Letter 22

UnknownSulpicius Severus|c. 408 AD|paulinus nola
From: Paulinus, bishop of Nola
To: Sulpicius Severus, monk and writer
Date: ~408 AD
Context: Paulinus describes how the monk Sorianus intercepted letters meant for another carrier, and delivers a vivid satire contrasting true monks with worldly pretenders.

To my kindred brother Severus,

The letters you sent by that un-spiritual monk of ours were intercepted and delivered by a truly spiritual courier instead — our son Sorianus. In him we see a double grace from the Lord: he did not come to us empty of your affection, and your letters did not end up being carried by Marracinus after all. That fellow, inspired by what I can only assume was a divinely granted sense of shame at seeing us — or sheer laziness about extending his journey beyond Rome — handed your letters to our brother Sorianus there, delighted at the convenient shortcut, thinking he had found a loophole in your instructions that spared him from having to either pretend to be a monk, as you had ordered, or actually see one in the flesh, as meeting me would have required. So let him keep his military cloak, his riding boots, and his puffed-out cheeks — none of which he dared to change or deflate.

Let the men who visit and revisit us be our fellow servants, our pale-faced companions — not proud in painted garments but humble in rough hairshirts; not wrapped in short fashionable cloaks but draped in plain mantles; not cinched with military belts but tied with rope; not sporting trendy half-shaved heads with carefully arranged forelocks, but men whose hair is cropped close to the scalp, unevenly shorn, their foreheads bare. Let them be unadorned with the ornament of modesty, becomingly unkempt, honorably despicable — men who reject even their natural good looks for the sake of inner cultivation, deliberately making themselves unattractive so they may become honestly homely in face while honestly holy in mind. The very sight and smell and dress of such men nauseates those for whom the fragrance of death is the scent of life [2 Corinthians 2:16] — those who call sweet what is bitter, ugly what is pure, and hostile what is holy. And so it is only fair that we return the favor: let their scent be to us an odor of death, lest we cease to be the fragrance of Christ. Why should they resent us if their way of life stinks to us, when our way of life stinks to them? He recoils from my fasting; I cannot stomach his gluttony. He avoids the breath of a monk mid-conversation; I flee the belch of a braggart mid-banquet. If they dislike the dryness of our throats, we dislike the rawness of their gullets. If they are offended by the austerity of our frugality, we are offended by the excess of their bellies. Let them see us not drunk in the morning but fasting in the evening; not bloated from last night's wine but abstaining today; not lurching with the insane instability of lust but steadily unsteady from the vigils of virtue — soberly intoxicated, staggering from self-discipline rather than from the abyss of appetite.

We are delighted that the carrier of your letter was just such a man. I ask you to receive him as though he had been sent by you to me. Among those who have come to me on your behalf, he too should be counted — for the Lord, without your even knowing it, handed your letters to him. I think you too will count this arrangement as a gift of divine grace, through which it was ensured that your letter would not be delivered by someone unworthy of carrying it. But — and please do not accuse me again of attacking him — I want to praise Sorianus. I believe I have praised him rather than blamed him by recalling the very things that must embarrass anyone who is ashamed to be, or to seem, a monk. After all, you will remember that in Virgil, even the Fury is praised by the very qualities that are usually considered faults [Aeneid 7.323ff.].

But do not scold me for quoting a poet who no longer belongs to my course of study, as though I were violating my vocation. I plead the authority of your own example — I have your letter right here, the one that closes with: "Live happily, you whose fortune is already accomplished" [Aeneid 3.493]. And that other letter too, where you called your household shrine a "familiar Lar," borrowing the term from Plautus's prologue [Aulularia].

Modern English rendering for readability. See the 19th-century translation or original Latin/Greek for scholarly use.

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