Letter 91: 1. I do not wonder that, though your limbs are chilled by age, your heart still glows with patriotic fire. I admire this, and, instead of grieving, I rejoice to learn that you not only remember, but by your life and practice illustrate, the maxim that there is no limit either in measure or in time to the claims which their country has upon the c...

Augustine of HippoNectarius|c. 401 AD|augustine hippo
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Augustine to Nectarius, my noble and justly honored brother, greetings.

I have read your letter, and I want you to know that its tone moved me. You wrote with sincerity and with a genuine concern for the welfare of your fellow citizens. That you would write to a bishop — a man whose faith you do not share — on behalf of people who attacked that faith, speaks well of you. I honor the impulse, even as I must explain why I cannot do everything you ask.

You plead for mercy, and I assure you: mercy is what we want. The Church does not seek the death of sinners but their conversion. We do not want blood — we want repentance. When Paul was persecuting Christians, Christ did not strike him dead. He struck him down — and then lifted him up, transformed, as the greatest apostle who ever lived. That is the model we follow.

But mercy without accountability is not mercy — it is indulgence. And indulgence breeds contempt. The mob that attacked our church and assaulted our clergy did not act in the heat of a moment — they acted with deliberate malice, during a festival they knew was provocative, against people they knew were defenseless. If we simply look the other way, what message do we send? That Christians can be attacked with impunity? That the laws of the Empire are mere suggestions?

I am not asking for blood. I am asking for justice — which means that those responsible must acknowledge what they did, face appropriate penalties, and make restitution. This is not vengeance. It is the minimum that both the civil law and the law of God require.

And now let me say something to you personally, Nectarius, because your letter invites it. You say you are a pagan. I respect your honesty. But I must tell you that the gods you serve — or the customs you follow, if "gods" is too strong a word — are dying. Not because Christians are killing them, but because they have nothing to offer. They could not protect your city from its own worst impulses. They could not teach your citizens to respect their neighbors. They could not even keep the peace during their own festival.

The God I serve did not promise to make this world easy. He promised to make it meaningful. And he promised something your gods never could: forgiveness for those who repent, and life beyond the grave.

I say this not to convert you by argument — that is the work of grace, not rhetoric. But I would be a poor friend if I did not tell you what I believe to be true, especially when you have written to me with such openness.

May the God of all mercy give us both the wisdom to find the right path through this difficult matter.

Farewell, my noble friend.

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

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