Interview: Robert Edwards on John Chrysostom’s Consolation to Stagirius

Robert Edwards (PhD University of Notre Dame) is Lecturer in Christian Thought at the Brisbane School of Theology and Honorary Research Fellow at the University of Queensland. Originally from rainy Vancouver, Canada, he has recently relocated with his family to sunny Queensland, Australia. Today is the publication date of his new translation of Consolation to Stagirius by St. John Chrysostom.

***  

On the one hand, there’s the sense that as ancient historians, we don’t have nearly as many sources as, well, our modernist colleagues. On the other hand, there are still plenty of gems out there that aren’t so well known, even among specialists—I’d put this particular book among them. Obviously, your translation now aims to change that! What is Consolation to Stagirius and why is it important for Christians today? 

When translating the work of someone as prolific as John Chrysostom (ca. AD 350 to 407), the translation of a single work can feel like a drop in the bucket. As the “bishop’s preacher” in the major Syrian city of Antioch-on-the-Orontes and then as the preaching archbishop of Constantinople, it is hardly surprising that nearly 800 sermons and a number of major treatises come down to us—that Consolation to Stagirius is one of the latter.

The Consolation, one of John’s earlier treatises—perhaps written while he was still a deacon in Antioch—is, as the title says, addressed to a certain Stagirius, who was living as a monk among a loose community of other ascetics somewhere near Antioch. What the shorter title does not indicate—but what the longer one does—is that Stagirius is being harassed by a demon: he suffers from regular seizures. These seizures are enough to cause him to suffer from despondency (what we might refer to as depression), but there are other causes besides. He feels embarrassed in front of the other monks that he can’t manage to hold it together and shake off the demonic sickness. He is afraid of his father: having come from a wealthy household, Stagirius was expected to keep up appearances, but instead has absconded to the desert. What if his father finds out about this new vocation? For all these reasons John decides to write a word of consolation and comfort to this young man.

The work, in three books, is an exercise in exposing Stagirius’ faulty judgments, both about what true glory is—what it means to have a reputation and whether that is worth having—and especially about the way that God works in the world and in the lives of his creatures. This divine work is what Chrysostom refers to as God’s providence, care, or administration (oikonomia). John articulates over and over again, particularly through interpretations of biblical narratives (especially those of the Old Testament), that God does indeed care about human affairs, especially those of the righteous (i.e. the saints), and that the same God who created the entire cosmos continues to arrange all things to the benefit and the salvation of humankind. The argument is not primarily a philosophical or apologetic one. It is addressed to a man who, as a devout Christian, has exerted himself to renounce all worldly goods. Because John is writing to someone who is already convinced by the truth of the divine oracles, the treatise is instead a moral and theological exposition of the Scriptures, to help Stagirius come to a fuller understanding of the goodness of God and of his providence.

The work is also, of course, a consolation. The goal is to comfort Stagirius with the assurance of God’s active love towards humankind, and the folly of searching for a good reputation (glory) in this life. But consolation for John Chrysostom, who in this respect falls directly in the middle of the classical tradition, is more than cold comfort. It is an attempt to reconfigure the sufferer’s judgment of the world, such that he might be drawn up out of his suffering. It is, in a sense, apocalyptic: it unveils the truth of the foundations of the world.

The other great early Christian consolers of the Greek East, nearly contemporary with Chrysostom, were the Cappadocians (Basil of Caesarea, Gregory of Nazianzus, and Gregory of Nyssa). The consolations they wrote were properly consolatory: they aimed to comfort the bereaved. And often their consolatory arguments relied, as the Christian might expect, on the certainty of the resurrection of the dead. The resurrection is the true doctrine that can disperse the clouds of grief. In contrast, as John Chrysostom consoles this monk who is harassed by a demon and suffering from depression, he offers the doctrine of providence—that “God works all things together for the good of those who love him” (Rom 8:28)—as the medicine to cure that ill. And this medicine is applied over and over again: all Scripture’s righteous men have suffered and yet have experienced God’s providential care. Indeed, in many cases, the suffering experienced has been directly for the good of that person or for the people of God. Stagirius, who is one of these righteous men, beloved of God, can thus be assured that even the harassment that he experiences at the hands of this demon (who has no true power over him) will be for his good. This demon is the opponent given by God in order to train Stagirius to the summit of virtue.

Thus, as so many of Chrysostom’s works, the Consolation to Stagirius has many treats to offer the modern reader. For the social historian, here is evidence of mental illness, familial relations, and early Syrian monasticism (of a less radical type than that of ‘the Stylites’). For the theologian, there is much to offer on the topic of creation, providence, evil, and the demonic.  For the Christian, there is assurance, through magisterial expositions of the Scriptures, of God’s goodness and providence in all things.

What is the story behind this project for you personally: Why this particular text? Why now? And what did you learn about yourself in the process of working on this book?

I first encountered the Consolation to Stagirius as I was working on my PhD. My thesis was on John Chrysostom’s theology of providence, published as Providence and Narrative in the Theology of John Chrysostom (Cambridge University Press, 2022). The Consolation was one of the three primary texts that I chose to work from, as one of Chrysostom’s most extended discussions of the doctrine. Because the treatise had never before been translated into English, I made a rough-and-ready translation of the work for my own reference, which only very slowly developed into this book.

I suppose I landed on the topic of providence in John Chrysostom’s works because it is almost always discussed within a consolatory context—that is, in a way that attempts to deal with the problem of suffering. What is remarkable about how Chrysostom treats suffering is that he stares it square in the face—he sees it (and has likely experienced it) in all its grotesque detail—and yet he refuses to see it as a problem that requires solving. It is not a problem precisely because no one can avoid it. If suffering comes to everyone, then it needs to be understood (and read in the Scriptures) not as a problem, but as a gift. The gift of suffering, which God visits upon all his creatures, is no less a gift than the gift of creation: the punishment of Adam and Eve in the wake of their sin is no less a gift than the creation of Adam and Eve prior to it. God does not remove his benefaction from them, but suffering is simply another means of achieving the same ends of the good and salvation of humankind.

Chrysostom is able to think this way because he lived as an ascetic before—and even throughout—his career as a preacher. He understands that suffering is a gift of God that is to be welcomed just as all divine gifts: with thanksgiving. Chrysostom is able to maintain his motto, “Glory to God for all things”—his final words as he died in exile—only because he has such an overwhelming sense of God’s goodness and lovingkindness towards humanity through and in all eventualities.

It is this vision that so compels me when I read the Consolation to Stagirius. These are lessons I am still learning in my own life: to take by faith that somehow—in a way beyond my comprehension—that the ways of God are full of good and lovingkindness towards all his creatures, and that he mysteriously employs all creaturely evils to achieve good ends. It is the sort of lesson one only learns gradually through continual prayer and thanksgiving, which explains why I am so slow to learn it!

Let’s imagine for a second that you’re in the elevator for a brief ride up (or down?) with a thoughtful non-academic Christian, and he asks you the following question (for which you now have to give an elevator-ride-long response): Of course, the benefit of reading the Bible for Christians is obvious, but what about the Church Fathers, like John Chrysostom? What is the spiritual value of reading these thinkers? 

As Christians, we have been called not only to Christ himself, but also into his body. That we belong to such a body requires that we listen to its other members, across both time and space. But it is more than a requirement. It is also a gift. These other members of Christ’s body have been gifted with the same Holy Spirit as us, and many of them have drunk deeply of those living waters and listened deeply to the voice of God in the Scriptures. It is incumbent upon us to treat our brothers and sisters as the gifts that they are—even, and especially, in the ways that they differ from us. To reject them and their gifts is a grave mistake. The brothers and sisters to whom we especially ought to listen are those ancient Christians who contributed to a divinely-led consensus on true teaching and living. (It is also God’s gift that many of the works of the most prominent writers have made it down to us and have been translated—though more remains to be done!)

Practically, what does listening to these Christians do for us? It pushes us and pulls us. It helps us to see outside of our own cultures and contexts. It helps us to see the things that we have always assumed to be true, but which have little basis in revelation. It corrects us. Sometimes the words of our brothers and sisters tear us down and sometimes they build us up—but all for our own good and, ultimatey, for our sanctification. If we are willing, they lead us to see that God and the things of God are greater than we at first expected. Any activities that allow our souls and minds and bodies to be so shaped are worthwhile and have lasting significance.

Okay – in an elevator, I wouldn’t put it exactly like this. But you get the point!

If more convincing is needed, two books that I have found enlightening on the value of church history are David Steinmetz, Taking the Long View: Christian Theology in Historical Perspective (Oxford University Press, 2011), and Rowan Williams, Why Study the Past? The Quest for the Historical Church (Eerdmans, 2018).

What are the broader questions that fascinate you in your reading, thinking, and writing?

Despite some desire to be more of a theologian, I find that I struggle to think in the abstract, without concrete realities before me: texts and artefacts that allow me to imagine (with care) the real people and events of the past. For this reason, I am by disposition more of a historian than a theologian—though it will be clear from what I have already said that my historical perspective is conditioned by theological reflection (and by the fact that I am paid to teach systematic theology!).

As a church historian of the early Christian era, what really excites me is where the practical and the theological overlap. Hence my interest in providence: how one imagines God’s working in the world will directly affect how one engages with the world. This same interest is also what has pushed me in the direction of thinking about early Christian education and, more recently, about liturgy and the sacraments. For example, I have another translation project that will soon be published, of the sermons that John Chrysostom delivered on the occasion of the ‘dominical’ feasts (those relating to the events of Jesus’ life), in which the practice of gathering as Christians, for the Lord’s Supper, and at the shrines of martyrs intersects with some of the most central topics of Christian theology: Christ’s incarnation, crucifixion, resurrection, and ascension, and the coming of the Holy Spirit.

The Christian faith is an intellectual faith, but not only, nor even primarily an intellectual one. It has always been the case that Christians have attempted to align orthopraxy and orthodoxy—and in a variety of ways. My research is driven by how the on-the-ground realities of Christians affect their theology, and vice versa.

It always seems overly aggressive to ask someone who just published a book: What’s next? But I’m asking in my most encouraging and friendly tone here: What’s next for you?

I never really know where my research will take me until it has already taken me there. This is why I find research so enthralling. As I already mentioned, I am turning increasingly towards early Christian liturgy and the sacraments. The latter can be glimpsed in my recent article on how Christmas came to be adopted in the Greek East, after originating in the Latin West, probably in Rome. However, my plan in the coming months is to begin looking more into early Christian theologies of the Eucharist. Although eucharistic liturgies have received an enormous amount of attention from liturgiologists over the last century, patristics scholars have paid less attention to the theology of the Eucharist. This has naturally been a fraught question for the last five centuries, as the church fathers have been used as pawns by Protestants and Catholics alike. My hope is to break through the impasse and explore the intersection of theology and practice of the Lord’s Supper in the early church.