a pyre and burn themselves upon it, though they might perhaps still hold out for many more years; and it has happened that women too, when their husbands have died before them, rush gladly to the same pyre and, while still alive, endure being burned along with their husbands' bodies.

One might reasonably admire these acts for their sheer daring, holding death in such utter contempt, as though rushing toward immortality and running to it without pausing for breath. But why should this man be praised as the originator of some newly-invented deed, when private citizens and kings and whole nations do the same at various times?

To the envy and bitterness of such people I will say this: of those who sacrifice a child, some do it out of custom, as I said certain barbarians do; others do it because of unwanted and grave circumstances of cities and countries that cannot be set right in any other way — of whom some give up their own children under compulsion, forced by those more powerful, while others do it out of a craving for reputation and honor, for glory in the present and good report in time to come.

Those, then, who sacrifice by custom do nothing great, it seems; for custom, grown habitual over time, is often equated with nature, so that it lightens even things hard to endure and hard to bear, making the extremes of what is fearful easy to manage.

And for those who give up their children out of fear, there is no praise at all; for praise is recorded for voluntary achievements, while unwilling acts belong to other categories, whether to circumstance or to fortune or to compulsions imposed by other men.

And if someone, reaching for glory, gives up a son or a daughter, he would justly be blamed rather than praised, purchasing honor at the price of death for those most dear to him — an honor which, even once gained, he ought to have thrown away for the sake of saving his children.

We must inquire, then, whether that man was about to sacrifice his son because he was overcome by any of the things just mentioned — custom, honor, or fear. As for custom, Babylon and Mesopotamia and the Chaldean nation do not accept the killing of children, and it was among them that he was raised and lived for most of his life, so that by the constant repetition of such acts he might be thought to have been mastered, his perceptions of what is terrible dulled.

And certainly there was no fear from other men — for no one even knew of the oracle given to him alone — nor had some common disaster overtaken them, one whose remedy required the killing of his most highly esteemed son.

But was it that, hunting for the praise of the many, he rushed toward the deed? And what praise could there be in the wilderness, with no one present who was going to applaud what was to happen — indeed with even the two servants deliberately left far behind, so that he should not seem

to be showing off and putting on display, calling in witnesses of his piety? Let those with unbridled and slanderous mouths, then, shut their doors and moderate the envy that hates the good within them, and let them not injure the virtues of men who have lived well — virtues which it would be fitting to honor with good report instead. And that the deed is in truth praiseworthy and worthy of love is easy to see from many considerations.

First, then, obedience to God, which is held in reverence and eagerly contested for among all who think rightly, he cultivated above all else, so that he never once disregarded any command, without reluctance or displeasure, even when it was full of toil and pain; and this is why he bore what was decreed concerning his son with the utmost nobility and firmness.

Next, since there was no custom in his country — as there perhaps is among some peoples — of sacrificing human beings, a practice which constant repetition tends to weaken one's perception of as something terrible, he himself was about to be the first to begin so novel and extraordinary a deed, one which I think no one would have endured even if his soul had been forged of iron or adamant; for as someone has said, "it is nature's way to resist."

And having made this son alone his legitimate child, he possessed at once in him a legitimate depth of affection as well, surpassing even the most temperate loves and the friendships that come about through mere acquaintance.

And there was added a most compelling charm: that he had begotten the boy not in the prime of life but in old age; for fathers who are wild with affection for children born late in life feel this either because they had longed for the birth through a long stretch of time, or because they no longer expect any others to come, nature having come to a halt there as at its final and utmost limit.

Now to give up one child out of many to God, as a kind of firstfruits of one's children, is nothing extraordinary, since one still has the pleasures found in those who remain, no small comfort and balm for the grief over the one sacrificed; but a man who gives up the only son he holds dear accomplishes a deed greater than any account can capture, granting nothing to kinship, but inclining the whole balance of his soul toward what is pleasing to God.

That, indeed, is exceptional, and something done by this man almost alone; for others, even when they give up their own children to be slaughtered for the safety of their homelands or their armies, either remain at home or stand far off from the altars, or, even if they happen to be present, turn their eyes away, unable to bear watching, while others do the killing.

But he, like a priest, himself began the sacred rite, though he was the most affectionate of fathers toward a son who was in every way the best; and he would perhaps even have cut his son limb from limb according to the law of whole burnt offerings (cf. Lev. 1:6 and elsewhere), performing the sacrifice member by member. So it was not that one part of him inclined toward his child and another toward piety, but that he devoted his whole soul entirely to holiness, giving little thought to the blood of his own kin.

What, then, in what has been said, is common to others? What is not exceptional and beyond all account? So that even one not naturally envious and hostile to what is good would be struck with amazement at his excessive piety, even without taking in all at once everything I have said, but even a single one of these points; for even the impression of a single instance, in a brief sketch — and nothing that is the work of a wise man is brief — is enough to display greatness and loftiness of soul.

But the things said do not stop at their plain and evident meaning; rather they seem to hint at a deeper nature, less clear to most people, which those who value the intelligible above the perceptible, and who are able to see it, recognize.

It is like this: the one who was about to be sacrificed is called in Chaldean Isaac, but when the name is translated into Greek, "laughter"; laughter here does not mean the kind that arises in the body through jesting, but rather the good feeling and joy that belongs to the mind.

This is the offering that the wise man is said, fittingly, to perform for God through a symbol, signifying that rejoicing belongs to God alone as his very own; for the human race is subject to grief and fear, whether from present evils or those expected, so that it is either pained by unwanted things at hand or shaken with turmoil and fear at what is to come; but the nature of God is free from grief and fear and untouched by any passion, alone partaking of perfect happiness and blessedness.

To the one who has made this true confession, God, being kind and benevolent in his way, having driven envy from himself, fittingly gives the gift in return, in proportion to the capacity of the one who is to receive it, and all but proclaims these very words:

"That the kind of joy that is rejoicing belongs to no one but me, the Father of all — this I know clearly; yet though I possess it, I do not begrudge its use to those who are worthy. And who could be worthy, except one who follows me and my purposes? For it will fall to him, least of all, to be pained, and least of all to be afraid, as he travels this road, which is impassable to the passions and vices, but is walked through by good feelings and virtues."

Let no one suppose that unmixed joy, free of all admixture of grief, descends from heaven to earth; rather it is mixed of both, with the better element predominating — just as light in heaven is unmixed and free of darkness, but appears mixed with murky air among things beneath the moon.

For this reason, it seems to me, Sarah — surnamed Virtue — having laughed earlier, denied her laughter to the one who inquired (Gen. 18:15), fearing that she might be appropriating for herself the rejoicing that belongs to no created being but to God alone; and so, to reassure her, the sacred word says:

"Do not be afraid; you did truly laugh, and joy is yours. For the Father did not allow the human race to be swept along wholly by griefs and pains and unbearable burdens, but mixed in something of the better nature too, deeming it right that the soul should at times find fair weather and calm; and he willed that the wise should rejoice and be glad, for the greater part of their lives, in the contemplation of the works of the universe."

Let this much be said about the man's piety, even though there is an abundance of much else that could be told. We must also examine his kindness toward his fellow human beings; for it belongs to the same nature to be pious and to love humanity, and each of these is observed in relation to the same object: holiness toward God, justice toward human beings. To recount all his deeds would take too long, but it is not out of place to recall two or three.

Though he was among the wealthiest in silver and gold, and possessed flocks teeming with many kinds of livestock, and rivaled the natives and the indigenous people who had ample possessions in his abundance, and had become richer than befits a resident alien, he was blamed by none of his hosts, but was praised continually by all who came to know him.

And if ever, as often happens, some rivalry or quarrel arose between his servants and companions and others, he would try to dissolve it quietly, having set before it his weightier character, having driven from his soul all that was contentious, turbulent, and factious.

And it is no wonder that he behaved this way toward strangers, who, joining forces with a heavier and stronger hand, would have retaliated against one who began an unjust affray, when even toward those who were kin by birth but estranged in disposition, isolated and alone and possessing far less than he, he acted with moderation, willingly accepting the lesser share in matters where he could have had the greater.

For he had a nephew who had gone out with him when he left his homeland — unsteady, wavering, leaning now this way now that, at one time fawning with friendly greetings, at another rebelling and throwing off restraint on account of the unevenness of his character.

Hence his household too was quarrelsome and turbulent, having no one to discipline it, and especially the shepherds, who were kept far from their master; being self-willed, like freedmen, they were constantly at odds with the overseers of the wise man's flocks, who mostly yielded on account of their master's gentle disposition. Emboldened by this toward recklessness and shameless insolence, they grew angry, and kept the fire of their implacable resentment burning within themselves, until they forced those who were wronged to rush to defend themselves.

When a very fierce battle had broken out, the good man, hearing of the counter-attack, and knowing that his own side was superior in numbers and strength, would not let the dispute go all the way to victory, so as not to grieve his nephew by the defeat of his own men; but standing on the border, he reconciled the disputants with words of settlement — not only for the present time but for the time to come as well.

For knowing that if they continued to live together and share the same dwelling, they would, out of stubborn rivalry, forever stir up factions and wars against each other, in order to prevent this he judged it advantageous to give up their common life and separate their households; and summoning his nephew, he gave him the choice of the better land, gladly agreeing that whichever portion he chose he should have, for he considered peace itself the greatest gain.

And yet who else, being the stronger, would yield to a weaker man in any matter whatsoever? Who, being able to win, would wish to be defeated, rather than make use of his power? He alone, placing the highest good not in strength and greed for advantage but in a life free of faction and, so far as it depended on him, in tranquility, seemed to all the most admirable of men.

Since, then, this praiseworthy account has been given as concerning a man, and since character-types of the soul are also signified, according to those who proceed from the literal to the intelligible, it would be fitting to search these out as well.

Countless types, indeed, arise from countless starting points, in keeping with all sorts of forms of things, but there are two that are now to be examined, of which one is older and the other younger — the older being the one that honors what is first and ruling by nature, the younger the one that honors what is subordinate and found at the outermost limits.

The older and ruling things, then, are prudence, self-control, justice, courage, and everything belonging to virtue and to actions in accordance with virtue; the younger are wealth, reputation, office, and noble birth — not the true kind, but the kind the many suppose it to be — and whatever else has been assigned the third rank after the things of soul and body, which is immediately also the last.

Each of these two types, then, has what might be called flocks and herds: the one who reaches for external things has silver, gold, garments, and everything that serves as material and equipment for wealth, and again weapons, engines of war, warships, cavalry, infantry, and naval power, the resources for dominion, from which secure mastery results; while the one who loves nobility of character has the doctrines belonging to each virtue and the contemplations of wisdom itself.

Over each of these two there are overseers and caretakers, like shepherds over their flocks: over the external things, those who love money and reputation and aspire to command, and all who delight in holding power over the masses; over the things of the soul, those who love beauty and love virtue, choosing not the spurious goods before the genuine, but the genuine before the spurious.

A kind of natural conflict, then, arises between them, since they agree on nothing, but are ever discordant and at variance concerning the matter that holds together all of life more than any other — namely, the judgment of what is truly good.

For a while, then, the soul was warred upon and went along with this faction, not yet fully purified, but with the passions and diseases still getting the better of the healthy reasonings; but from the time it began to grow stronger and, with a mightier strength, to tear down the fortifications of the opposing opinions, having taken wing and having been filled with high resolve, it walls off and separates from itself the character-type that had marveled at external material things, and, as though addressing a man, it says:

"It is impossible for you to live together and share the same table with one who is a lover of wisdom and virtue; go, then, remove yourself, and be separated far away, having no fellowship with him — indeed, being unable to have any. For whatever you suppose to be on the right hand, he considers to be on the left; and whatever, on the contrary, you suppose to be on the left, is held by him to be on the right."

The good man, then, was not only peaceable and a lover of justice, but courageous and warlike as well — not for the sake of waging war, for he was not quarrelsome or contentious, but for the sake of securing a lasting peace for the future, which his adversaries were destroying. The clearest proof is what he actually did.

Four great kings had been allotted the eastern portion of the inhabited world, and the eastern nations obeyed them, both those beyond the Euphrates and those within it. Everything else remained free of rebellion, submitting to the kings' commands and paying the annual tribute without objection; only the territory of the Sodomites, before it was burned to the ground, began to unsettle the peace, having long been minded to revolt.

For since this land was extremely prosperous, five kings held power over it, having divided the cities and the territory among themselves—not extensive in area, but rich in grain and trees and overflowing with fruit. What great size gave to other lands, virtue gave to Sodom, and this is why its beauty won it so many admirers among rulers who were struck with astonishment at it.

For a long while these five kings paid the tribute imposed on them to the collectors of revenue, honoring and at the same time fearing those who were mightier than themselves, whose governors they were. But when they had their fill of good things—and, as usually happens, satiety bred arrogance—thinking more highly of their own power than was warranted, they first shook off the yoke, and then, like wicked slaves who attack their own masters, they set upon them, trusting in rebellion rather than in strength.

The four kings, remembering their own noble birth and arming themselves with a mightier force, advanced very contemptuously, as though they would prevail with a single shout; and when they engaged, they scattered some at once into flight, while others they cut down as they turned to run, destroying them to the last man of fighting age; and having taken a great crowd of captives together with the rest of the plunder, they divided it among themselves. They also carried off the wise man's nephew, who not long before had moved to one of the cities of the Pentapolis.

When this was reported by one of those who had survived the rout, it distressed him grievously, and he could no longer rest, being thrown into confusion by it, and grieving over him as living was more painful than if he had learned that he was dead. For "the end," as its very name somewhere shows, he knew to be the termination of everything in life, and especially of evils, but countless unwanted things lie in wait for the living.

As he made ready to pursue in order to rescue his nephew, he was at a loss for allies, since he was a foreigner and a resident alien, and no one dared to oppose the irresistible forces of so many kings, kings moreover who had just been victorious.

But he discovered a most novel form of alliance—for a way is found even in the midst of impossibility, whenever a person sets his heart on works of justice and humanity. He gathered together his household servants, and having ordered those he had purchased with money to remain at home—for he feared desertion from among them—he enrolled those born in his household, and dividing them into companies of a hundred he advanced in three divisions, trusting not in these forces (for they were a tiny fraction compared with those of the kings) but in God, the champion and defender who fights on behalf of justice.

So he pressed on, straining every effort and relaxing none of his speed, until, watching for his moment, he fell upon the enemy by night, when they had already dined and were about to turn to sleep; and some he slaughtered in their beds, while those who formed ranks against him he destroyed utterly, and he overpowered them all with vigor, relying more on the courage of his soul than on his equipment.

And he did not relent until he had cut down the opposing army to the last man of fighting age, along with the kings themselves, and had laid them low before their own camp, and had brought his nephew back after a brilliant and most conspicuous victory, taking along with him besides all the cavalry and the multitude of other pack animals and a most abundant plunder.

When the great priest of the greatest God saw him returning, bearing the trophies of victory, safe himself and with his own force safe—for he had lost not one of his companions—he was struck with astonishment at the magnitude of the achievement, and, reflecting as one naturally would that it could not have been accomplished without divine providence and alliance, he lifted up his hands to heaven, honored him with prayers, offered sacrifices for the victory, and gave a splendid feast for all who had shared in the struggle, rejoicing and delighting in it as though it were his own achievement. And in truth it was his own; for, as the proverb has it, "friends hold all things in common," and far more so do good men, whose single aim is to please God.

These, then, are the things the literal scriptures contain. But those who are able to contemplate matters as incorporeal and stripped bare, who live by the soul rather than by the body, will say that of the nine kings, four represent the powers within us of the four passions—pleasure, desire, fear, and grief—while the five represent the equal number of senses: sight, hearing, taste, smell, and touch.

For in a certain way these hold royal sway and rule over us, having power fastened upon them, though not in the same degree; for the five are subject to the four and pay them the tribute and dues that nature has made obligatory.

For it is from what we see or hear or smell or taste or touch that griefs and pleasures and fears and desires arise, none of the passions having any strength of its own unless it were supplied by the equipment furnished through the senses.

For these are the powers belonging to those passions, whether through colors and shapes, or through the voice in speaking or hearing, or through flavors, or through scents, or through the qualities found in tangible things—soft and hard, or rough and smooth, or hot and cold; for all these are supplied to each of the passions through the senses.

And so long as the tribute mentioned is paid, alliance remains among the kings, but whenever it is no longer rendered in the same measure, factions and wars immediately arise. This is likely to happen when painful old age arrives, in which none of the passions grows any weaker—indeed perhaps even mightier than their former strength—but the eyes grow dim, the ears hard of hearing, and each of the other senses more blunted, no longer able to discern each thing as precisely nor to render judgment, nor to pay tribute equal to what is due. It is reasonable, then, that having grown weak in every way, they are easily overturned by the opposing passions, which incline against them of their own accord.

Most naturally has it been said that of the five kings, two fall into pits, while three set out in flight (Gen. 14:10); for touch and taste reach down to the deepest recesses, conveying what belongs to them into the inward parts for their governance, while the eyes, ears, and smell, mostly moving outward, escape the body's servitude.

Watching over all these, the man of worth, when he saw the allied and friendly powers lately diseased, and war arising in place of peace among the nine kingdoms, with the five contending against the four for supremacy of rule, suddenly seized his moment and attacked, ambitious to establish in the soul democracy, the best of constitutions, in place of tyrannies and dynasties, and lawfulness and justice in place of the lawlessness and injustice that had until then prevailed.

What has been said is no fictional myth, but a matter observed among the truest realities within ourselves. For often the senses maintain harmony with the passions, supplying to them the objects of sense, and often too they fall into faction, no longer willing to pay the same due, or unable to, because reason, the corrective power, is present. Whenever reason takes up its own full armor—the virtues, and the doctrines and contemplations belonging to them, a power that cannot be resisted—it prevails most mightily; for it is not lawful for the perishable to dwell together with the imperishable.

The nine dominions, then, of the four passions and the five senses are perishable and causes of destruction, while reason, which uses the virtues as its base of operations, is truly sacred and divine, ranked in the number of the perfect ten; and when it comes to the contest, employing the mightier power that is according to God, it conquers utterly the dominions just described.

In time, later, his wife died, a woman most agreeable in temper and best in every respect, having given countless proofs of her devotion to her husband: her abandonment of her kinsfolk along with him, her unhesitating removal from her homeland, her continual and repeated wanderings in a foreign land, her want and hunger, her campaigns alongside him in wars.

For always and everywhere she was at his side, leaving no place or occasion, a true partner of his life and of the affairs of that life, claiming an equal share both in good things and in bad; for she was not like some women who flee from misfortune while lying in wait for good fortune, but she embraced with all eagerness whatever portion fell to her in either case, as fitting and proper for a wife.

Though I have many things to relate in praise of this woman, I will call to mind one, which will serve as the clearest proof of the others as well. Being childless and barren, and fearing that the house beloved of God might be left utterly bereft of offspring, she came to her husband and said the following:

"For a long time now we have lived together, well pleased with one another, but the begetting of children, for the sake of which we ourselves came together and for which nature joined the partnership of husband and wife, has not occurred, nor is it to be expected in the future from me, since I am already past the age."

"Do not, then, be deprived, on account of my barrenness, of the benefit that is your due, nor, out of your goodwill toward me, be barred from becoming a father when you are able to be one; for I would feel no jealousy toward another woman, since you would not be taking her out of irrational desire, but in order to fulfill a necessary law of nature."

"For this reason I will not delay to escort a bride to you, one who is to fill up what is lacking in me; and if the prayers for the begetting of children should be answered, the offspring will be legitimately yours, but by adoption entirely mine as well."

For this reason I will not delay to give her to you as a bride, since she is to fulfill what is lacking in me; and if the prayers concerning the begetting of children should be answered, the children born will be yours by nature, but certainly mine by adoption."

And so that there be no suspicion of jealousy on my part, take, if you wish, my own maidservant—a slave in body, but free and noble in mind, whose character I have tested and proved over a long time, from the very day she was first brought into my household: Egyptian by birth, but Hebrew by choice.

We possess much property and abundant wealth, not as resident aliens do—indeed we already surpass the native-born in splendid good fortune—but no heir or successor has yet been appointed, if you will be persuaded by my advice."

And he, moved still more by his wife's ever-active and ardent devotion to her husband, and by her careful forethought concerning the future, took to himself the woman she had approved, continuing with her, as the most accurate accounts say, only until she had conceived; for once she had conceived, not long after, he abstained from her, both out of natural self-restraint and out of the honor he accorded his wedded wife.

So a son is born from the maidservant—though it might have happened at that very time in any case—and, long afterward, a legitimate son is born as well, to a couple who had given up hope of having children of their own, God, who delights in giving, granting a reward for their nobility more complete than any hope.

Let this much suffice as examples told concerning the woman; but there are yet more praises to speak of the sage, some of which I recounted a little earlier. I will also tell of his conduct at his wife's death, a deed not fit to be passed over in silence.

For having lost such a partner in the whole of life as our account has shown and the oracles attest, when grief was already stripping down and covering itself with dust to grapple with his soul, like an athlete he prevailed, strengthening and greatly encouraging reason, the natural opponent of the passions; and using reason as his counselor throughout his whole life, he judged it right at that time above all to be persuaded by it, as it urged upon him what was best and beneficial.

And these were its counsels: neither to thrash about beyond due measure, as though the calamity were utterly novel and unprecedented, nor to display such indifference as though nothing painful had occurred, but to choose the mean between the two extremes and try to moderate one's feelings—not resenting nature for reclaiming what was owed to it, but bearing what had happened calmly

and gently easing it. Testimony to this is recorded in the sacred books, which it is not lawful to convict of false witness; they report that after shedding a few tears over the body, he rose quickly from beside the corpse, evidently considering excessive mourning foreign to wisdom—the wisdom that had taught him to regard death not as the extinction of the soul, but as its separation and release from the body, the soul departing back to the place from which it came; and it came, as has been shown in the treatise On the Creation of the World, from God.

Just as no one would be distressed at repaying a debt or a deposit to the one who lent it, in the same way he thought one ought not to be angry when nature reclaims what belongs to it, but should welcome what is necessary.

When the leading men of the region came to share in his grief, and saw none of the customary displays made for mourners among them—no wailing, no lamentation, no beating of the breast, neither from men nor from women, but a steady and sober dejection pervading the whole household—they were greatly astonished, though they had already been struck with wonder at the rest of the man's life.

Then, unable to contain within themselves the greatness and beauty of his virtue—for everything about it was extraordinary—they came forward and cried out, "You are a king from God among us" (Gen. 23:6), speaking the plain truth. For other kingships are established by men, through wars and campaigns and countless evils, which those who lust after power inflict on one another as they slaughter each other, arraying infantry, cavalry, and naval forces against one another; but the kingship of the sage is bestowed by God, and the excellent man who receives it becomes the cause of harm to no one, while proclaiming to all his subjects peace and good order, together with the acquisition and enjoyment of good things.

There is also a written praise of him, attested in the oracles that Moses was inspired to declare, by which it is revealed that "he believed God" (Gen. 15:6)—a statement briefest to utter, but greatest to confirm in deed. For in whom else ought one to place trust?

Is it in positions of power, or in reputation and honors, or in abundance of wealth and noble birth, or in health and keenness of the senses, or in bodily strength and beauty? But every form of rule is precarious, having countless rivals lying in ambush against it; and even where it is somehow secured, it is secured only along with the countless evils that those in power both inflict and suffer.

Reputation and honors are a most precarious possession, tossed about on the unstable characters and fickle words of thoughtless people; and even if they should endure, they do not by nature contain any genuine good.

Wealth and noble birth belong even to the most worthless people; and even if they belonged only to the excellent, they would be praises of one's ancestors and of fortune, not of those who possess them.

But it is not worth taking pride in bodily qualities either, in which the irrational animals have the advantage. For what man is stronger or mightier than the bull among tame creatures, or the lion among wild ones? Who is sharper-sighted than the hawk or the eagle? Who is so fortunate in hearing as the donkey, the most sluggish of animals? Who is more precise in smell than the dog, which hunters say tracks by scent and runs unerringly toward carcasses far away that it has never seen? For what sight is to others, the nostrils are to hunting and tracking dogs.

Most of the irrational animals are also the healthiest and, as far as possible, the most free from disease. And in the contest of beauty, it seems to me that even some lifeless things can win and surpass the fair forms of both men and women—statues, carved images, and paintings, and in general all the works of painting and sculpture successfully achieved in either art, over which Greeks and barbarians alike take such pains, for the adornment of their cities, setting them up in the most prominent

places. So the only unfailing and secure good is faith toward God: the consolation of life, the fulfillment of good hopes, barrenness of evils and abundance of goods, the renunciation of misfortune, the knowledge of piety, the inheritance of happiness—the improvement of the soul in every respect, once it has fixed and settled itself firmly upon the cause of all things, who is able to do all things and wills only what is best.

For just as those who walk along a slippery road trip and fall, while those who go by a dry and well-traveled highway make their journey without stumbling, so too those who lead the soul by way of bodily things and externals accustom it to nothing but falling—for these things are slippery and the most unstable of all—while those who hasten toward God through the contemplations that concern the virtues keep to a safe and unshaken path; so that it can be said with utmost truth that the one who trusts in those things distrusts God, while the one who distrusts those things has put his trust in God.

But the oracles do not only attest his faith in the Existent One, the queen of virtues; they also declared him the first to be called "elder" (Gen. 24:1), even though those before him had lived three times as many years and more—none of whom, as far as we have learned, was deemed worthy of this title.

And this is surely fitting; for one who is elder in truth is recognized not by length of years but by a praiseworthy and perfect life. Those, then, who have worn away a long span of time in life with the body, without nobility of character, should rightly be called long-lived children, never having learned the lessons worthy of gray hair; whereas one who has come to love wisdom, understanding, and faith in God might justly be called an elder, taking his name alongside "the first."

For in truth the sage is first among the human race, just as the pilot is first on a ship, the ruler first in a city, the general first in war, the soul is first in the body, mind first in the soul, and again heaven is first in the universe, and God is first in heaven.

God, admiring the man's faith toward him, gives faith back to him in return—the confirmation by oath of the gifts he had promised—no longer speaking merely as God to a man, but as a friend conversing with an acquaintance; for he says, "I have sworn by myself" (Gen. 22:16)—he for whom his word is itself an oath—in order that Abraham's mind might be established still more unwaveringly and firmly than before.

The good and excellent man, then, is and should be called elder and first; while every fool is younger and last, pursuing the things that make for novelty and are ranked at the very margins. Let this much, then, be said on this subject.

And setting, as it were, a crowning capstone upon the multitude and greatness of the sage's praises, Moses says that "this man did the divine law and all the divine commandments" (Gen. 26:5)—not having been instructed by written texts, but having taken pains to follow unwritten nature with sound and healthy impulses. And concerning what God himself confesses, what is fitting for men to do but believe most firmly?

Such is the life of the first founder of the nation — a life that some will call lawful, but that my own account has shown to be law itself, an unwritten statute.

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