Confessions

In Book VIII Augustine presents a very brief period of his life, its central story covering a single day, and yet the transformation he underwent is so enormous that it would be no understatement to call that day the single most important of his life. That morning, although his “perception of [Christianity’s] truth […] was certain” (144), he continued to be “weighed down by the pleasant burden of the world […] succumbing to my lust” (144-45), and so he remained no closer to conversion. The advice he sought from Simplicianus, while helpful, had ultimately been fruitless. The push he needed would instead come by surprise, a fact that falls neatly in line with his conviction that God was at work to bring about his conversion.

On first glance it may seem strange that Ponticianus’s story succeeded where others had failed. As a story of conversion, it is not remarkably different from what Simplicianus told of Victorinus. Both concern people of importance who are exposed to Christian doctrine and then undergo remarkable conversions. On its surface, Victorinus’s story seems the more relevant of the two for Augustine since both figures had committed themselves to other religions and were known for their haughtiness. What Ponticianus’s story includes that Simplicianus’s does not, though, is a deeper commitment by its converts. While Victorinus proudly became a Christian, Ponticianus’s colleagues went a step further and became monks. That this possibility had never occurred to Augustine previously is suggested when he writes of his surprise in learning about Antony that same day: “[Ponticianus’s] discourse led on […] to the proliferation of monasteries […]. We had known nothing of all this. There was even a monastery full of good brothers at Milan, outside the city walls, under Ambrose’s care, yet we were unaware of it” (147). In light of this, the reasonable conclusion is that Ponticianus’ story brought about Augustine’s conversion because it highlighted the possibility of absolute devotion to God, which is precisely the direction Augustine would take. In characterizing his conversion, Augustine notes specifically that he was “no longer seeking a wife” (157). Together, these facts suggest that Augustine may have been uneasy about the prospect of the sexual moderation entailed by marriage, preferring instead the simplicity of celibacy, an interpretation further supported in Book X: “I struggle every day against gluttony, for eating and drinking are not something I can decide to cut away once and for all, and never touch again, as I have been able to do with sexual indulgence” (208).

Even if Simplicianus’s story was less formative, reflecting on it does provide Augustine his greatest opportunity yet to explore the themes of the Parable of the Prodigal Son. Augustine is at his most candidly uncertain in musing on why it is that even God in his infinite wisdom prefers "one repentant sinner over ninety-nine righteous people who need no repentance” (141). He expands this question to other realms, wondering, “What is going on in our minds, then, that we should be more highly delighted at finding cherished objects, or having them restored to us, than if we had always kept them safe?” (141), and noting, “There is no pleasure in eating and drinking unless the discomfort of hunger and thirst have preceded them” (142). Augustine even traces the curiosity to the story of Jesus, “that young man who had died but come back to life, had perished but was found” (142), amazed that, despite God’s pure and boundless goodness, “In every case greater sorrow issues in greater joy” (142).

Augustine might be unable to explain the parable’s mystery, but the manner in which he presents his own story indicates a deeply intuitive understanding of its logic. It is not hard to imagine how much less engaging Confessions would be if its protagonist were virtuous throughout or his sins were glossed over. Love of the underdog and the redemption arc are at the heart of the timeless popularity of the story of this particular prodigal son.

Augustine’s painfully frank depiction of the extensive hesitation before his conversion may be the deepest of those sinful depths that have helped Confessions endure. His desperate prayer that God “Grant me chastity and self-control, but please not yet” is one of the most famous lines from all his writings (149). It is at once remarkable and relatable that Augustine had enough faith in God to pray to him for help yet enough pride that he would request God delay his salvation that he might maintain “the morbid lust which I was more anxious to satisfy than to snuff out” (149). Better than any other, this line reveals the foolish tendency we have to put off that which is good for us even when we know it is good for us, for "ingrained evil [is] more powerful […] than new-grafted good” (154).

From this same episode comes Augustine’s surprisingly extreme assertion that he then felt the previous twelve years of his life “had gone to waste, and I with them” (149). While this evaluation is not terribly unexpected in and of itself, its noteworthiness comes from his connection of Ponticianus’ two converts’ reading about Antony with his discovery of Cicero’s Hortensius, the text that convinced Augustine that wisdom was worth seeking. In the moments preceding his conversion, he characterizes the meandering path that had led him to this point as year of blatant disregard for that call: “I had been putting off the moment when by spurning earthly happiness I would clear space in my life to search for wisdom” (149). This perspective implies that, at his core, Augustine never believed in Manicheism and always recognized the truth of Christianity but simply avoided confronting these facts to enable him to persist in his lustful ways. If there is any truth to this, either it must have been deeply subconscious or he must have later abandoned this perspective since such a reality starkly negates the enormous amount of time and effort he had in fact expended in reading, discussing, and considering various philosophical and religious outlooks over this time period, as well as the painstaking thoughtfulness with which he relates these experiences in Confessions.