(Gregory, Bishop of Nyssa, was a younger brother of Basil the Great. Ordained a Reader at an early age, he grew tired of his vocation and became a professor of Rhetoric. This caused scandal in the Church and brought much grief to his friends. Gregory of Nazianzus wrote him the following letter of protest, which had some effect, for shortly afterwards he gave up his secular occupation and retired to the monastery which his brother Basil had founded in Pontus. Here he spent several years studying Holy Scripture and the best Commentators.)
(Gregory, Bishop of Nyssa, was a younger brother of Basil the Great. Ordained a Reader at an early age he grew tired of his vocation, and became a professor of Rhetoric. This gave scandal in the Church and occasioned much grief to his friends. Gregory of Nazianzus, wrote him the following letter of remonstrance, which was not without effect, for shortly afterwards he gave up his secular avocation, and retired to the Monastery which his brother Basil had founded in Pontus. Here he spent several years in the study of Holy Scripture and the best Commentators.)
There is one good quality in my character, and I will boast about this one thing out of many. I am equally upset with myself and my friends when it comes to a bad plan. Since all who live according to God and walk by the same Gospel are friends and relatives, why shouldn't you hear from me plainly what everyone else is whispering? They do not approve of your inglorious glory (to borrow a phrase from your own profession), your gradual descent to a lower way of life, and your ambition—the worst of demons, according to Euripides. What has happened to you, wisest of men, and why do you condemn yourself by casting away the sacred and delightful books you once used to read to the people (don't be ashamed to hear this)? You have hung them up over the fireplace, as people do in winter with rudders and hoes, and have devoted yourself to harsh and bitter books instead. You prefer to be called a Professor of Rhetoric rather than of Christianity. I, thank God, would rather be the latter than the former. Please, my dear friend, don't let this continue any longer. Even though it is very late, sober up again, come back to yourself, and make your apology to the faithful, to God, and to His Altars and Sacraments from which you have withdrawn. Don't say to me in proud rhetorical style, "What, wasn't I a Christian when I practiced rhetoric? Wasn't I a believer when I was working among the boys?" And perhaps you will call God as your witness. No, my friend, not as thoroughly as you should have been, even if I partly grant you that. What about the offense you give to others through your current work—to others who are naturally prone to evil—and the opportunity you give them to think and speak the worst of you? Falsely, I admit, but why was it necessary? A person doesn't live for himself alone but also for his neighbor, and it's not enough to persuade yourself—you must persuade others as well. If you practiced boxing in public, or gave and received blows in the theatre, or twisted yourself shamefully, would you claim to have a temperate soul? Such an argument doesn't befit a wise man; it's frivolous to accept it. "If you make a change I shall rejoice even now," said one of the Pythagorean philosophers, lamenting the fall of a friend, "but if not, you are dead to me." I won't say this yet for your sake. "Being a friend, he became an enemy, yet still a friend," as the Tragedy says. But I will be grieved (to put it gently) if you neither see what is right yourself, which is the highest way, nor follow the advice of others, which is the next best thing. This is my counsel. Forgive me that my friendship for you makes me grieve and stirs me up both on your behalf and on behalf of the whole priestly order, and I may add on behalf of all Christians. And if I may pray with you or for you, may God who quickens the dead aid your weakness.
There is one good point in my character, and I will boast myself of one point out of many. I am equally vexed with myself and my friends over a bad plan. Since, then, all are friends and kinsfolk who live according to God, and walk by the same Gospel, why should you not hear from me in plain words what all men are saying in whispers? They do not approve your inglorious glory (to borrow a phrase from your own art), and your gradual descent to the lower life, and your ambition, the worst of demons, according to Euripides. For what has happened to you, O wisest of men, and for what do you condemn yourself, that you have cast away the sacred and delightful books which you used once to read to the people (do not be ashamed to hear this), or have hung them up over the chimney, as men do in winter with rudders and hoes, and have applied yourself to salt and bitter ones, and preferred to be called a Professor of Rhetoric rather than of Christianity? I, thank God, would rather be the latter than the former. Do not, my dear friend, do not let this be longer the case, but, though it is full late, become sober again, and come to yourself once more, and make your apology to the faithful, and to God, and to His Altars and Sacraments, from which you have withdrawn yourself. And do not say to me in proud rhetorical style, What, was I not a Christian when I practised rhetoric? Was I not a believer when I was engaged among the boys? And perhaps you will call God to witness. No, my friend, not as thoroughly as you ought to have been, even if I grant it you in part. What of the offense to others given by your present employment — to others who are prone naturally to evil — and of the opportunity afforded them both to think and to speak the worst of you? Falsely, I grant, but where was the necessity? For a man lives not for himself alone but also for his neighbour; nor is it enough to persuade yourself, you must persuade others also. If you were to practise boxing in public, or to give and receive blows in the theatre, or to writhe and twist yourself shamefully, would you speak of yourself as having a temperate soul? Such an argument does not befit a wise man; it is frivolous to accept it. If you make a change I shall rejoice even now, said one of the Pythagorean philosophers, lamenting the fall of a friend; but, he wrote, if not you are dead to me. But I will not yet say this for your sake. Being a friend, he became an enemy, yet still a friend, as the Tragedy says. But I shall be grieved (to speak gently), if you do neither yourself see what is right, which is the highest method of all, nor will follow the advice of others, which is the next. Thus far my counsel. Forgive me that my friendship for you makes me grieve, and kindles me both on your behalf and on behalf of the whole priestly Order, and I may add on that of all Christians. And if I may pray with you or for you, may God who quickens the dead aid your weakness.