Letter 22: Perhaps the most famous of all the letters. In it Jerome lays down at great length (1) the motives which ought to actuate those who devote themselves to a life of virginity, and (2) the rules by which they ought to regulate their daily conduct. The letter contains a vivid picture of Roman society as it then was — the luxury, profligacy, and hypo...

JeromeEustochium|c. 377 AD|jerome
barbarian invasioneducation booksfamine plaguefriendshipgrief deathhumorillnessimperial politicsmonasticismproperty economicsslavery captivitywomen
Barbarian peoples/invasions; Theological controversy; Imperial politics
From: Jerome, priest and scholar in Rome
To: Eustochium, consecrated virgin in Rome
Date: ~384 AD
Context: Perhaps Jerome's most famous letter — a manifesto on virginity that doubles as a devastating portrait of Roman high society, complete with his celebrated dream of being condemned as "a Ciceronian, not a Christian."

Eustochium,

"Hear, O daughter, and consider, and incline your ear; forget your own people and your father's house, and the king shall desire your beauty" [Psalm 45:10-11]. In this psalm, God calls the human soul to follow Abraham's example: leave your homeland, leave your kindred, leave the Chaldeans — which is to say, leave the demons behind — and make your home in the land of the living. But it is not enough simply to leave. You must forget your old life entirely, scorn the flesh, and cling to the Bridegroom alone. "He who has put his hand to the plough must not look back" [Luke 9:62]. He who has Christ's garment must not climb down from the roof to fetch another [Matthew 24:17-18].

I write to you, my Lady Eustochium — and I must call my Lord's bride "Lady" — not to praise the virginity you already practice, nor to catalogue the disadvantages of marriage: the pregnancies, the screaming infants, the jealousy, the household drudgery, and all those supposed blessings that death eventually cuts short. Married women are not outside God's grace; they have their place — "marriage is honorable, and the bed undefiled" [Hebrews 13:4]. My purpose is to show you that you are fleeing Sodom, and should take warning from Lot's wife [Genesis 19:26]. There is no flattery in these pages. A flatterer is an enemy, whatever his tone. Expect no rhetorical flights placing you among the angels while trampling the world beneath your feet.

You walk laden with gold, and you must keep clear of the robber's path. This life is a racecourse: we compete here, we are crowned elsewhere. No one can set aside fear while serpents and scorpions block the way. "Our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the powers, against the rulers of this present darkness" [Ephesians 6:12]. We are surrounded by enemies on every side.

Even the apostle Paul — a chosen vessel, set apart for the gospel — kept his body in check and made it his slave, lest after preaching to others he himself should be disqualified [1 Corinthians 9:27]. And yet you think the flesh can be trusted? Paul himself confessed: "I do not do the good I want to do, but the evil I do not want — this I keep doing" [Romans 7:19]. If a man like Paul could say that, how much more should the rest of us be on guard?

Let me tell you what I have learned from experience — and bitter experience at that. When I was living in the desert, in that vast solitude scorched by the sun that serves as the grim dwelling-place of monks, I used to imagine myself among the pleasures of Rome. I sat alone, my spirit bitter, my body wrecked by fasting, my skin burned black as an Ethiopian's. Every day I wept, every day I groaned, and when sleep overwhelmed me against my will, I threw my bones — barely holding together — against the bare ground. Of food and drink I say nothing: even sick monks drink only cold water, and to eat anything cooked is a luxury. And yet — I who had condemned myself to this prison out of fear of hell, I who had no companions but scorpions and wild beasts — even I found myself surrounded by dancing girls in my imagination. My face was pale with fasting, but my mind blazed with desire in a body already as cold as ice. My flesh was dead before I was, yet the fires of lust kept bubbling up.

So I threw myself at Jesus's feet. I watered them with tears, I dried them with my hair, and I subdued my rebellious flesh with weeks of fasting. I am not ashamed to confess the misery of my condition — I only grieve that I am no longer what I was then. I remember crying out day and night until the Lord rebuked the storm. I turned my cell into a prison. My own thoughts were my judges. Harsh and bitter to myself, I ventured out alone into the desert. If I found a deep valley, a rough mountainside, a steep cliff, I made it my place of prayer, my penitentiary for this wretched flesh.

And then — God is my witness — after long weeping, after eyes fixed on heaven until they ached, I sometimes felt myself among the angelic hosts, and sang with joy: "We will run after you, drawn by the fragrance of your perfumes" [Song of Songs 1:3-4].

If this is what men suffer who have broken their bodies with fasting, whose only battle is against their own thoughts, what must a young woman endure who lives surrounded by luxury? She "lives in pleasure," the apostle says, and "is dead while she lives" [1 Timothy 5:6].

So here is my advice, and it is not gentle. A virgin who drinks wine is already in danger. Not because I condemn God's creation — the patriarchs drank wine — but because those who have taken our vow cannot afford it. Wine and youth together are a double fire. Why throw oil on the flame?

You will tell me, perhaps, that you can fast while dining on fine food. But that is a contradiction. What good is abstaining from oil if you gorge yourself on expensive delicacies? I have known women who, with hands folded in prayer and voices loud enough for the neighbors to hear, call for roasted peacock. Such self-denial!

Do not listen to elderly gossips who point to plump matrons and say, "She would waste away without better food." Let them enjoy their pleasures and grow fat; you have chosen another path.

I cannot pass over the men who haunt the houses of noblewomen, hunting for legacies. Their entire concern is their wardrobe and their perfume. You would think they were suitors, not clergymen. Some make a profession of knowing about medicines and visit sick women with suspicious frequency. Others have given up public prayer entirely; their whole occupation is paying morning calls. Some press forward to greet their patronesses, flattering them with unbroken attention. If the lady is sick, they rush to her bedside, arrange her pillows, and fondle her hand — all with the mournful, tender concern of deep friendship. They have a practiced sigh for every occasion, and they manage, while asking about the invalid's health, to learn the contents of her will.

How such men have risen to hold the office of priest or deacon, I do not ask. But this I say: the very fact that they are forbidden by imperial law from receiving legacies and gifts from widows tells you everything about Roman character. It was not the church but the pagans who imposed this law. It shames me, but it is true: idol-priests, actors, charioteers, and prostitutes can all inherit property, but clergy and monks alone cannot. And this prohibition was enacted not by persecutors but by Christian emperors. I do not complain of the law — I complain of the conduct that made such a law necessary.

But enough about men. Let me turn to women of my own order. Some paint their faces so thickly that you could not tell they were made of flesh. They attend church wrapped in silk, dripping with jewelry, sighing as though any breath that does not smell of perfume will suffocate them. They parade their widowhood as an opportunity for freedom rather than a school of self-discipline. You would think they had lost a rival, not a husband. Their houses are full of guests, full of servants, full of elaborate dinner parties. The clergy themselves — the men who ought to inspire respect — come to kiss these patronesses on the forehead, then reach out a hand for their fee. The women, meanwhile, see the priests eager for their gifts and conclude that they are the ones conferring favors. They prefer to deal with men who will not hold them accountable.

Others go mad for monastic fashion. They change their clothes to sackcloth, they go barefoot, and they affect a melancholy expression, as though mourning were a costume. Every year they are visited by the bishop and collect their allowance of charity grain, which they promptly sell. These women are all around us, and if anyone objects, they cry "persecution." They refuse correction with tears and counter-accusations. They have a form of godliness but deny its power [2 Timothy 3:5].

But I did not set out to write a satire. All I want is to warn you against people like these. "Evil company corrupts good character" [1 Corinthians 15:33]. Choose your companions carefully. Surround yourself with women whose example lifts you up. Prefer serious and older women. If you must have younger friends, let them be known for their character, not their looks. If someone praises your beauty, be suspicious of their motives.

Keep to your room. Let the Bridegroom play with you there behind closed doors. When you pray, you are speaking to the Bridegroom. When you read, he is speaking to you. When sleep comes, he will reach through the lattice and touch you, and you will wake and cry, "I am sick with love" [Song of Songs 5:4, 2:5].

Do not go out too freely. Do not wander about looking for the Bridegroom in the public squares. Even if you have crucified the flesh and can say, "I live, yet not I, but Christ lives in me" [Galatians 2:20], do not be overconfident. No one carries a flame through a field of stubble and expects to stay safe.

And now I must tell you about the dream — my famous dream, the one my critics love to hold against me. Years ago, when I had abandoned home, parents, sister, and relatives for the sake of the kingdom of heaven, and was on my way to Jerusalem to serve as a soldier of Christ, I could not bring myself to give up the library I had assembled in Rome with such loving care. I would fast, then read Cicero. After long nights of weeping and prayer, after beating my breast until God restored my calm, I would pick up Plautus. When I returned to the prophets, their crude style repelled me. My blind eyes could not see the light, and I blamed the sun.

Then, in the middle of Lent, a raging fever seized my body. Without any respite — and this will sound incredible — it so wasted my frame that my bones barely held together. Meanwhile, preparations were being made for my funeral. My body was already growing cold; the warmth of life still flickered only in my poor, warm chest. Suddenly I was caught up in the spirit and dragged before the Judge's tribunal. Such light blazed from that court, such radiance from the assembled throng, that I fell to the ground and could not bring myself to look up.

"What are you?" the Judge demanded.

"A Christian," I answered.

"You lie," he said. "You are a Ciceronian, not a Christian. Where your treasure is, there your heart will be also" [Matthew 6:21].

I fell silent. Under the lash — for he ordered me beaten — I was tortured even more by the fire of conscience. I kept turning over in my mind the verse: "In the grave, who shall give you thanks?" [Psalm 6:5]. Yet I managed to cry out: "Have mercy on me, O Lord, have mercy on me!" My voice rang out amid the crack of the whip. At last those standing by fell to their knees and begged the Judge to show mercy to my youth, to give me time for repentance, and to punish me later if I ever again read pagan literature. In that extremity I would have promised far more. So I began to swear an oath: "Lord, if ever again I possess worldly books, if ever I read them, I shall have denied you."

On taking this oath I was dismissed. I returned to the world above and, to everyone's astonishment, opened my eyes — drenched in such tears that even the skeptics believed. This was no idle dream, no empty sleep of the kind that so often deceives us. The tribunal before which I lay, the dreadful judgment I feared — I call as witnesses that judgment seat and that sentence I so dreaded. May I never again face such an interrogation. My shoulders were black and blue; I felt the bruises long after I awoke. From that day forward, I read divine books with greater zeal than I had ever given to mortal ones.

There are those who will say this was just a fever dream. To them I say: the punishment was real. I changed my life. That is answer enough.

Now let me tell you about the three kinds of monks in Egypt, since you ought to know the tradition. The first kind are the coenobites — monks who live together in community under an abbot's rule. They eat together, pray together, work together. Nothing is privately owned. Everything is shared. The second kind are the anchorites — men who have first been trained in community and then withdraw alone into the desert, carrying nothing but bread and salt, living in remote caves, seeking God in absolute solitude. They are the veterans of the spiritual life; no one should attempt this path without years of preparation. The third kind — and I am reluctant even to mention them — are called remnuoth [sarabaites]. These are the worst of all. They live in small groups of two or three, never more, unsupervised and ungoverned. They do whatever they please, call it monastic life, and quarrel endlessly over their earnings and their food. Everything about them is affected — loose sleeves, heavy boots, coarse clothing meant to attract attention. They sigh constantly and visit virgins with a frequency that should alarm everyone. They fast for the public, and feast in private. They are the disgrace of the profession.

But I have said enough — more than enough. My purpose is not to catalogue the failings of others but to hold up a mirror to your own path. The road is narrow, the stakes are real, and the enemy is relentless.

Love the Scriptures, and wisdom will love you. Love wisdom, and she will keep you. Honor her, and she will embrace you. Let these jewels hang from your ears, let them adorn your breast. Let your tongue speak of nothing but Christ. Never let sleep overtake you unless you are holding a book, and let the sacred page catch your face as it falls.

As often as this life's idle show tries to charm you, as often as you glimpse some vain spectacle of worldly splendor, carry yourself in mind to paradise. Begin now to be what you will be hereafter, and you will hear the Bridegroom say: "Set me as a seal upon your heart, as a seal upon your arm" [Song of Songs 8:6]. Then, strengthened in body and mind alike, you too will cry: "Many waters cannot quench love, neither can the floods drown it" [Song of Songs 8:7].

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

Related Letters