(In 374 AD Amphilochius was made Bishop of Iconium, and his father, a man with the same name, was deeply upset at being deprived of his son in this way. He had been counting on his son to support him in his old age, and he accused Gregory of being responsible. Gregory, who had just lost his own father, writes to correct this misunderstanding and to show him how much he fears the burden of episcopal responsibilities for his friend as well as for himself.)
(In a.d. 374 Amphilochius was made Bishop of Iconium; and his father, a man of the same name, was deeply aggrieved at being thus deprived of his son, to whom he had looked to support him in his old age, and accused Gregory of being the cause. Gregory, who had just lost his own father, writes to undeceive him, and to convince him how much he dreads the burden of the responsibilities of the episcopate for his friend as well as for himself.)
Are you grieving? I, of course, am full of joy! Are you weeping? As you can see, I am celebrating and taking pride in how things stand! Are you upset because your son has been taken from you and promoted to a position of honor because of his virtue, and do you think it is a terrible disaster that he is no longer with you to care for you in your old age and provide you with all the attention and service he used to give? But it does not grieve me that my father has left me for his final journey, from which he will never return to me, and I will never see him again! I do not blame you for this, nor do I expect you to properly console me, since I know that personal troubles leave no room to think about the troubles of others. No one is so devoted or so wise that they can rise above their own suffering and comfort another person when they themselves need comfort. But you, on the other hand, pile one blow on top of another when you blame me, as I hear you are doing, and think that your son and my brother is being neglected by us, or even betrayed by us—which is an even more serious accusation—or that we do not recognize the loss that all his friends and relatives have suffered, especially me, since I had placed my hopes for life in him and looked to him as my only protection, my only good adviser, and my only partner in godliness. But what grounds do you have for this opinion? If it is the first charge, let me assure you that I came to visit you specifically because I was troubled by the rumor, and I was ready to discuss the matter with you while there was still time to talk about it. But you shared everything with me except this, either because you were experiencing the same distress or for some other reason I do not know. But if it is the last charge, I was prevented from meeting with you again by my grief, by the honor I owed my father, and by his funeral, which I could not prioritize anything above—especially when my sorrow was fresh. It would have been not only wrong but also completely inappropriate to be unreasonably philosophical and act as if I were above human nature. Besides, I thought I was already committed to these circumstances, especially since his situation had reached the conclusion that seemed good to the One who governs all our affairs. So much for this matter. Now I ask you to set aside your grief, which I am sure is completely unreasonable. And if you have any other complaint, bring it forward so that you will not cause both me and yourself partial grief, and put yourself in a position unworthy of your noble character by blaming me instead of others, even though I have done you no wrong. In fact, if I must tell the truth, I have been equally dominated by our common friend, even though you used to consider me your only benefactor.
Are you grieving? I, of course, am full of joy! Are you weeping? I, as you see, am keeping festival and glorying in the present state of things! Are you grieved because your son is taken from you and promoted to honour on account of his virtue, and do you think it a terrible misfortune that he is no longer with you to tend your old age, and, as his custom is, to bestow on you all due care and service? But it is no grief to me that my father has left me for the last journey, from which he will return to me no more, and I shall never see him again! Then I for my part do not blame you, nor do I ask you for due condolence, knowing as I do that private troubles allow no leisure for those of strangers; for no man is so friendly and so philosophical as to be above his own suffering and to comfort another when needing comfort himself. But you on the contrary heap blow on blow, when you blame me, as I hear you do, and think that your son and my brother is neglected by us, or even betrayed by us, which is a still heavier charge; or that we do not recognize the loss which all his friends and relatives have suffered, and I more than all, because I had placed in him my hopes of life, and looked upon him as the only bulwark, the only good counsellor, and the only sharer of my piety. And yet, on what grounds do you form this opinion? If on the first, be assured that I came over to you on purpose, and because I was troubled by the rumour, and I was ready to share your deliberations while it was still time for consultation about the matter; and you imparted anything to me rather than this, whether because you were in the same distress, or with some other purpose, I know not what. But if the last, I was prevented from meeting you again by my grief, and the honour I owed my father, and his funeral, over which I could not give anything precedence, and that when my sorrow was fresh, and it would not only have been wrong but also quite improper to be unseasonably philosophical, and above human nature. Moreover, I thought that I was previously engaged by the circumstances, especially as his had come to such a conclusion as seemed good to Him who governs all our affairs. So much concerning this matter. Now I beg you to put aside your grief, which is most unreasonable I am sure; and if you have any further grievance, bring it forward that you may not grieve both me in part and yourself, and put yourself in a position unworthy of your nobility, blaming me instead of others, though I have done you no wrong, but, if I must say the truth, have been equally tyrannized over by our common friend, although you used to think me your only benefactor.