Two faces of restlessness in Augustine

August 28, 2023

In the second book of "Confessions," Augustine paints a vivid picture of the sinner: full of zest and rebellion. Through his tale of the pear tree, Augustine suggests that the essence of sin lies in its craving for defiance — a bold pronouncement of one's self-governance even when confronted by moral boundaries. Such a sinner revels in the boundlessness of his own will, a kind of restlessness.

Yet, in Book VIII, Augustine’s perspective shifts. Sin morphs into a paralysis of will. Despite recognizing virtue, Augustine grapples with an inability to embrace it. His transgressions appear revolting to him, a burdensome chain he yearns to break. Yet, he's caught in a limbo, unable to relish in either his indiscretions or the remedy. He sees a brighter path but remains tethered, incapable of stepping onto it. The will of the sinner, at first unlimited in its frantic movements, eventually completely exhausts itself in its misery. Restlessness turns into lifelessness.

And here lies Augustine’s most profound realization: the experience of grace as a force, revitalizing the will, transforming distastes into passions — what he saw as a better life but couldn’t choose now becomes something he victoriously chooses because grace empowerment his will to love what he disliked only moments earlier. Grace turns lifelessness into strength:

I sought a way to gain the strength which I needed to enjoy you. But I did not find it until I embraced the mediator between God and men, the man Christ Jesus, who is above all, God blessed for ever. He was calling me and saying: I am the way of truth, I am the life. He was offering the food which I lacked the strength to take, the food he had mingled with our flesh. For the Word became flesh, that your wisdom, by which you created all things, might provide milk for us children.

Grace, in turn, gives its own kind of restlessness. By giving new loves to the will, the heart of the saint moves to God like a weight. The saint, the exact inverse of the sinner who plunges downwards into creatures, rises upward with a new restless, one that is a gift of God, burning for the peace of God alone:

Late have I loved you, O Beauty ever ancient, ever new, late have I loved you! You were within me, but I was outside, and it was there that I searched for you. In my unloveliness I plunged into the lovely things which you created. You were with me, but I was not with you. Created things kept me from you; yet if they had not been in you they would not have been at all. You called, you shouted, and you broke through my deafness. You flashed, you shone, and you dispelled my blindness. You breathed your fragrance on me; I drew in breath and now I pant for you. I have tasted you, now I hunger and thirst for more. You touched me, and I burned for your peace.