Letter 2001: [Magnus Felix Ennodius (473/4-521) was a Gallo-Roman aristocrat who became Bishop of Pavia in 514.

Ennodius of PaviaArmenius: A Consolation|c. 493 AD|Ennodius of Pavia
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Ennodius to Armenius: A Consolation.

[Magnus Felix Ennodius (473/4-521) was a Gallo-Roman aristocrat who became Bishop of Pavia in 514. Before his episcopacy, he was a deacon and rhetorician. His letters are ornate, allusive, and intensely literary -- products of the same aristocratic culture as Sidonius Apollinaris, transplanted into Ostrogothic Italy.]

My dearest brother, for a long time I held back from sending you a letter of consolation, even though I wanted to urgently. I was afraid that in composing words I might seem to be stealing tears from myself -- turning sobs into elegant phrases in the midst of lamentation, and scattering the grief I owed through rhetorical figures of speech. It would be a betrayal of the bonds of friendship and kinship if, when you have the chance to mourn a death doubly, you fail to do so -- that is, if you refuse to add the service of your voice to the ministry of your eyes. When the eyes weep, driven by the stings of grief, should the words of the mourner fall silent?

But I, most honest of men, who owe service to your sorrow in every way I can, wished to put my grief on record in writing -- I who share it with you as a companion -- so that the memory of tears shed in one generation would not be lost, and so that future generations would not think that what I paid to the death of your son was all I owed. In this I follow the example of revered bishops: our own Ambrose [of Milan] accompanied the death of his brother with a published testimony of his grief. When later generations read that work, they remember the writer well and join their own laments to his mourning for his brother Satyrus. By Ambrose's foresight, it came about that fresh sorrow is displayed whenever someone reads those pages, that the limbs of a man long dead are shown still breathing their last before the reader's eyes, and that the faithfulness of the account never allows the death to grow old, though the years have long since buried it.

With this in mind, hold back the tears from your eyes and, if you will, turn your attention to the words of a man who comes to console you while weeping himself. You have lost a son -- nearly your only one -- and of good character, which calls forth a father's love no less than nature. The wailing of the whole province shows what he meant: by joining their own laments to yours, the entire community testifies to what they felt about him. Yet in the midst of all this, you shut yourself away as though crushed by a private misfortune, not knowing that what is spread through the hearts of so many is something shared, and must therefore be tempered. Why do you consider your anguish uniquely your own, when so many others have made it theirs through their love for you? Even the Goths grieve alongside you -- to say nothing of your own countrymen -- and you still bow beneath your passions as though you suffered alone?

Let the examples of the ancient patriarchs instruct you, I beg, and recall you from your grief to wholeness. Abraham, that most loving father, offered his only son to death -- what is more, with a glad heart -- and prepared the blade with a merciful parent's hand. Will you then seek out a son taken by heavenly judgment as though you were destitute, and burden with weeping one whose removal was God's own call? Let the example of David come to mind here, who walked before his son's bier rejoicing and giving thanks to God, because the divine favor had summoned from the blessed prophet's seed one whom perhaps it wished to reward.

If you cannot burst into joy as David's imitator, at least temper your sorrow with some imitation of that example. You will perhaps say that such things can scarcely be urged on a grieving heart, that there is no room for advice in a heavy tribulation, that the bereaved cannot see anything that encourages them toward life, and that the desolate find their only relief in calling upon death itself. To this you might add that you lost a good son whose mature character surpassed his tender years, claiming that your young man closed his premature years with a glorious end and that, amid the shipwreck of youth, he found safe harbor for his soul.

To these arguments of your grief -- though I, too, am sorrowful -- let me reply: the fact that he was taken early means he sinned less. What he preserved in this life, he added to the life everlasting of a better age. The repentance you say he made, even if it found nothing in him to wash away, found something to adorn -- for whenever repentance is granted to the innocent, it wins a crown through the act of humility.

You may answer: "Where shall I turn, brother, I who have nothing in this present light except tears?" I would add that a man who does not rejoice in the things of men can find nearness to God; that a clean conscience can take the place of a son, provided it finds God's saints as its heirs. If you are willing to hear me, I can show more than one path to a better life -- though your own perfection needs no advisor, nor does a man require a teacher whom his own reformed conduct has already made distinguished. Only weigh carefully the advice that is owed to your own good judgment and wisdom, and recall yourself to love of heavenly gifts -- the source from which we receive and cherish the very air we breathe, and whose author we worship and revere. These are the things I have woven together, great matters in a brief speech, while grieving -- sending you a testimony broken by sobs in place of eloquent abundance, as I exchange laments for conversation.

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

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