Sermon 26 on the Song of Songs — Bernard of Clairvaux
In Which Blessed Bernard Mourns the Death of His Brother Gerard
1. Like the tents of Kedar, like the curtains of Solomon (Song 1:4). We must begin from here, because this is where the preceding sermon left off. You are waiting to hear what this means, and how it is fitted to the chapter treated most recently, since it is a comparison. For this could have been subjoined in such a way that both parts of the comparison answer only to what had preceded there: I am black . But it could also be so that those two things answer to these two, that is, each to each. The former sense is simpler, the latter more obscure. But let us attempt both: and first indeed this one, which appears more difficult. The difficulty, however, is not in the first two, but only in the last two. For Kedar indeed, which is interpreted as "darkness," seems openly enough to agree with blackness; but the curtains of Solomon do not so readily agree with beauty. Furthermore, who does not see that tents likewise converge into the same agreement? For what are tents, if not our bodies, in which we are pilgrims? For we have not here a lasting city, but seek one that is to come (Heb. 13:14). But we also wage war in them, as in tents; altogether violent toward the kingdom. Finally, the life of man upon earth is a warfare (Job 7:1); and as long as we wage war in this body, we are pilgrims from the Lord, that is, from light. For the Lord is light; and insofar as anyone is not with him, to that extent he is in darkness, that is, in Kedar. Let him therefore recognize as his own that mournful cry: Woe is me that my sojourning is prolonged! I have dwelt with the dwellers of Kedar, my soul has been long a sojourner (Ps. 119:5-6). Therefore this habitation of our body is not the dwelling of a citizen, nor the house of a native; but either the tent of a soldier, or the stable of a traveler. This body, I say, is a tent, and a tent of Kedar, which indeed defrauds the soul in the meantime of the sight of the uncircumscribed light, as though by interposing itself; nor does it allow it to be seen at all, except through a mirror indeed and in an enigma, but not face to face (1 Cor. 13:12).
2. Do you see whence the blackness of the Church, whence some rust has clung even to the most beautiful souls? From the tent of Kedar, surely; from the exercise of laborious warfare, from the long duration of a wretched sojourn, from the straits of a sorrowful exile, from the fragile and heavy body, in short; because the body which is corrupted weighs down the soul, and the earthly dwelling presses down the mind that thinks upon many things (Wis. 9:15). For this reason they also desire to be dissolved, so that, freed from the body, they may fly away into the embraces of Christ. Whence also one of the wretched, groaning, used to say: Wretched man that I am! Who will deliver me from the body of this death? (Rom. 7:24). She who is of this sort knows indeed that she cannot in the tent of Kedar be entirely free from spot or wrinkle, not even from the smallest blackness; and she desires to depart, that she may be able to strip herself bare. And this is the reason why the bride called herself black like the tents of Kedar. But how then beautiful, like the curtains of Solomon? But I sense something lofty and sacred wrapped up in these curtains, which I by no means dare to touch at all, except indeed at the nod of him who has stored it away and sealed it. For I have read: He who is a searcher of majesty shall be overwhelmed by glory (Prov. 25:27). I refrain therefore and defer. In the meantime it will be your concern to obtain the usual favor by your prayers; that we may return all the more eager, the more confident, to that which requires more attentive minds. And perhaps the devout one who knocks will find what the rash searcher could not. Although indeed both grief commands an end, and the calamity which I suffer.
3. For how long shall I dissemble, while the fire that I conceal within myself burns my sorrowful breast, devours my inward parts? Shut in, it creeps more widely, rages more fiercely. What have I to do with this canticle, I who am in bitterness? The force of grief draws away my attention, and the indignation of the Lord drinks up my spirit. For since he has been taken away through whom my endeavors in the Lord used to be in some measure free, at the same time also my heart has left me. But I did violence to my soul, and dissembled up to this point; lest affection should seem to conquer faith. Finally, while others wept, I, as you could have noticed, followed the hateful funeral with dry eyes, with dry eyes I stood at the tomb, until all the solemnities of the obsequies were completed. Vested in priestly garments, I completed the customary prayers over him with my own mouth, I cast earth with my own hands according to custom upon the body of my beloved, soon to become earth itself. Those who watched me wept, and marveled that I did not weep myself, when all pitied not him indeed, but rather me, who had lost him. For whose breast, even if of iron, would not have been moved over me there, seeing me survive Gerard? It was a common loss; but it was not reckoned in comparison with my misfortune. But I, with whatever powers of faith I could, struggled against affection, striving even against my will not to be moved in vain by the bondage of nature, the debt of the universal condition, the custom of our state, the command of the mighty one, the judgment of the just one, the scourge of the terrible one, the will of the Lord. On account of such things I have ever since and henceforth demanded of myself not to yield to much weeping, though greatly troubled and sorrowful. Nor could I command my grief, though I could command my tears; but, as it is written: I was troubled, and I did not speak (Ps. 76:5). But the suppressed grief took deeper root inwardly, having become, as I feel, all the more bitter because it was not permitted to go forth. I confess, I am conquered. What I suffer within must needs go forth. Let it go forth indeed to the eyes of my sons, who, knowing the trouble, may judge the lamentation more humanely and console more sweetly.
4. You know, O sons, how just is my grief, how grievous my wound. You see indeed what a companion has deserted me in this way in which I was walking, one not slow to the work, how pleasant in his ways. Who was so utterly necessary to me? To whom was I equally dear? He was a brother by birth, but more a brother by religion. Grieve, I beseech you, for my lot, you to whom these things are known. I was weak in body, and he carried me; I was faint of heart, and he strengthened me; I was sluggish and negligent, and he roused me; I was improvident and forgetful, and he admonished me. Whither have you been torn from me? Whither have you been snatched from my hands, O man of one mind with me, O man after my own heart? We loved each other in life; how in death are we separated? Most bitter separation! and one which nothing at all could have brought about except death. For when would you, living, have deserted me, living? Altogether the work of death, a dreadful divorce. For who would not have spared the sweet bond of our mutual love, except death, the enemy of all sweetness? Well done, death, which by seizing one, has furiously slain two. Or is it not death for me also? Indeed more for me, for whom surely a life more wretched than any death has been preserved. I live so that living I may die; and shall I have called this life? How more gently you would have deprived me, O harsh death, of the use of life, rather than of its fruit! For life without fruit is a heavier death. Finally, a double evil is prepared for the unfruitful tree: the axe and fire (Mt. 3:10). Therefore, envying my labors, you have put far from me the friend and neighbor through whose great zeal they were, if ever they were, fruitful. It would have been better for me therefore to lose my life than your presence, O Gerard, who were the zealous inciter of my endeavors in the Lord, the faithful [or, strong] helper, the careful examiner. Why, I ask, have we either loved or lost each other? A hard condition, but my fortune is pitiable, and not his! For you, dear brother, if you have lost those who are dear, you have surely received those who are dearer. But what consolation now awaits wretched me after you, my only solace? The companionship of our bodies was equally pleasing to both of us on account of the harmony of our characters; but the separation has wounded me alone. What pleased was common; what is sad and mournful is mine: upon me the wraths have passed, upon me the fury has been confirmed. The mutual presence was grateful to both, the fellowship sweet, the conversation pleasant; but I have lost all the delights of both, while you have exchanged them. And indeed in exchange for those things the recompense is great.
5. With what great interest of joys and heap of blessings are you absent from us today, dearest brother! You have certainly, in place of me, so small, the presence of Christ laid up for you; nor do you feel the loss of your absence from us, mingled as you are with the choirs of angels. There is no cause therefore for you to complain about our presence being, as it were, withdrawn from you, since the Lord of majesty has abundantly bestowed on you the fullness of himself and of his own. But I, in place of you, what do I have? How I wish I could know what you now feel about me, that one and only one of yours, wavering amid cares and pains, deprived of you, the staff of my weakness! If indeed it is still permitted to think of wretched ones, to you who have entered the abyss of light and been swallowed up by that ocean of eternal happiness. For perhaps even if you have known us according to the flesh, yet now you know us no longer: and since you have entered into the powers of the Lord, you are mindful of his justice alone, unmindful of us. Moreover, he who cleaves to God is one spirit (1 Cor. 6:17), and is wholly changed into a certain divine affection, nor can he any longer perceive or savor anything except God, and that which God perceives and savors, full of God. But God is love, and the more one is joined to God, the more full of love he is. Furthermore, God is impassible, but not incompassionate, for it is proper to him always to have mercy and to spare. Therefore you too must be merciful, who cling to the merciful one, although you yourself are now by no means wretched; and though you do not suffer, yet you suffer with us. Your affection therefore has not been diminished, but changed; nor, because you have put on God, have you put off care for us; for he himself has care for us (1 Pet. 5:7). What is weak you have cast off, but not what is loving. For love never fails (1 Cor. 13:8): you will not forget me forever.
6. I seem to myself almost to hear my brother saying: Can a mother forget the child of her womb? Even if she should forget, yet I will not forget you (Isa. 49:15). It is by no means expedient. You know where I labor, where I lie, where you have left me; there is no one to stretch out a hand. At everything that arises, I look to Gerard as I was accustomed, and he is not there. Alas! then I groan, wretched, like a man without help. Whom shall I consult in doubtful matters? In whom shall I trust in adversity? Who will bear the burdens? Who will ward off dangers? Did not the eyes of Gerard everywhere go before [or, animate] my steps? Was not your breast, Gerard, more familiar with my cares than my own; did they not more intimately rush upon it, more sharply press upon it? Did you not with that placable and powerful tongue of yours most frequently rescue me from the words of the world, and restore me to a friendly silence? The Lord had given him a learned tongue, that he might know when he ought to bring forth a word. So indeed, in the prudence of his answers, and in the grace given him from above, he satisfied both those of the household and outsiders, so that scarcely anyone sought me to whom Gerard had not first presented himself. For he would go to meet those arriving, interposing himself, lest they should suddenly intrude upon my leisure. Those indeed whom he could not satisfy by himself, he would bring to me; the rest he would send away. O industrious man! O faithful friend! He both complied with his friend's wishes and was never wanting in the duties of love. Who went away from him with empty hands? If a rich man, he carried away counsel; if a poor man, assistance. Nor did he seek his own interests, who thrust himself into the midst of cares, so that I might be free. For he hoped, as he was most humble, for greater fruit from our quiet than if he himself were at leisure. From time to time, however, he would ask to be released and to yield his place to another, as one who might provide better. But where would such a one be found? Nor was he held in his office by any petulant attachment to it, as is common, but by the sole regard of love. Indeed he labored more than all and received less than all; so that often, while he ministered necessities to others, he himself was in want in many things, such as food or clothing, for example. Finally, when he felt himself drawing near to death, he said: "God, you know that as far as it was in me, I always desired quiet; to attend to myself, to be free for you. But your fear, the will of the brethren, and the zeal of obedience held me entangled, and above all things equally the fraternal love of my abbot and brother." So it is. I give you thanks, brother, for all the fruit of my endeavors in the Lord, if there is any. To you I owe it if I have advanced, if I have been of profit. You were entangled, and I, by your kindness, sat at leisure for myself, or at any rate was more holily occupied with divine services, or more usefully attended to the instruction of the sons. For why should I not have been at ease within, when I knew you were acting outside as my right hand, the light of my eyes, my breast, and my tongue? And indeed an untiring hand, a single eye, a breast of counsel, a tongue speaking judgment, as it is written: The mouth of the just shall meditate wisdom, and his tongue shall speak judgment (Ps. 36:30).
7. But why did I say he acted outside? As though Gerard did not know inward things, and were devoid of spiritual gifts. Those spiritual ones who knew him know how his words breathed forth spirit. His companions know how his ways and pursuits did not savor of the flesh, but burned with the spirit. Who was more rigid than he in the keeping of discipline? Who more strict in chastising his body, more elevated or more sublime in contemplation, more subtle in discussion? How often in discussing with him I learned things I did not know; and I who had come to teach, departed rather as one who had been taught! Nor is this surprising about me, since great and wise men testify that the same thing happened to them from him no less. He had not learned letters; but he possessed the understanding that is the inventor of letters, and he had the illuminating Spirit. And not only in the greatest things, but in the least he was greatest. What, for example, in buildings, in fields, gardens, waterworks, and indeed in all the arts and works of country folk? What, I say, even in this kind of things escaped Gerard's skill? To masons, smiths, farmers, gardeners, cobblers, and weavers he was easily a master. And while in the judgment of all he was wiser than all, in his own eyes alone he was not wise. Would that the many who, though less wise, were not more touched by that curse: Woe to you who are wise in your own eyes (Isa. 5:21)! I speak these things to those who know them, and still more than these about him, and greater things than you have found out. Yet I hold back, because he is my flesh and my brother. This, however, I add with confidence: he was useful to me in all things, and above all others; he was useful in small things and great, in private and public matters, outside and within. Rightly I depended on him entirely, who was everything to me. He had left me almost solely the honor and name of overseer: for he himself did the work. I was called abbot, but he presided in solicitude. Rightly my spirit rested in him, through whom it was permitted to delight in the Lord, to preach more freely, to pray more securely. Through you, I say, brother mine, I had a sober mind and welcome quiet, a more effective sermon, a richer prayer, more frequent reading, and more fervent devotion.
8. Alas! You have been taken away, and all these things together with you. Together with you all delights and joys of mine have departed alike. Now cares rush in, now troubles press from this side and that, and anxieties from everywhere have found me alone, have alone remained to me at your departure; alone I groan beneath the burden. Either I must lay it down or be crushed, because you have withdrawn your shoulders. Who will grant me to die soon after you? For I would not wish it instead of you, nor would I defraud you of your glory. But to outlive you is labor and grief. I shall live, as long as I live, in bitterness; I shall live in sorrow: and let this be my consolation, that I be afflicted by grieving. I shall not spare myself; and I shall assist the hand of the Lord: for the hand of the Lord has touched me. Me, I say, it has touched and struck, not him whom it has called to rest; me it has slain, when it cut him down. For would anyone call him slain whom it has planted in life? But what was for him the gate of life is plainly death for me; and I would call myself dead by that death, not him who has fallen asleep in the Lord. Come forth, come forth, tears long desiring to flow; come forth, for he who had blocked your passage has departed. Let the cataracts of my wretched head be opened; and let fountains of waters break forth, if perhaps they may suffice to wash away the filth of sins by which I have merited wrath. When the Lord shall have been consoled concerning me, then perhaps I too may merit to be consoled, if only I shall not have spared myself from grieving: for those who mourn shall be comforted (Mt. 5:5). Therefore let every saint condescend to me, and in a spirit of gentleness let him who is spiritual bear with one who laments. Let my grief, I pray, be weighed by human feeling, not by custom. For we see the dead daily bewailing their own dead: much weeping, and no fruit. We do not blame the feeling, unless it exceeds measure; but we blame the cause. For the former belongs to nature, and its disturbance is a punishment of sin: the latter is vanity and sin. For there, unless I am mistaken, only the losses of carnal glory are bewailed, the disadvantages of the present life. And those who so weep are themselves to be wept for. Am I like them? My feeling is similar, but the cause is different, and the intention unlike. I have no complaint at all concerning the things that are of the world. In those things indeed that are of God, I grieve for the faithful help that has been taken away, the salutary counsel. It is Gerard I mourn: Gerard is the cause, brother in the flesh, but nearest in spirit, companion in purpose.
9. My soul cleaved to his soul; and not consanguinity but unanimity made one of two. The bond of flesh indeed was not lacking; but the fellowship of spirit joined us more, the agreement of souls, the conformity of character. Since therefore we were one heart and one soul, the sword pierced through this soul of mine and of his alike, and cutting it, placed one half in heaven and left the other half in the mire. I, I am that wretched portion lying in the mud, truncated of its part, and the better part; and it is said to me: Do not weep? My very inward parts have been torn from me; and it is said to me: Do not feel it? I feel, I feel even against my will, because the strength of stones is not my strength, nor is my flesh of bronze; I feel indeed and I grieve, and my grief is before me always. He who strikes us will surely not be able to accuse us of hardness and insensibility, as he accuses those of whom he says: I struck them, and they did not grieve (Jer. 5:3). I have confessed my feeling, and I have not denied it. Let someone call it carnal: I do not deny it is human, just as I do not deny that I am a man. If not even this suffices, neither will I deny it is carnal. For I too am carnal, sold under sin, given over to death, subject to pains and troubles. I am not, I confess, insensible to pains; I dread death, both my own and that of those who are mine. Gerard was mine, plainly mine. Was he not mine, who was a brother by blood, a son by profession, a father by solicitude, a sharer in spirit [or, one in accord in spirit], most intimate in affection? He has departed from me; I feel it, I am wounded, and gravely.
10. Forgive me, sons: or rather, if you are sons, grieve for your father's lot. Have pity on me, have pity on me, at least you my friends, who surely see how grievous the things I have received from the hand of the Lord for my sins. With the rod of his indignation he has struck me, worthily for my merits, harshly for my strength. Or would anyone call it a light thing for me to live without Gerard, unless he is ignorant of what Gerard was to me? Yet I do not contradict the words of the Holy One; nor do I reprove the judgment by which each has received what he is worthy of: he, the crown he merited; I, the punishment I owed. Because I feel the punishment, do I therefore reprove the sentence? The former is human, the latter would be impious. It is human, I say, and necessary to be affected toward those who are dear, whether delightfully when they are at hand, or painfully when they are absent. Social intercourse will not be without effect, especially among friends: and what mutual love has produced in those present to each other, the horror of separation and the grief of those separated from each other reveals. I grieve for you, dearest Gerard, not because you are to be grieved for, but because you have been taken away. And therefore perhaps I ought rather to grieve for myself, since I drink the cup of bitterness. And I alone am to be grieved for, because I alone drink: for you do not. I alone suffer what those who love each other are accustomed to suffer alike, when they lose each other.
11. Would that I have not lost you, but sent you ahead! Would that even late, at some time, I might follow you wherever you have gone! For there is no doubt that you have gone to those whom, about the middle of your last night, you were inviting to praise, when with a face and voice of exultation you suddenly burst forth into that verse of David, to the astonishment of those who stood by: Praise the Lord from the heavens, praise him in the heights (Ps. 148:1). Already for you, my brother, while it was still midnight, the day was breaking, and the night was being illuminated like the day. Truly that night was your illumination in your delights. I was called to that marvel, to see a man exulting in death, and taunting death. Where, O death, is your victory? Where, O death, is your sting? No longer a sting, but a song of joy. Now a man dies singing, and singing he dies. You are usurped for gladness, O mother of sorrow; you are usurped for glory, O enemy of glory; you are usurped for the entrance of the kingdom, O gate of hell; and you, O pit of perdition, for the finding of salvation: and this by a sinful man. Justly indeed, because you unjustly and rashly usurped power over an innocent and just man. You are dead, O death, and pierced through by the hook which you unwarily swallowed, whose voice it is in the prophet: O death, I will be your death; O hell, I will be your sting (Hos. 13:14). Pierced through, I say, by that hook, you open a broad and joyful exit to life for the faithful who pass through the midst of you. Gerard does not fear you, O mask-like apparition. Gerard passes through the midst of your jaws to his fatherland, not only secure, but even joyful and praising. When therefore I had arrived, and he had completed the last words of the psalm in a clear voice while I listened, looking up to heaven, he said: Father, into your hands I commend my spirit (Lk. 23:46). And repeating the same words, and frequently redoubling them: Father, Father , turning to me, with a gladdened face indeed, he said: "How great is the condescension of God, to be the father of men! How great the glory of men, to be sons of God and heirs of God! For if sons, then heirs also." So sang he whom we mourn: in which, I confess, he almost turned my grief into song, while intent upon his glory, I almost forget my own misery.
12. But the piercing grief recalls me to myself, and easily rouses me from that serene contemplation, as from a light sleep, by its pressing anxiety. I shall lament, therefore, but over myself, because reason now forbids it over him. For I think, if the opportunity were given, he would now say to us: Do not weep over me, but weep over yourselves . David rightly lamented over his parricide son (2 Sam. 19:1), for whom he knew the exit from the belly of death was forever blocked by the mass of his crime. Rightly over Saul and over Jonathan (2 Sam. 1:17); for whom, once equally swallowed up, there is no longer hope of emergence. And indeed they will rise again, but not to life; or rather to life, so that, alive, they may die more wretchedly in death. Although concerning Jonathan the judgment may not undeservedly remain uncertain. But for me, even if this reason for lamenting does not avail, yet not no reason at all avails. I lament first over my own wound, and the loss of this house; I lament then over the necessities of the poor, of whom Gerard was a father; I lament surely also over the entire state of our order and our profession, which from your zeal, Gerard, your counsel and example, was receiving no small strength; I lament lastly, even if not over you, yet on account of you. From this, indeed, from this I am gravely affected, because I love vehemently. And let no one trouble me, saying that I ought not to be so affected; since the kindly Samuel over a reprobate king (1 Sam. 16:1), and the pious David over a parricide son, satisfied their affection, and not to the injury of faith, not in reproach of the judgment on high. Absalom my son, Absalom my son , said the holy David (2 Sam. 18:33): and behold, more than Absalom is here. The Savior also, seeing the city of Jerusalem, and foreseeing its ruin, wept over it (Lk. 19:41). And shall I not feel my own present desolation? Shall I not grieve over my fresh and grievous wound? He wept in compassion, and shall I not dare to weep in suffering? And surely at the tomb of Lazarus he neither rebuked those who wept, nor forbade weeping; moreover he wept with those who wept: And Jesus wept , it says (Jn. 11:35). Those tears were witnesses indeed of nature, not signs of distrust. Finally, the dead man also came forth soon at the voice of him who wept, lest you should think at once that the feeling of one who grieves is a prejudice against faith.
13. So neither is our weeping a sign of faithlessness, but an indication of our condition; nor because I weep at being struck do I accuse him who strikes, but I call forth pity, I strive to bend severity. Hence my words also are full of grief, but not indeed of murmuring. Did I not bring forth something full of justice, in that by the complement of one sentence both he who owed it was punished, and he who deserved it was crowned? And still I say: Both things the sweet and upright Lord has done well. Mercy and judgment I will sing to you, O Lord . Let mercy sing to you, which you have shown to your servant Gerard; and let judgment sing also, which we bear. In the one you will be praised as good, in the other as just. Or shall it be praise of goodness alone? There is also praise of justice. You are just, O Lord, and your judgment is right (Ps. 118:137). You gave Gerard, you took Gerard away: and if we grieve at his being taken, yet we do not forget that he was given, and we give thanks that we merited to have him, whose loss we do not will insofar as it is not expedient.
14. I remember, O Lord, my covenant and your mercy, that you may be the more justified in your words, and may prevail when you are judged. When we were at Viterbo last year for the cause of the Church, he fell ill, and as the sickness grew worse, when his call already seemed near, I, bearing it most grievously that I should leave the companion of my pilgrimage, and such a companion, in a foreign land, and not return him to those who had entrusted him to me, since he was loved by all, as he was exceedingly lovable; turning to prayer with weeping and groaning: Wait, I said, O Lord, until our return. Restore him to his friends, and then take him, if you will, and I will not complain. You heard me, O God: he recovered, we completed the work you had enjoined, we returned with exultation, bearing the sheaves of peace. But I had almost forgotten my agreement, though you did not. I am ashamed of these sobs, which convict me of transgression. What more? You have claimed back the deposit, you have received what was yours. Tears bid an end to my words; do you, O Lord, bid an end and a measure to them.
Translated from the Latin by AI. Source: Migne, Patrologia Latina 183.