A Prayer of Seeking: St. Augustine’s Meditations on the Divine
The following is the opening of Confessions, St. Augustine’s classic work, translated into modern English by Modern Saints. Stay tuned for the upcoming release of Confessions: A Modern Translation.
Great are you, Lord, and worthy of endless praise! Your power is beyond measure, and your wisdom surpasses all understanding. We humans—a mere speck in all you have made—feel the pull to praise you. Even with our flaws, our mortality, and the marks of sin that remind us constantly of how you oppose the proud, still we ache to glorify you. Because you stir our hearts, so that in praising you, we find joy. You made us for yourself, Lord, and our hearts will always be restless until they rest in you.
But Lord, help me understand: which comes first? Do we call out to you before we praise you, or do we praise you before we call? And even before either of those—must we first know you? How can anyone truly call on you without knowing who you are? And if they don’t know you, are they calling on the real you at all? Or is it in calling out that we begin to know you?
But then, “How can they call on the one they have not believed in? And how can they believe without someone preaching to them?” (Rom 10:14). The Scriptures say, “Those who seek the Lord will praise him” (Ps 22:26)—because when we seek, we find. And when we find you, how could we not praise?
So I will seek you, Lord, even as I call on you, and call on you even as I believe in you. You have been preached to us, and my faith—your gift to me—cries out in response. It came to life in me through the incarnation of your Son and through the ministry of the preacher you sent to me.
Now, how can I call on you, my God and my Lord, when calling on you suggests that I expect you to come into me? Where in me could you possibly come? What part of me could contain you, the Creator of heaven and earth? Is there any room in me for you at all? Even the heavens and the earth, which you created and placed me inside—do they have room enough for you? Or is it rather that everything exists because of you, and so, in some mysterious way, everything already contains you?
If that’s true, and I exist because of you, then why am I asking you to come into me? I wouldn’t even exist if you weren’t already in me. I am not in the depths of hell, but even if I were, you would still be there. “If I make my bed in the depths,” says the Psalmist, “you are there” (Ps 139:8).
No, my God, I wouldn't exist at all if you weren't already within me. Or perhaps it’s more accurate to say I wouldn’t exist unless I were in you—the one “from whom, through whom, and in whom all things are” (Rom 11:36). That’s the truth, Lord, undeniably true. So where am I inviting you to, if I already dwell in You? And from where would you come to enter me? What place beyond heaven and earth could I possibly go, that you might meet me there—you, the God who says, “I fill heaven and earth” (Jer 23:24)?
If you fill heaven and earth, Lord, does that mean they are capable of containing you? Or do you fill them completely and still spill over, too much for creation to hold? And when heaven and earth are packed with your presence, where does the overflow go? Or perhaps you don't need to be contained at all. Perhaps you are the one who contains everything else, and what you fill, you fill by containing it within yourself.
The vessels you fill don’t support or stabilize you. If they were to break, you wouldn’t spill out. When you pour yourself into us, you are not brought down, but instead, you raise us up. You are never divided, never diminished. You are the one who pulls us together.
But when you fill all things, do you place your whole self in each one? Or is it that no created thing can contain you entirely, and so each receives only a part? If that’s true, is the same part given to all, or does each receive something different—more to what is great, less to what is small? But then again, does it even make sense to speak of larger or smaller parts of you? Are you not fully present everywhere, while no part of creation can contain the fullness of who you are?
What are you, then, my God? What are you, I wonder, but the Lord God? Who is lord, if not our Lord? Who is God, if not our God? You are the most high, the most good, the most powerful, truly all-powerful. You are the most merciful yet most just, most hidden yet most near, most beautiful yet most strong, constant yet mysterious. You never change, yet you govern all change. You are never new and never old, yet you make all things new.
You humble the proud, even when they don’t realize they’ve been humbled. You are always at work, yet always at rest. You draw all things back to yourself, yet you are never in need. You sustain, fill, and protect. You create, nurture, and finish what you start. You seek, though you lack nothing.
You love without passion, are jealous without anxiety, and grieve without sorrow. You grow angry while remaining calm. You change your actions, but never your purpose. You take back what's yours, though it was never really lost to you. You need nothing, yet you delight in what you receive. You are never greedy, yet you demand a return. You allow us to pay you more than you require, and in doing so, you make yourself our debtor, though none of us owns anything that wasn't already yours. You owe us nothing, yet you pay your debts. You cancel our debts, and in doing so, lose nothing at all.
After saying all this, what have we really said, my God, my life, my holy joy? What can anyone say that could truly capture who you are? And yet, woe to those who remain silent, because even the most eloquent among us are, in the end, like mute men before you.
How I long to find rest in you, Lord! Come into my heart and intoxicate it, so that all my worries fade and I embrace you, my one true good.
What are you to me, Lord? Have mercy on me, that I might find the words to say. And what am I to you, that you would long for my love like this? Why is it that when I hold back my love, you become angry and warn me of the pain it will bring? But isn’t it already painful enough not to love you? Lord, my God, in your mercy, reveal yourself to me. Speak to my soul and say, “I am your salvation” (Ps 35:3). Speak in a way that I can hear.
My heart is listening, Lord. Open its ears so I can hear your voice say, “I am your salvation.” When I hear those words, I will run to you and grab hold of you. Only do not hide your face from me. Let me die, if that’s what it takes, just to look upon your face.
The house of my soul is small and cramped; make it larger, Lord, so you may live here. It's falling apart; rebuild it. I know there are things within it that offend you. I don’t deny that. I confess it. But who else can make it clean except you? Who else can I turn to? Cleanse me, Lord, even of the sins I can’t see, and keep me safe from the grip of the enemy. I believe, Lord, and so I speak.
Lord, you know me. Haven’t I brought my sins before you? And haven’t you already forgiven the guilt buried in my heart? I’m not here to defend myself, because you are truth itself. I know how easily I can be deceived, how sin can blind me with its own lies. So no, I won’t argue my case. Because as the Psalm says, “If you, Lord, kept a record of sins, who could stand?” (Ps 130:3).
