On the Trinity 14.8–14.15

But now we have come to that discussion in which we have undertaken to consider the principal part of the human mind, by which it knows or can know God, so that we may find in it the image of God. For although the human mind is not of the same nature as God, yet the image of that nature than which no nature is better is to be sought and found in us in that than which our nature too has nothing better. But first the mind is to be considered in itself, before it is a partaker of God, and his image is to be found in it. For we have said that even when it has lost its participation in God and is worn out and deformed, it nevertheless remains the image of God. For it is his image in this very respect, that it is capable of him and can be a partaker of him; and so great a good cannot exist except through its being his image. See, then, the mind remembers itself, understands itself, loves itself: if we see this, we see a trinity; not yet God indeed, but already the image of God. The memory did not receive from outside what it was to hold, nor did the understanding find outside what it was to look at, as the eye of the body does; nor did the will join these two outside, as the form of a body and that which was made from it in the gaze of the one looking; nor did thought, when it turned to it, find an image of a thing seen outside, in a way snatched and stored in the memory, so that the gaze of one recollecting was formed from it, with the will as the third joining the two; as we showed happens in those trinities which were found in bodily things, or were drawn inward in a way from bodies through the bodily sense, of all which we treated in the eleventh book; nor as happened or appeared when we were treating of that knowledge, already placed among the works of the inner man, which was to be distinguished from wisdom; whence the things that are known are, as it were, adventitious in the mind, whether brought in by historical knowledge, such as deeds and words which are carried out in time and pass, or which are set in the nature of things in their own places and regions; or whether they arise in the man himself, where they were not before, either through others teaching or through his own thoughts, like faith, which we commended at great length in the thirteenth book; like the virtues, by which, if they are true, one lives well in this mortality so that one may live happily in that immortality which is promised by God. These and suchlike things have their order in time, in which the trinity of memory, sight, and love appeared to us more easily. For some of them precede the knowledge of learners. For they are knowable even before they are known, and beget knowledge of themselves in learners. And they exist either in their own places, or are things that have passed in time; although the things that have passed do not themselves exist, but certain signs of them as past, by the seeing or hearing of which they are known to have been and to have passed. These signs are either set in places, like the monuments of the dead and whatever is similar; or in trustworthy writings, like all history of weighty and approved authority; or in the minds of those who already know them; for, being already known to them, they are certainly knowable to others too, whose knowledge they have preceded, and who can know them when those to whom they are known teach them. All these things, when they are learned, make a certain trinity: by their own appearance, which was knowable even before it was known, and joined to it the knowledge of the learner, which begins to be when it is learned, and the will as the third, which joins the two. And when they have been known, another trinity comes about, now more inwardly in the mind itself, when they are recalled: from those images which were impressed in the memory when they were learned, and from the informing of thought when the gaze of the one recollecting is turned to them, and from the will, which as the third joins these two. But the things that arise in the mind where they were not, like faith and other things of this kind, although they seem adventitious, since they are implanted by teaching, are nevertheless not placed or carried out outside, like the things that are believed; but they began to exist wholly within, in the mind itself. For faith is not what is believed but that by which it is believed; and the former is believed, the latter is seen. Yet because it began to be in the mind, which was already a mind before these things began to be in it, it seems something adventitious, and will be reckoned among things past when, sight succeeding, it has ceased to be; and it makes one trinity now through its presence, retained, beheld, loved; it will make another then, through a certain trace of itself which in passing it will have left in the memory, as has already been said above.

But whether then the virtues too, by which one lives well in this mortality, since they also begin to exist in the mind, which, although it existed before without them, was nevertheless less of a mind, cease to exist when they have led to eternal things, is something of a question. For it has seemed to some that they will cease; and of three of them, prudence, courage, and temperance, when this is said, something seems to be said; but justice is immortal, and will rather then be perfected in us than cease to be. Yet of all four the great author of eloquence, Tully, arguing in the dialogue Hortensius, says: “If, when we have departed from this life, we were allowed to spend an immortal life in the islands of the blessed, as the stories say, what need would there be of eloquence, since no trials would take place; or even of the virtues themselves? For we would not need courage, with no toil or danger set before us; nor justice, since there would be nothing of another's to be sought; nor temperance, to govern desires that would not exist; nor would we need even prudence, with no choice of goods and evils set before us. We would be happy, then, with one thing only, the knowledge and understanding of nature, for which alone even the life of the gods is to be praised. From this it can be understood that the rest belong to necessity, this one to will.” So that great orator, when he was commending philosophy, recalling what he had received from the philosophers and explaining it excellently and pleasingly, said that all four virtues are necessary only in this life, which we see is full of troubles and errors; but none of them when we have departed from this life, if one is allowed to live there where one lives happily; but that good souls are happy by knowledge and understanding alone, that is, by contemplation of the nature than which nothing is better and more lovable: that is the nature which created and established all other natures. If to be subject to its rule belongs to justice, justice is altogether immortal; nor will it cease to exist in that happiness, but will be such and so great that it cannot be more perfect and greater. Perhaps the other three virtues also will be in that happiness: prudence without any danger of error now, courage without the trouble of evils to be borne, temperance without the resistance of desires; so that it may belong to prudence to set no good before God or equal to him; to courage, to cling to him most firmly; to temperance, to delight in no harmful defect. But what justice now does in helping the wretched, what prudence does in guarding against snares, what courage does in bearing troubles, what temperance does in restraining wicked delights, will not exist there, where there will be no evil at all. And so these works of the virtues, which are necessary for this mortal life, like faith, to which they are to be referred, will be reckoned among things past; and they make one trinity now, when we hold, look at, and love them as present; they will make another then, when we shall find that they do not exist but have existed, through certain traces of them which in passing they will leave in the memory; because then too there will be a trinity, when that trace, whatever it is, is both retained in memory and truly recognized, and these two are joined by the will as the third.

In all this knowledge of temporal things which we have mentioned, some knowable things precede knowledge by an interval of time, such as those sensible things which already existed in reality before they were known, or all those things which are known through history; but some begin to exist at the same time: as if something visible, which did not exist at all, arose before our eyes, it certainly does not precede our knowledge; or if something sounds where a hearer is present, the sound and the hearing of it certainly begin to exist at the same time and cease at the same time. Yet, whether preceding in time or beginning to exist at the same time, knowable things beget knowledge; they are not begotten by knowledge. And when knowledge has come about, when the things we have known, placed in memory, are seen again by recollection, who does not see that the retaining in memory is prior in time to the seeing in recollection, and to the joining of both by the will as the third? But in the mind it is not so. For the mind is not adventitious to itself, as though the same mind which did not exist came from elsewhere to the mind which already existed; or did not come from elsewhere, but in the mind itself which already existed the same mind which did not exist was born, as in the mind which already existed faith arises which did not exist; or as though after knowing itself, by recollecting, it sees itself as placed in its memory, as if it had not been there before it knew itself; since certainly, from the time it began to be, it has never ceased to remember itself, never ceased to understand itself, never ceased to love itself, as we have already shown. And so, when it turns to itself in thought, a trinity comes about, in which a word too can now be understood; for it is formed from thought itself, with the will joining the two. There, then, rather is the image we are seeking to be recognized.

But someone may say: this is not memory, by which the mind, which is always present to itself, is said to remember itself. For memory is of things past, not present: for some who treated of the virtues, among whom is Tully too, divided prudence into these three, memory, understanding, and foresight, assigning memory to things past, understanding to things present, and foresight to things future, which none hold for certain except those who foreknow the future; and this is not a gift of men unless it is given from above, as to the prophets. Hence the book of Wisdom, speaking of men, says, “The thoughts of mortals are fearful, and our foresight uncertain.” But memory of things past and understanding of things present is certain, but of present things that are incorporeal; for bodily things are present to the sight of bodily eyes. But let one who says that memory is not of present things notice how it was said even in secular literature, where there was greater care for correctness of words than for truth of things: “Nor did Ulysses endure such things, nor did the Ithacan forget himself in so great a peril.” For when Virgil said that Ulysses did not forget himself, what else did he mean to be understood than that he remembered himself? Since, then, he was present to himself, he would in no way have remembered himself unless memory belonged to present things. Therefore, just as in things past that is called memory by which it comes about that they can be recalled and remembered, so in a present thing, which the mind is to itself, that by which it is at hand to itself, so that it can be understood by its own thought and both be joined by love of itself, is to be called memory without absurdity.

This trinity of the mind, then, is not the image of God because the mind remembers itself and understands and loves itself, but because it can also remember and understand and love him by whom it was made. And when it does this, it becomes wise itself. But if it does not do this, even when it remembers itself and understands and loves itself, it is foolish. Let it remember, then, its God, in whose image it was made, and understand and love him. To say this more briefly, let it worship God who was not made, by whom it was made capable of him and of whom it can be a partaker; for which reason it is written, “Behold, the worship of God is wisdom”; and not by its own light but by participation in that supreme light it will be wise, and where it is eternal, there it will reign in happiness. For this wisdom of man is so called in such a way that it is also God's. For then it is true; for if it is human, it is vain. But not God's in the sense of that by which God is wise. For he is not wise by participation in himself, as the mind is by participation in God. But just as the justice of God is spoken of, not only that by which he himself is just, but that which he gives to man when he justifies the ungodly, which the apostle commends when he says of some, “For not knowing the justice of God, and wishing to establish their own justice, they have not submitted to the justice of God”; so too it can be said of some, “Not knowing the wisdom of God, and wishing to establish their own, they have not submitted to the wisdom of God.” There is, then, a nature not made, which made all other natures, great and small, and is without doubt more excellent than those it made, and therefore than this one too of which we are speaking, rational and intellectual, which is the mind of man, made in the image of him who made it. And that nature more excellent than the rest is God. And indeed he is “not far from each one of us,” as the apostle says, adding, “For in him we live and move and are.” If he said this according to the body, it could be understood even of this bodily world. For in it too, according to the body, we live and move and are. Hence it must be taken according to the mind, which was made in his image, in a more excellent way, and one not visible but intelligible. For what is not in him, of whom it is divinely written, “For from him and through him and in him are all things”? If, then, all things are in him, in whom at last can those that live live, and those that move be moved, except in him in whom they are? Yet not all are with him in the way in which it was said to him, “I am always with you.” Nor is he with all in the way in which we say, “The Lord be with you.” It is, then, a great misery for man not to be with him without whom he cannot be. For in whom he is, he certainly is not without him; and yet if he does not remember him, and does not understand or love him, he is not with him. And what anyone has wholly forgotten, he certainly cannot even be reminded of.

Let us take an example for this from visible things. Someone whom you do not recognize says to you, “You know me”; and to remind you he tells you where, when, and how he became known to you; and if, when all the signs by which you might be called back to memory have been offered, you do not recognize him, you have so forgotten that all that knowledge has been wholly wiped out of your mind; and nothing else remains but that you believe the one who tells you this, that you once knew him; or not even that, if the speaker does not seem to you worthy of belief. But if you remember, you certainly return to your memory, and find in it what had not been wholly wiped out by forgetfulness. Let us return to that for which we used this example from human intercourse. Among other things the ninth psalm says, “Let sinners be turned into hell, all the nations that forget God.” And again the twenty-first says, “All the ends of the earth shall be reminded and shall turn to the Lord.” These nations, then, had not so forgotten God that they would not remember him even when reminded. But by forgetting God, as by forgetting their own life, they had been turned into death, that is, into hell. But when reminded they turn to the Lord, as though coming back to life by remembering their life, which forgetfulness had kept from them. Likewise we read in the ninety-third: “Understand now, you who are senseless among the people; and you fools, be wise at last. He who planted the ear, shall he not hear?” and so on. For it was said to those who, not understanding God, said vain things about him.

But there are more testimonies in the divine words about the love of God. For in it those other two are understood as following from it, because no one loves what he does not remember or what he is wholly ignorant of. Hence that most famous and chief commandment: “You shall love the Lord your God.” The human mind, then, has been so made that it never fails to remember itself, never fails to understand itself, never fails to love itself. But since one who hates someone is eager to harm him, not undeservedly is the mind of man too said to hate itself when it harms itself. For it wills itself evil without knowing it, while it does not think that what it wills is harmful to it; but yet it wills itself evil when it wills what would harm it; whence it is written, “He who loves iniquity hates his own soul.” He, then, who knows how to love himself loves God; but he who does not love God, even if he loves himself, which is implanted in him by nature, is nevertheless not unfittingly said to hate himself, since he does what is against himself, and pursues himself as though he were his own enemy. This is certainly a horrible error, that, although all want to benefit themselves, many do nothing but what is most destructive to them. When the poet was describing a like disease of dumb animals, he says: “May the gods give better things to the godly, and that madness to enemies! They tore their own torn limbs with bare teeth.” Since that was a disease of the body, why did he call it madness, unless because, while every animal is so commended to itself by nature that it guards itself as far as it can, that disease was such that they tore their own limbs, whose health they desired? But when the mind loves God, and, as has been said, consequently remembers and understands him, it is rightly commanded concerning its neighbor to love him as itself. For now it loves itself not perversely but rightly, when it loves God, by participation in whom that image not only exists but is also renewed from oldness, re-formed from deformity, made happy from unhappiness. For although it so loves itself that, if one or the other were set before it, it would rather lose all that it loves below itself than perish; yet by forsaking him who is higher, in relation to whom alone it could guard its strength and enjoy him as its light, to whom it is sung in the Psalm, “I will guard my strength toward you,” and in another, “Come to him and be enlightened,” it has become so weak and dark that it has slipped more unhappily away from itself too into things that are not what it is, and than which it is itself higher, through loves which it cannot overcome, and errors from which it does not see the way back. Hence, now repenting by God's mercy, it cries in the Psalms, “My strength has forsaken me, and the light of my eyes is not with me.” Yet in these great evils of weakness and error it could not lose its natural memory, understanding, and love of itself; for which reason it could rightly be said, as I mentioned above, “Although man walks in the image, yet he is disturbed in vain; he heaps up treasure and does not know for whom he will gather it.” For why does he heap up treasure, unless because his strength has forsaken him, through which, having God, he would need nothing? And why does he not know for whom he will gather it, unless because the light of his eyes is not with him? And so he does not see what the Truth says: “Fool, this night they require your soul of you; and the things you have prepared, whose will they be?” Yet, because even such a man walks in the image, and the mind of man has memory and understanding and love of itself, if it were made plain to him that he could not have both, and he were allowed to choose one of the two, being about to lose the other, either the treasures he has gathered or his mind, who is so far without a mind as to prefer to have treasures rather than a mind? For treasures can often overthrow the mind; but a mind which is not overthrown by treasures can live more easily and freely without any treasures. And who will be able to possess any treasures except through the mind? For if an infant boy, though born very rich, being lord of all that is lawfully his, possesses nothing while his mind is asleep, in what way at last will anyone possess anything when his mind is lost? But why do I speak of treasures, which any human being, if such a choice were offered, would rather lack than his mind, when no one prefers them to, no one compares them with, the lights of the body, by which not just one man, as with gold, but every man possesses the heavens? For through the lights of the body each possesses whatever he gladly sees. Who, then, if he could not keep both and were forced to give up one, would not rather lose his treasures than his eyes? And yet if he were asked on a like condition whether he would rather lose his eyes or his mind, who does not see with his mind that he would rather lose his eyes than his mind? For a mind without the eyes of the flesh is still human, but the eyes of the flesh without a mind are bestial. And who would not rather be a man, even blind in the flesh, than a seeing beast? I have said these things so that even the slower, into whose eyes or ears these writings may come, might be reminded by me, though briefly, how much the mind loves itself even when weak and erring, by wrongly loving and pursuing the things that are below it. And it could not love itself if it did not know itself at all, that is, if it did not remember itself, nor understand itself; by which image of God in itself it is so powerful that it can cling to him whose image it is. For it is so ordered, in the order of natures, not of places, that there is nothing above it but him. Finally, when it has clung to him wholly, it will be one spirit; to which the apostle testifies, saying, “But he who clings to the Lord is one spirit”: the mind indeed coming to participate in his nature, truth, and happiness, but he not growing in his nature, truth, and happiness. In that nature, then, when it has happily clung to it, it will live unchangeably and will see as unchangeable all that it sees. Then, as divine Scripture promises it, its desire will be satisfied with good things, with unchangeable good things, the Trinity itself, its God, whose image it is; and so that it may never afterward be violated, it will be in the hidden place of his face, filled with so great an abundance of him that it will never delight in sinning. But now, when it sees itself, it does not see something unchangeable.

And of this it certainly has no doubt, that it is wretched and desires to be happy; nor does it hope this can come about for any other reason than that it is changeable. For if it were not changeable, as it could not become wretched from happy, so it could not become happy from wretched. And what would have made it wretched under an almighty and good Lord, except its own sin and the justice of its Lord? And what will make it happy, except its own merit and the reward of its Lord? But its merit too is the grace of him whose reward will be its happiness. For it cannot give itself the justice which it has lost and does not have. For it received this when man was made, and certainly lost it by sinning. It receives justice, then, on account of which it may deserve to receive happiness. Hence the apostle truly says to it, as to one beginning to be proud as though of its own good: “For what do you have that you did not receive? But if you received it, why do you boast as if you had not received it?” But when it rightly remembers its Lord, having received his Spirit, it feels altogether, because it learns this by inward teaching, that it can rise only by his gracious affection, and could fall only by its own voluntary failing. It certainly does not remember its happiness; for that was and is not, and the mind has wholly forgotten it, and therefore cannot even be reminded of it. But it believes about it the trustworthy writings of its God, written by his prophet, which tell of the happiness of paradise and point out by historical tradition that first good and evil of man. But it does remember the Lord its God; for he always is: he neither was and is not, nor is and was not; but as he never will not be, so he never was not. And he is everywhere whole; for which reason the mind lives and moves and is in him; and therefore it can remember him. Not because it recalls that it knew him in Adam, or anywhere else before the life of this body, or when it was first made so as to be put into this body; for it remembers none of these things at all; whatever of these is so has been wiped out by forgetfulness. But it is reminded so that it may turn to the Lord, as to that light by which it was in some way touched even when it was turned away from him. For hence it is that even the ungodly think of eternity, and rightly blame and rightly praise many things in the conduct of men. By what rules at last do they judge, except those in which they see how each ought to live, even if they themselves do not live in the same way? Where do they see them? For not in their own nature, since without doubt these things are seen by the mind, and it is agreed that their minds are changeable, whereas whoever has been able to see this in them sees these rules as unchangeable; nor in the disposition of their own mind, since those rules are rules of justice, whereas it is agreed that their minds are unjust. Where are these rules written, in which even the unjust man recognizes what is just and unjust, in which he sees that one must have what he himself does not have? Where, then, are they written, except in the book of that light which is called truth? from which every just law is copied, and transferred into the heart of the man who works justice, not by moving there but as if by being impressed, as the image from a ring passes into the wax and does not leave the ring. But he who does not work it, and yet sees what is to be worked, is the one who is turned away from that light, by which he is nevertheless touched. But he who does not even see how one should live sins more excusably, because he is not a transgressor of a known law; but even he is touched now and then by the brightness of the everywhere present truth when, on being admonished, he confesses.