Augustine of Hippo, Confessions (c. 397 C.E.)

The establishment of a church hierarchy and uniform doctrine was not the only force driving the Christianization of the Roman Empire. It also depended on individuals abandoning tradition to embrace Christ. Augustine of Hippo reveals in his autobiographical work, Confessions, that this choice was not always easy no matter how strong Christianity’s appeal was in the wake of Constantine’s conversion. Although Augustine eventually became both a bishop and a renowned theologian, his path there was arduous. Born to a Christian mother and pagan father in North Africa, Augustine was smart and eager to move up in the world. While pursuing his studies and a teaching career, he scoffed at the Christian scriptures, convinced that true wisdom lay elsewhere. He was also swept up in his own desire for fame, wealth, and sensual pleasure. Yet he struggled to break free from his sinful habits, which he considered to be obstacles to living a Christian life. As he recounts in this excerpt from Confessions, his struggles came to a climax while he was living in Milan. The setting of the scene below is his house, where he lived with several companions, including Alypius. A visitor has just finished telling them a story about two Roman officials who abandoned their careers to serve Christ. The story gnaws at Augustine’s conscience, and he retreats into the adjacent garden in a state of emotional turmoil. It is here that he finally receives the grace needed to devote himself to the Christian faith.

From Saint Augustine, Confessions, trans. R. S. Pine-Coffin (London: Penguin Books, 1961), 170–71, 173, 175–78.

There was a small garden attached to the house where we lodged. We were free to make use of it as well as the rest of the house because our host, the owner of the house, did not live there. I now found myself driven by the tumult in my breast to take refuge in this garden, where no one could interrupt that fierce struggle, in which I was my own contestant, until it came to its conclusion. What the conclusion was to be you knew, O Lord, but I did not. Meanwhile I was beside myself with madness that would bring me sanity. I was dying a death that would bring me life. I knew the evil that was in me, but the good that was soon to be born in me I did not know. So I went out into the garden and Alypius followed at my heels. His presence was no intrusion on my solitude, and how could he leave me in that state? We sat down as far as possible from the house. I was frantic, overcome by violent anger with myself for not accepting your will and entering into your covenant. Yet in my bones I knew that this was what I ought to do. In my heart of hearts I praised it to the skies. And to reach this goal I needed no chariot or ship. I need not even walk as far as I had come from the house to the place where we sat, for to make the journey, and to arrive safely, no more was required than an act of will. But it must be a resolute and whole-hearted act of the will, not some lame wish which I kept turning over and over in my mind, so that it had to wrestle with itself, part of it trying to rise, part falling to the ground. . . .

When I was trying to reach a decision about serving the Lord my God, as I had long intended to do, it was I who willed to take this course and again it was I who willed not to take it. It was I and I alone. But I neither willed to do it nor refused to do it with my full will. So I was at odds with myself. . . .

Yet I did not fall back into my old state. I stood on the brink of resolution, waiting to take fresh breath. I tried again and came a little nearer to my goal, and then a little nearer still, so that I could almost reach out and grasp it. But I did not reach it. I could not reach out to it or grasp it, because I held back from the step by which I should die to death and become alive to life. My lower instincts, which had taken firm hold of me, were stronger than the higher, which were untried. And the closer I came to the moment which was to mark the great change in me, the more I shrank from it in horror. But it did not drive me back or turn me from my purpose: it merely left me hanging in suspense.

I was held back by mere trifles, the most paltry inanities, all my old attachments. They plucked at my garment of flesh and whispered, “Are you going to dismiss us? From this moment we shall never be with you again, for ever and ever. From this moment you will never again be allowed to do this thing or that, for evermore.” What was it, my God, that they meant when they whispered “this thing or that”? Things so sordid and so shameful that I beg you in your mercy to keep the soul of your servant free from them! . . .

I probed the hidden depths of my soul and wrung its pitiful secrets from it, and when I mustered them all before the eyes of my heart, a great storm broke within me, bringing with it a great deluge of tears. I stood up and left Alypius so that I might weep and cry to my heart’s content, for it occurred to me that tears were best shed in solitude. I moved away far enough to avoid being embarrassed even by his presence. He must have realized what my feelings were, for I suppose I had said something and he had known from the sound of my voice that I was ready to burst into tears. So I stood up and left him where we had been sitting, utterly bewildered. Somehow I flung myself down beneath a fig tree and gave way to the tears which now streamed from my eyes, the sacrifice that is acceptable to you.¹ I had much to say to you, my God, not in these very words but in this strain: Lord, will you never be content?² Must we always taste your vengeance? Forget the long record of our sins.³ For I felt that I was still the captive of my sins and in my misery I kept crying “How long shall I go on saying ‘tomorrow, tomorrow”? Why not now? Why not make an end of my ugly sins at this moment?”

I was asking myself these questions, weeping all the while with the most bitter sorrow in my heart, when all at once I heard the sing-song voice of a child in a nearby house. Whether it was the voice of a boy or a girl I cannot say, but again and again it repeated the refrain “Take it and read, take it and read.” At this I looked up, thinking hard whether there was any kind of game in which children used to chant words like these, but I could not remember ever hearing them before. I stemmed my flood of tears and stood up, telling myself that this could only be a divine command to open my book of Scripture and read the first passage on which my eyes should fall. . . .

So I hurried back to the place where Alypius was sitting, for when I stood up to move away I had put down the book containing Paul’s Epistles. I seized it and opened it, and in silence I read the first passage on which my eyes fell: Not in revelling and drunkenness, not in lust and wantonness, not in quarrels and rivalries. Rather, arm yourselves with the Lord Jesus Christ; spend no more thought on nature and nature’s appetites.⁴ I had no wish to read more and no need to do so. For in an instant, as I came to the end of the sentence, it was as though the light of confidence flooded into my heart and all the darkness of doubt was dispelled.

DISCUSSION QUESTIONS