Book VIII

You Have Broken My Bonds

O my God, let me with thanksgiving remember and confess to You Your mercies toward me. Let my bones be bathed in Your love, and let them say, "Who is like You, O Lord?" You have broken my bonds; I will offer to You the sacrifice of thanksgiving. And how You have broken them I will declare; and all who worship You, when they hear this, shall say: "Blessed be the Lord, in heaven and in earth, great and wonderful is His name."

Your words had stuck fast in my heart, and I was hedged round on all sides by You. Of Your eternal life I was now certain, though I saw it dimly and as through a glass. Yet I no longer doubted that there was an incorruptible substance from which all other substance comes; nor did I now desire to be more certain of You, but more steadfast in You. But for my daily life, all was wavering, and my heart had to be purged from the old leaven. The Way — the Savior Himself — pleased me well, but I still shrank from going through its narrowness.

I had now found the costly pearl, which selling all that I had, I ought to have bought — and I hesitated.

Victorinus the Proud Professor

So I went to Simplicianus, the spiritual father of Ambrose, and told him the tangled story of my wanderings. When I mentioned that I had read certain books of the Platonists translated into Latin by Victorinus — the former rhetoric professor of Rome who had died a Christian — Simplicianus rejoiced, and to encourage me toward the humility of Christ, he told me the story of Victorinus himself.

That aged man, most learned and skilled in all the liberal sciences, who had read and weighed so many works of the philosophers, who had instructed so many distinguished senators, who had earned a statue in the Roman Forum — he, until that age a worshiper of idols and participant in the sacrilegious rites of Rome — now blushed not to become the child of Your Christ, and the newborn infant of Your font, submitting his neck to the yoke of humility, and bowing his forehead to the reproach of the Cross.

He used to say to Simplicianus privately: "Understand that I am already a Christian." To which Simplicianus would answer: "I will not believe it, nor will I rank you among Christians, unless I see you in the Church of Christ." Victorinus would reply with a smile: "Do walls then make Christians?" He said this often; and Simplicianus gave the same answer; and the joke about the walls was repeated. For Victorinus feared to offend his proud friends, from the height of whose influence he expected a crushing weight of hostility to fall upon him.

But after he had, by reading and earnest thought, gathered courage, and feared to be denied by Christ before the holy angels if he should now be afraid to confess Him before men — suddenly and unexpectedly he said to Simplicianus: "Let us go to the church; I wish to be made a Christian." And he, unable to contain himself for joy, went with him. Rome wondered; the Church rejoiced.

The Chain

When Simplicianus told me this story, I was on fire to imitate Victorinus. But I was bound — not with another's chains, but by my own iron will. My will the enemy held, and from it he had made a chain for me and bound me. For from a perverse will came lust; and lust served became habit; and habit not resisted became necessity. By these links, joined one to another (which is why I called it a chain), a hard bondage held me enslaved.

But that new will which had begun to stir in me — freely to serve You and to desire to enjoy You, O God, the only sure delight — was not yet able to overcome my former willfulness, strengthened by years. Thus my two wills, one old and one new, one of the flesh and one of the spirit, struggled within me; and by their discord they tore my soul apart.

So I understood, by my own experience, what I had read: "The flesh lusts against the spirit, and the spirit against the flesh" (Galatians 5:17). I was present in both; yet more truly myself in what I approved than in what I disapproved. And yet it was through me that habit had gained its power to war against me, because I had willingly arrived where I now did not wish to be.

Give Me Chastity — Only Not Yet

For twelve years had now passed since my nineteenth, when upon reading Cicero's Hortensius I was stirred to an earnest love of wisdom; and still I was putting off the day when I would reject the empty happiness of this world and give myself to search for truth. But I, wretch — most wretched — in the very beginning of my youth had begged chastity of You, and said: "Give me chastity and self-control — only not yet." For I feared that You would hear me too soon, and too soon cure me of the disease of lust, which I wished to have satisfied rather than extinguished.¹

I had thought that I kept deferring because I had no certainty to guide me. But now it was certain — and yet the burden still weighed on me, while others who had neither worn themselves out with searching, nor spent ten years and more thinking about it, had had their shoulders lightened and received wings to fly away.

The Two Soldiers at Trier

Upon a day then, one Pontitianus, a fellow African and an official in the Emperor's court, came to see me and Alypius. He noticed a book on the table, picked it up and opened it, and to his surprise found it was the Apostle Paul — for he had thought it was one of the textbooks I was wearing myself out teaching. He smiled, and told me how he admired it. A conversation arose about Antony, the Egyptian monk, whose name was famous among Your servants but until that hour unknown to us.

He told us then how one afternoon at Trier, while the Emperor was at the games, he and three companions went walking in gardens near the city walls. Walking in pairs, two of them wandered off by themselves and happened upon a cottage where some of Your servants lived. There they found a little book containing the life of Antony. One of them began to read it, to admire it, to be set on fire by it. And as he read, he began to think of taking up such a life himself, and leaving his government service to serve You.

Then suddenly, filled with a holy love and a sober shame, angry with himself, he fixed his eyes on his friend and said: "Tell me, what are we aiming at with all these labors of ours? What are we seeking? What are we serving for? Can our hopes at court rise higher than to become the Emperor's favorites? And in this, what is there that is not fragile and full of dangers? But a friend of God, if I wish it, I become now — at once."

So he spoke. And in the anguish of a new life being born, he turned his eyes again upon the book, and read on, and was changed inwardly — where You saw. His mind was stripped of the world. And he said to his friend: "Now have I broken free from those hopes of ours, and I am resolved to serve God; and this, from this hour, in this place, I begin. If you do not wish to join me, do not oppose me." The other answered that he would stay with him, to share so glorious a reward and so glorious a service. And both of them, now being Yours, were building the tower at the necessary cost — forsaking all that they had, and following You.

Turned to Face Myself

Such was the story of Pontitianus. But You, O Lord, while he was speaking, turned me around to face myself — taking me from behind my back where I had placed myself, unwilling to look at myself — and setting me before my own face, that I might see how foul I was, how crooked and defiled, covered with sores and ulcers. And I looked, and stood aghast; and I found nowhere to flee from myself. And if I tried to turn my gaze away, he went on with his story, and You again set me before my own eyes, and forced me to look at my sin, that I might find it and hate it. I had known it — but pretended not to see it, winked at it, and forgot it.

But now, the more I loved those whose healthy surrender I heard about — that they had given themselves wholly to You to be healed — the more I despised myself in comparison. For twelve years had passed since I was first stirred to love wisdom, and still I was deferring.

Then in this great contention of my inner house, which I had violently raised against my soul, in the chamber of my heart — troubled in mind and face — I turned upon Alypius. "What is wrong with us?" I cried. "What is this? What did you hear? The unlearned rise up and take heaven by force, and we with all our learning — look where we wallow in flesh and blood! Are we ashamed to follow because others have gone before, and not ashamed that we do not even follow?"

Some such words I spoke, and my agitation tore me away from him. A little garden belonged to our lodging, and there the tumult of my heart had driven me, where no one could interfere with the fierce struggle I had undertaken with myself, until it should end as You knew — though I knew not. Only I was healthfully distracted — dying, to live; knowing what evil thing I was, and not knowing what good thing I was shortly to become.

The Fig Tree

I was tormented, accusing myself far more severely than usual, rolling and turning in my chain, until it might be wholly broken — for it was now thin, but it still held me. And You, O Lord, pressed upon me in my inmost parts by a severe mercy, doubling the lashes of fear and shame, lest I should give way again, and that thin remaining bond — instead of snapping — should recover its strength and bind me tighter than before.

For I kept saying to myself: "Let it be done now. Let it be done now." And as I spoke, I nearly did it — I nearly did it, and yet did not. But I did not sink back to my old state; I stood at the very edge and took breath. And I tried again, and lacked a little less, and a little less — and all but touched it, and grasped it — and yet did not arrive, did not touch, did not grasp it. Hesitating to die to death and live to life.

"Presently, presently." "Leave me just a little while." But "presently, presently" had no present; and my "little while" went on for a long while.²

The toys of toys and the vanities of vanities — my old companions — still held me. They plucked at my garment of flesh and whispered softly: "Are you dismissing us? And from this moment will we never be with you again — forever? And from this moment will this or that never be allowed to you — forever?" But now they spoke far more faintly. For on the side toward which I had set my face, and where I trembled to go, there appeared to me the pure dignity of Continence — serene, not wantonly cheerful, but honestly inviting me to come and not doubt. Her holy hands were full of good examples: so many young men and women, a multitude of youth and every age, grave widows and aged virgins. And Continence herself — in all of them — not barren, but a fruitful mother of children of joys, by You, her husband, O Lord.

And she smiled at me with an encouraging challenge, as if to say: "Can you not do what these young men and young women have done? Or can they do it of themselves, and not rather in the Lord their God? The Lord their God gave me to them. Why do you stand on your own strength — and so not stand at all? Cast yourself upon Him. Do not be afraid. He will not pull away and let you fall. Cast yourself fearlessly upon Him. He will receive you, and He will heal you."

And I blushed deeply, for I still heard the muttering of those old companions, and I hung in suspense. And she seemed to say again: "Stop your ears against those unclean members of yours on the earth, that they may be put to death. They tell you of delights — but not as does the law of the Lord your God." This war in my heart was self against self only. But Alypius, sitting close by my side, waited in silence for the outcome of my extraordinary emotion.

But when a deep searching had drawn up from the secret bottom of my soul and heaped together all my misery in the sight of my heart, there arose a mighty storm, bringing a mighty rain of tears. So that I might pour it all out freely, I rose from Alypius — solitude seemed more fitting for the business of weeping — and I withdrew far enough that even his presence would not burden me. He remained where we had been sitting, utterly astonished.

I threw myself down — I do not know how — under a certain fig tree, and gave full vent to my tears. And the floods of my eyes poured out, an acceptable sacrifice to You. And not in these words, but to this purpose, I cried to You: "And You, O Lord, how long? How long, Lord, will You be angry forever? Remember not our past sins!" For I felt that I was held by them. I sent up these sorrowful words: "How long? How long? 'Tomorrow and tomorrow'? Why not now? Why is there not this hour an end to my uncleanness?"³

Take Up and Read

So I was speaking and weeping in the most bitter contrition of my heart, when — I heard from a neighboring house a voice, as of a boy or girl, I do not know — chanting, and repeating again and again: "Take up and read. Take up and read."⁴

Instantly my face changed. I began to think intently whether children were accustomed to sing such words in any kind of game; and I could not remember ever having heard the like. So checking the torrent of my tears, I stood up, interpreting it as nothing other than a command from God to open the book and read the first passage I should find. For I had heard of Antony, that coming in during the reading of the Gospel, he took the words being read as spoken directly to him: "Go, sell all that you have and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; and come, follow Me" (Matthew 19:21) — and by that word he was immediately converted to You.

Eagerly then I returned to the place where Alypius was sitting; for there I had laid the volume of the Apostle when I rose. I seized it, opened it, and in silence read the passage on which my eyes first fell:

"Not in revelry and drunkenness, not in lewdness and lust, not in strife and envy. But put on the Lord Jesus Christ, and make no provision for the flesh, to fulfill its lusts" (Romans 13:13-14).

No further would I read; nor did I need to. For instantly, at the end of that sentence, by a light as it were of serenity infused into my heart, all the darkness of doubt vanished away.⁵

We Go In to My Mother

Then, putting my finger between the pages or some other mark, I closed the book, and with a calm face told Alypius. And what had been happening in him — which I did not know — he then showed me. He asked to see what I had read. I showed him; and he looked even further than I had read. The next words were: "Receive one who is weak in the faith" (Romans 14:1) — which he applied to himself, and told me so. And by this encouragement he was strengthened; and by a good resolution and purpose, entirely in keeping with his character (in which he had always been far better than I), without any anxious delay he joined me.

From there we go in to my mother. We tell her. She rejoices. We relate in order how it happened. She leaps for joy, and triumphs, and blesses You, who are "able to do exceedingly abundantly above all that we ask or think" (Ephesians 3:20). For she saw that You had given her more for me than she used to beg for with her pitiful and most sorrowful groaning. For You had converted me to Yourself, so that I sought neither wife nor any hope of this world — standing in that rule of faith where You had shown me to her in a vision so many years before.⁶

And You converted her mourning into joy — much more plentiful than she had desired, and in a much more precious and purer way than she had once asked for, by having grandchildren of my body.

Footnotes

¹ "Give me chastity and self-control — only not yet." Perhaps the most honest prayer ever prayed. Augustine wanted to be healed — but not yet. He wanted God to answer — but slowly. He feared being cured more than he feared being sick. Every person who has ever delayed doing what they know God is asking of them recognizes this prayer.

² "'Presently, presently' had no present; and my 'little while' went on for a long while." Devastating. The enemy's strategy is not dramatic temptation but gentle delay. Not "never" but "not yet." Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow — until there are no more tomorrows.

³ "How long? How long? 'Tomorrow and tomorrow'? Why not now? Why is there not this hour an end to my uncleanness?" Augustine under the fig tree. This is the cry that breaks the dam. Not theology, not philosophy, not argument. Just a man weeping on the ground, unable to change himself, begging God to do it now. This is the moment the Confessions have been building toward for seven books.

⁴ "Take up and read. Take up and read." Tolle lege. Tolle lege. A child's voice from a neighboring house. Augustine never finds out whose voice it was. He interprets it as God's command, picks up Paul's letter to the Romans, and reads the first passage his eyes fall on. The most famous conversion in Christian history turns on two Latin words chanted by an unknown child.

⁵ "By a light as it were of serenity infused into my heart, all the darkness of doubt vanished away." Not an explosion. Not thunder. Serenity. Light infused, like dawn. The storm of tears ends, and peace comes — not with drama but with stillness. Augustine had expected the conversion to be violent. It was quiet. The darkness simply left.

⁶ "She saw that You had given her more for me than she used to beg for." Monica had prayed for a Catholic son with a wife and grandchildren. God gave her a Catholic son who would give up marriage entirely and serve God alone. More than she asked. More than she imagined. More precious and more pure. The vision she received years ago — where she saw Augustine standing beside her in the same rule of faith — is fulfilled. The son of those tears did not perish.