Evil deeds will not win you a famous name
Wise Man: Bah! With what sweetness of honey, mixed however with poison, do you seek to entice me, and strive to make me long for the glory of your riches, so that I too might win a famous name and, like Alexander, fulfill in a short time all the desires of the flesh. But what benefit would I gain, when that man who trod across so vast an expanse of earth and subdued so many kingdoms was left, after death, with no more than seven feet of ground? Nor did he even inherit that place — rather the place inherited him, for the earth rose upon his chest, filled his eyes, stopped his mouth, giving him this lesson: that he who could not be satisfied with glory should be satisfied with clay. And so that body, which men, for its beauty, judged to be the son of God, was eaten by worms and by the creatures of the earth, and, being dust, returned again to dust. Shall I then be worthier than he, or climb to some higher step? Tell me now, deceiver — is this your kingdom? Is this what your power looks like? Is this what your glory amounts to? Oh, how worthy of laughter you are — and worthier still of contempt is he who believes you and desires you, and clinging to you, gasps for breath, yet will not let go!
Let your heart not desire the beauty of the world
World: What are you saying — that I am not beautiful?
The seven feet of earth left to Alexander are no rhetorical flourish but an exact measurement: that is all the room a dead body needs, however great it was in life. The dust that rose upon his chest is not merely an image — it is the last teacher of a man who, while he lived, had no teacher above him. St. John Chrysostom says the same thing looking at the tombs of emperors: purple robes rot alongside the beggar’s rags, and the worm makes no distinction between the crowned and the lowest slave. Vainglory (κενοδοξία) is called by the Fathers empty precisely because it is hollow within: it promises fullness and delivers dust.
But the World does not give up so easily — it merely changes weapons. If power and fame did not hold, it tries beauty. This is the same movement St. Isaac the Syrian describes in any passion driven out one door: it enters by another. The beauty the world offers is not a lie in itself — God made the world beautiful and called it “very good” — the lie lies in the world asking to be loved in God’s place, rather than as an icon of Him. St. Maximus the Confessor teaches that any created thing, regarded without reference to its Maker, becomes an idol, however beautiful it may be. The beauty of Alexander’s body, “judged to be the son of God” for its appearance, did not stop the worms. Beauty that does not lead toward God protects against nothing — it only delays, for a little while, the very question the Wise Man has just asked: what benefit does it bring?
A heart that does not desire the beauty of the world is not a heart blind to beauty, but one that has learned to see past the surface — toward the One from whom every beautiful thing comes, and without whom beauty is only another name given to dust.
