Echoes of Eden: What Falling Does
A man hungry for knowledge grasped at the same straws as Adam—except this man exalted only a care for rebellion rather than omniscience, a sense of the heavens and earths’ corporeal, “wicked” desires and “pleasure[s],” disregarding our Lord’s promise. In his autobiographical work Confessions, St. Augustine contents himself with a theft from a vineyard laden with pears, yet later ruminates over his juvenile blunder in an ink splurge, manifesting itself as a lesson for us Christians centuries later.Augustine and a gang of naughty adolescents sought after these pears with a fervent dedication and no other “pleasure” in mind than “doing what was not allowed” (Book II, iv, 9). Complexifying the theft a step further, Augustine admits he “stole something which [he] had in plenty and of much better quality” (Book II, iv 9)—this parallels Adam and Eve’s transgression perfectly, they as well were in paradise itself!In that fashion, the pears transcend above their terrestrial, stomachable fulfilling, seeing as there was no necessity behind the theft, into a representation of the “forbidden fruit”—a fruit in the midst of the garden of Eden (which is just as abundant and “plent[iful]” as Augustine’s vineyard) that as commanded by our God to Adam and Eve “shall not be eat[en] … neither shall [it] be touch[ed], lest you die” (Genesis 3:3). Ergo, in observing the natural consequence of “eat[ing]” and “touch[ing]” the fruit as dying, “the wages for sin [becomes] death” (Romans 6:23).Analogously, in Augustine’s transgression of the pear tree—a piece of private property outside his jurisdiction—the Saint himself maintains he should “receive certain punishment by your law” (Exod. 20:15), which refers to the Lord’s covenant as established to the Israelites (Book II, iv, 9). St. Augustine is quite flagrant in drawing this parallel. In fact, the Saint directly comes out to proclaim: “I loved the self destruction, I loved my fall, not the object for which I had fallen but my fall itself” (Book 2, iv, 9). In employing the theological terminology of “fall,” and furthermore presenting this “fall” as his own by awakening the first person pronouns of “my,” Augustine inserts himself into the Adam and Eve chronicle, interiorizing their original demise as his own. Nonetheless, why does he? What are we meant to take away from this second “fall” story?Perhaps this “fall” serves to materialize the dogma that sin is natural and inherent to human’s genetic makeup, announcing the theological viewpoint that men are born evil and corrupt. In particular, St. Augustine declares he “had no motive for his wickedness except wickedness itself” (Book II, iv, 9), wherein the pursuit of sin becomes an end in itself, and wherein the “except[ion] [of] wickedness” divorces his act from any rational grounds. In that fashion, sin is irrational—we commit sin out of our pride and ego, distancing ourselves in the process from the Lord’s perfect design.St. Augustine indulges in the sweetness of his sin until its last drop, noting how “It was foul, and [he] loved it” (Book II, iv, 9), where its “foul[ness]” glorifies the immanent attractiveness and appeal of the “doing of what was not allowed,” to such an extent that sin is alluring and entrancing to man. Eminently, Augustine distills that “In their perverted way all humanity imitates you. Yet they put themselves at a distance from you and exalt themselves against you” (Book II, vi, 14). By framing human’s imitation of “wickedness” as “perverted,” St. Augustine highlights our deviation from the intended order consecrated by our Heavenly Father. Furthermore, in signaling that “all humanity imitates you,” Augustine reminds us we are made in God’s image (Genesis 1:27). Taking it one step further, the bishop builds up a figurative barrier or “distance” between humanity and the Father, a “distance” that “exalt[s]” and strategizes a coup d’état against the highest authority Himself, our Creator.In this manner, St. Augustine not only collectivizes sinful nature but his act of theft itself—he adapts a group theft as a cover for his own misery. The theft “inflame[s] the itch of [his] cupidity through the excitement generated by sharing the guilt with others” (Book II, vii, 16), attempting not only to diffuse his fault for the theft in that “sharing” of “guilt” but to showcase the supply of joy and “excitement” that quality time seems to hold over him. An organized retail crime thus burdens St. Augustine’s heart. The Saint hones down that “As soon as the words are spoken ‘Let us go and do it’, one is ashamed not to be shameless” (Book II, ix, 17). To this degree, Augustine is overpowered by peer pressure which transcended all rationale, and wallows in the act’s aftermath. “One,” standing as impersonal and therefore generalizing (this is Augustine’s attempt at tying humans under a single knot), is “ashamed” to not be “shameless,” yet ultimately that “shar[e]” in “shame” is comforting. The collectivization of his “theft” resonates with us as a communal struggle, where there is a joint calling to return from the “astray” path of “shame” we chose (Book II, x, 18). There is hope, nonetheless! St. Augustine isn’t trying to put us sinners down, rather he is inviting us to confront our own moral failings and seek reconciliation with our Lord Jesus Christ—who has his arms wide open for us all (1 Corinthians 16:23).1 Augustine, and Henry Chadwick. Saint Augustine Confessions. Oxford University Press, 1991.
Daniela Doyle is a freshman at Columbia College, hoping to double major in Economics and History. She loves catching up with friends after a long and arduous week of work on Law Bridge.