Per Caritatem

Hands-Together-by-June-Pauline-ZentOliver O’Donovan lays out an extremely helpful overview of the structure of City of God 19, which includes an explanation of why Augustinemust wait until book 19 to return to themes discussed in book 2.[1] As he observes, Augustine used the “space” to develop and to make clear his distinction between true, perfect peace attainable only in eschatological fulfillment and earthly, imperfect peace attainable in part in the present age.[2] More specifically, O’Donovan contends that from the start, it was Augustine’s intention “to develop his discussion of the social coherence of the two cities around their respective ideas of peace into thoughts on the status of the earthly commonwealth.”[3] Regarding the imperfect earthly peace, Augustine instructs the “pilgrims” of the “Heavenly City” living in this world not to destroy the particular “customs, laws, and institutions by which earthly peace is achieved or maintained,” but to uphold these so long as they do not hinder the Christian’s ability to worship God.[4] In fact, Augustine acknowledges, and by implication affirms, the Heavenly City’s employment of “earthly peace” and the co-laboring with likeminded others “in the attaining of those things which belong to the mortal nature of man.”[5] Once again, the only caveat given is that these joint efforts and common pursuits do not harm the pilgrim’s pursuit of “true godliness and religion.”[6] Whether we have in view Augustine’s political setting or our own, this striving toward “earthly peace” involves working together with like-minded others (both inside and outside the Christian tradition) to promote human flourishing. In a contemporary setting, such shared activity might include deliberating about current and future legislation on important issues such as healthcare, education, racial profiling, affirmative action, child welfare, incarceration, social assistance programs for the poor, underprivileged, and undereducated, and so forth. Augustine’s own affirmation of the value of those “customs, laws, and institutions by which earthly peace is achieved or maintained” suggests that he also recognizes that non-Christian others possess intellectual and moral virtues and have something worthwhile to contribute to the public good.

O’Donovan continues his analysis and cautions against overemphasizing idealist and realist interpretations of Augustine. The former tend to place too much stress on the Augustinian impulse regarding the impossibility of a perfectly just society in this world. The latter tend to accent the Augustinian impulse regarding the possibility of cooperation between the two cities constituted by different and competing ultimate loves.[7] When either position is pushed to its extreme, O’Donovan argues, Augustine is misrepresented. My own impulse desires a third way, comprised of elements of both views and which upholds, as Eric Gregory puts it, “the dialectical relation between love and sin.”[8] That is, even if Augustine does not advocate for a purely “neutral” public square, I see no reason why a contemporary Augustinian could not appeal to areas of ethical and socio-political overlap between those whose hold different and even conflicting comprehensive views of the world and humanity. For example, both the secular humanist and the Christian may share common views about a civic right to marry, universal human rights, and the need to protect exploited and marginalized groups. Even if their ultimate, rock-bottom reasons for their views are motivated differently, nonetheless, they can and do work together in common pursuits advancing human flourishing and freedom.[9]

Notes


[1] See, Oliver O’Donovan, “The Political Thought of City of God,” in Bonds of Imperfection: Christian Politics Past and Present, (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2004): pp. 48–72, esp. pp. 52-9.

[2] Ibid., p. 54.

[3] Ibid.

[4] Augustine, City of God, pp. 946–47 [De civ. Dei,19.17].

[5] Ibid., p. 947 [De civ. Dei,19.17].

[6] Ibid.

[7] Oliver O’Donovan, “The Political Thought of City of God,” 55–6.

[8] Gregory, Politics and the Order of Love, p. 21. See also, James Wetzel, “Splendid Vices and Secular Virtues: Variations on Milbank’s Augustine,” Journal of Religious Ethics 32 (2004): pp. 271–300. I resonate with Wetzel’s aim, “to transform a dramatic choice—pagan or Christian—into a common hope for better wisdom” (ibid., p. 283).

[9] John Duns Scotus, an heir of the Augustinian tradition, continues and develops this Augustinian motif. That is, Scotus articulates a robust, multidimensional view of freedom, which not only promotes human flourishing but also condemns oppressive practices that hinder one’s ability to develop one’s moral and intellectual capacities. In particular, in Ordinatio IV.36.1 Scotus argues that slavery as described by Aristotle in book I of the Politics is incompatible with natural law (see Wolter, Will and Morality, 325; Scotus, Ord. IV, d. 36, q. 1. [Wolter’s translation is based on his transcription of the authoritative Codex A; the critical edition for this text is not yet available]. Scotus’s position is not without its problems—particularly his statements toward the end of the article in which he affirms the status quo based his interpretation of certain biblical texts—nonetheless, it is a Christian position within the Augustinian line voicing clear moral and intellectual dissatisfaction with its own tradition’s, as well as previously held (Aristotle et al.) dominant discourses on slavery.

 

I have been reading Eric Gregory’s excellent book, Politics & the Order of Love: An Augustinian Ethic of Democratic Citizenship.  Although I do not have time to give a full review of the book, I want to summarize and highlight some of the themes that I have found intriguing and noteworthy. First, besides chapters devoted to Augustine and modern liberalism, Arendt’s Augustine, and Augustine’s relation to the Platonists and the Stoics, Gregory devotes an entire chapter to Augustine and feminist political theory (chapter 3). Augustine, of course, was not a feminist, and his views on women have been criticized on multiple occasions.  Nonetheless, Gregory shows how his variant of Augustinian liberalism and certain emphases in feminist theory are compatible and how bringing the two into conversation offers significant advances to current socio-political theory. In particular, Gregory believes that a feminist “ethic of care” provides needed correctives to deficiencies in liberal political theory, especially those social contract theories which tend reduce politics to mere (self-serving) interests.

Gregory engages several feminist theorists; however, I shall focus on his treatment of Joan C. Tronto. Rather than dismiss liberalism as yet another failed modern project, Tronto seeks to complete and correct its shortcomings. While Tronto advocates for care as a moral ideal for citizens, she does not argue for some naïve, overly sentimentalist notion of care blind to the evils and injustices of our concrete existence. As a feminist theorist, Tronto is acutely aware of the various asymmetrical power relations constituting the body politic and how dominant groups employ “race,” class, and “gender” for oppressive purposes. Her awareness of an ongoing interplay between, as Gregory would put it, love and sin is “relevant  for Augustinian civic liberals who draw upon Christian love and keep realist observations about power and sin in full view” (167). Unlike antiliberal critics, Tronto does not disparage rights-talk and the importance of political equality, nor does she promote a political theory that flattens all diversity and otherness. Rather, her ethic of care “emphasizes the values of attachment, community, and social responsibility,” while condemning the fictive main character of liberal theories, namely, man as autonomous, detached, and (purely) rational.  Like other feminists, Tronto criticizes

this fiction in terms of a hypermasculine understanding of autonomy linked to an abstract account of freedom as sheer power to initiate action. But, for Tronto, this fiction already is premised on a false choice between autonomy and dependence within the liberal imagination. The need for care does not fit into liberal models that see only autonomy or dependence. In reality, she claims “since people are sometimes autonomous, sometimes dependent, sometimes providing care for those who are dependent, humans are best described as interdependent” (Moral Boundaries, 162).[1]

In short, Tronto brings to the fore failures in the liberal imagination, yet her solution is not to give up on liberalism as a viable political theory or condemn it as somehow inherently flawed and destined to produce nihilism. Rather, she unmasks the false dichotomies and choices liberalism creates—either pure self-interest or social responsibility—and argues for a non-naïve political theory that values cooperation, solidarity, and interdependence. In other words, she argues for an ethic of care with the potential to transform liberal thought and praxis; a care that “can help change the way we see the political world” (171). Even so, like many Augustinians, Tronto recognizes that an ethic of care can be abused, misused, and employed for unjust purposes. This should come as no surprise to Augustinian liberals, who, following the lead of the North African saint, hold no utopian views regarding political regimes, democratic or otherwise. That a rhetoric of care can be used for exploitative purposes “should not mean that liberal democracies can proceed as if care is not necessary for a political practice responsive to injustice, persons in need, and the social conditions that frustrate human flourishing” (171).

Tronto’s focus on care and creating new values for democratic citizens is consonant with Gregory’s larger project of promoting “an Augustinian ethic of citizenship for the morally ambivalent conditions of liberal democracy”(13)—an ethic which takes seriously the need to cultivate virtuous citizens whose various loves respect the dignity and difference of others.

I hope to blog more on Gregory’s insightful book in the months to come, as it has given me much food for thought.

Notes

[1] Politics and the Order of Love, 167.

 

To all in the D/FW area interested in the topic, I would like to extend an invitation to participate in my dissertation lecture. My dissertation is entitled, “Constructed Subjectivities and a ‘Thick’ Account of Agency: A Foucauldian Dialogue with Douglass, Fanon, and the Augustinian-Franciscan Tradition.” The lecture shall begin at 6:30pm at the University of Dallas, Gorman Faculty Lounge (#6 on the campus map) on Monday, August 29th. A brief question and answer period and a reception shall follow the lecture. If you are interested, promise that you won’t throw tomatoes or any other objects, and can make it, I would love to see you there! You may read the dissertation abstract here.

 

 

Anyone who has studied with care Augustine’s masterpiece, City of God, particularly the first five books as well as book nineteen, would, I believe, see a very socially engaged, politically astute theologian qua social critic. As I have noted in previous posts bringing Augustine and Foucault into dialogue with one another, both thinkers share a number of structural overlaps and common concerns—concerns for the poor and marginalized and suspicions about hegemonic discourses and narratives.  This is not, of course, to claim that Augustine was without his faults or that he was unaffected by his own cultural context—like all finite, historical human beings, he was socially conditioned and held certain beliefs about, for example, women that moderns and postmoderns would find problematic (at least I do). Nonetheless, the North African saint (faults notwithstanding) has much to say to us today.

For example, Augustine’s socio-political—and, of course, theological—critique of Roman glory narratives, in particular, the ways in which these narratives function as veils to mask what in any other context would be considered unjust, criminal activity are highly instructive.[1] As R.A. Markus explains, Augustine understood the term “institutions” broadly. Institutions, for example, consisted of “various customs, rites, arrangements, arts and disciplines in use among men.”[2] These institutions, of course, may be used for good or evil purposes.  Although critical of discourses and practices which inculcate desires and beliefs antithetical to key aspects of Christian faith and praxis—humility, truth-speaking, relational dependence, an acknowledgement of our finitude, and so forth—Augustine understood the need to develop institutions beneficial to society as a whole and which would promote as much harmony as possible among its various members.[3] Concomitant with this constructive social project, Augustine also engaged in a deconstructive project. That is, he was acutely aware of the need to critically examine the accepted political and religious narratives of the day, narratives whose incandescent surfaces dazzled, concealing the often violent, greedy, self-serving agenda of the political elites. Like Foucault, Augustine employs his own variant of reverse discourse and counter-hegemonic narratives in order both to unmask the ideologies at play in Roman political discourse and to put forth alternative ways of being in the world with others.

The first five books of the City of God, as Robert Dodaro observes, “constitute the core of Augustine’s critique of Roman imperium”;[4] in these opening books, Augustine analyzes “the ideology of Roman literary and ceremonial forms,” whose theoretical foundations “were found primarily in Sallust, Cicero, and Varro.”[5] In light of his own training as a rhetor and his service at the imperial court in Milan prior to his baptism and later ordination to the priesthood and bishopric, Augustine was thoroughly versed in the art of persuasion and the various ways it was used to further political objectives.  As Dodaro explains, Augustine understood that “Roman society was founded upon an extreme patriotism, a love for the patria above all else, which was promoted by means of Roman education, folklore, literature, civil religion, and theatre.”[6]

Like Augustine, Foucault also manifests concern for the marginalized of society, devoting himself to the study of prisons and mental institutions and to the ways in which these structures and their associated discourses, disciplines, and practices produce new, characteristically modern subjectivities. As Schuld explains, rather than uncovering how “rhetoric of imperial glory” masks the reality of violence and self-interest, Foucault analyzes how modern institutions and practices “garner and preserve power most effectively by relying upon a scientific sounding rhetoric of progress.”[7] With the transition from a sovereign-based political model wherein power is centralized and associated with the person of the king to a modern context wherein power is dispersed and diffused in a netlike fashion, a more “neutral,” “objective” discourse comes into play.  That is, in contrast with, for example, Roman glory narratives and their overt conspicuous appeals to the political realm, modern scientific narratives present themselves as apolitical and unbiased.[8] By “posing as a coldly antiseptic science,” modern narratives of progress hide their normative and moral judgments;[9] the more successfully the new rhetoric hides its “political leverage,” the more politically efficacious its possibilities and widespread its socially produced realities.[10]

Notes


[1] This post is indebted Robert Dodaro and Joyce Schuld’s work.  See, for example, Dodaro, “Eloquent Lies, Just Wars and the Politics of Persuasion,” and Schuld, “Augustine, Foucault, and the Politics of Imperfection.”

[2] Markus, Saeculum, ix.

[3] Ibid., ix.

[4] Dodaro, “Eloquent Lies,” 80.

[5] Ibid. On Augustine’s classical influences, see Cameron, “Cicero and St. Augustine”; Courcelle, Les Confessions de Saint Augustin dans la tradition littéraire; Bennett, “The Conversion of Vergil”; Markus, Saeculum; Bonner, “Vera Lux Illa Est Quae Illuminat: The Christian Humanism of Augustine,” in Renaissance and Renewal in Church History; Hadot, Philosophy as a Way of Life; MacCormack, “Sin, Citizenship, and the Salvation of Souls.”

[6] Dodaro, “Pirates or Superpowers,” 14.

[7] Schuld, “Augustine, Foucault, and the Politics of Imperfection,” 17.

[8] This is not to deny the reality of modern glory narratives such as theUnited States’ inflated talk of spreading democracy worldwide. Foucault would, presumably, recognize modern glory narratives as one of many discursive tactics employed to further the rhetoric of progress.

[9] Ibid.

[10] Ibid.

 

 

In epistle 10*, addressed to Alipius, the bishop of Thagaste, Augustine brings to Alipius’s attention his concerns regarding the activities of slave dealers in his region. As Augustine explains, these “businessmen” are “draining Africa of much of its human population and transferring their ‘merchandise’ to the provinces across the sea.”[1] These traders and their hired thugs preyed upon the poorest of Roman citizens, kidnapping them and then selling them as slaves.[2] As he emphasizes throughout the letter, the situation at Hippo Regius had become increasingly violent. With the most vulnerable terrorized, and receiving little or no protection from Roman officials, they turned to the church for help.

In the midst of this violence, Augustine and his church intervened. Not only did Augustine investigate Roman law in order to find potential loopholes to help put an end to this criminal activity,[3] but he and his church actually physically rescued captives from slave ships and hid them away—actions which put their own lives at risk. Augustine recounts to Bishop Alipius one such rescue mission, in which over one hundred individuals captured by Galatian merchants were rescued by parishioners from Augustine’s church.[4]

There was not lacking a faithful Christian who, knowing our custom in missions of mercy of this kind, made this known to the church. Immediately, partially from the ship in which they had already been loaded, partially from the spot where they had been hidden prior to boarding, about 120 people were freed by our people […] Your Holy Prudence can imagine how much similar trafficking in unfortunate souls goes on in other coastal areas, if at Hippo Regius, where in God’s mercy, the great vigilance of the church is on the watch so that poor people can be freed from captivity of this sort and these people who carry on such a trade, though far from suffering from the severity of this law, are nevertheless punished, at least by the loss of the money they originally spent, so great is the greed of these people.[5]

Even though prior to the discovery of Divjak epistle 10* scholars such as Claude Lepelley and Peter Brown have argued, drawing heavily on Augustine’s homilies and Scripture commentaries, that Augustine evinced extraordinary concern for the downtrodden and destitute,[6] the Divjak letters provide additional strength to such claims and reveal the degree to which Augustine and his congregation were actively involved in socio-political projects on behalf of the poor, oppressed, and exploited. In addition, Divjak letter 10* reveals Augustine’s concern for political or citizen freedom—even though incomplete and in need of revision. This suggests that Augustine was not unaware of the connection between political freedom and metaphysical freedom—a connection commonplace in Franciscan tradition.[7] (In future posts, I hope to revisit, in particular, John Duns Scotus’s views on freedom and slavery).

Notes 


[1] Augustine, “Divjak Letter 10*,” in St. Augustine Letters, Vol. VI, edited by Eno, 75–6.

[2] For additional study of the social setting of Augustine’s day, see Lepelley, “Facing Wealth and Poverty.” Lepelley discussion how the status of the coloni had become de facto (though not de jure) “a kind of serfdom” (ibid., 6). See also, Brown, “Augustine and a Crisis of Wealth.” Brown argues against two common misconceptions of modern historians regarding the socio-political and economic constitution of the Catholic church of Augustine’s day.  First, Brown contends that the Catholic church at that time “was not a rich church, nor was it necessarily a church exclusively of the rich. It was not until the early sixth century that any church in the Latin West came to hold properties which equaled in their extent and income the estates of the great secular landowners. Up to then, the Catholic church had remained overshadowed by the truly wealthy—and the church of Africa seems to have been no exception to this rule. Second, […] the Catholic church in Africa was not a state church, securely established by imperial fiat at the top of African society. […] The newly-discovered Divjak letters, in particular, tell a dismal story. Bishops frequently found themselves unable to protect those who had fled to sanctuary in their churches. There was a constant shortage of clergymen. Heavy taxation had impoverished the urban classes from whom the clergy was most often recruited, and the imperial government systematically restricted the tax benefits of those who served the church. Rather than being a church of the upper classes, the social composition of the Catholic church was little different from that of its Donatist rival” ibid., 6–7).

[3] In paragraphs three and four, Augustine informs Bishop Alipius that he had come across a law decreed previously by emperor Honorius to suppress these activities and to punish the perpetrators (see, Augustine, “Divjak Letter 10*,” 77–8). Chadwick conjectures that Augustine perhaps learned of this decree through his friend Eustochius. The latter is the addressee of Divjak letter 24*, whose content focuses primarily upon complex legal and practical questions Augustine had to address with respect to children sold into slavery (“New Letters of St. Augustine,” 433).

[4] Commenting on this remarkable event, Lepelley notes that the gangs employed by the Galatian slave traders often had as their target peasants—in this case, impoverished Numidian peasants. Appealing strategically to Roman law and employing Roman honor and freedom rhetoric (see paragraphs 5 and 6 of “Divjak Letter 10*,” in St. Augustine Letters, Vol. VI, edited by Eno, 78–9), Augustine intercedes on their behalf. As Lepelley observes, “[t]hese peasants, Augustine said, were still Roman citizens and had the right to be protected by the imperial authorities. Unfortunately for them, in 428, when this letter was written, the Western Roman Empire was collapsing” (“Facing Wealth and Poverty,” 7).

[5] Augustine, “Divjak Letter 10*,”in St. Augustine Letters, Vol. VI, edited by Eno, 79–80.

[6] See, for example, Lepelley, “Facing Wealth and Poverty,” esp. 4–10; Brown, Poverty and Leadership in the Later Roman Empire, esp. 63–4.

[7] This is not to suggest that Augustine’s notion of metaphysical freedom, or political freedom for that matter, is precisely the same as, for example, John Duns Scotus’s notion.

 

 

Does St. Augustine’s theology make him a socio-political passivist?  Many assume it does. However, the fairly recent discovery of almost thirty previously unknown letters of St. Augustine by Johannes Divjak in the early nineteen eighties shows that picture to be false. Moreover, what emerges is a saint, no doubt influenced by his socio-cultural milieu—but then again, if we accept social conditioning, who isn’t influenced in such a way?—nonetheless, Augustine’s relationship to slavery and citizens’ rights manifests itself as a complex, multifaceted, conflicting and even at times contradicting position, yet in no way is it a position of passive resignation to the social evils of this world.[1]

Although scholars disagree over the precise dates of some of the letters, most believe that they were written during the last fifteen years of Augustine’s life (415-430 A.D.).[2] In particular, epistle 10*, written as early as 422 or 423 or, as Claude Lepelley estimates, as late as 428 A.D., sheds light on Augustine and his parishioners’ active involvement in thwarting the lucrative “business” of slave dealers (mangones) in Hippo.[3]

Before discussing passages from epistle 10*, I want to be clear as to the specifics of my claims. Although the contents of the letter reveal that Augustine condemned the kidnapping, violent treatment, and enslavement of free persons in North Africa—most of whom were peasants, women, and children—he does not explicitly speak out against the institution of slavery per se. Nor do Augustine’s rescue operations, as recounted in this letter, seem to include those who are born slaves or those non-Roman citizens enslaved as a result of Roman war victories or other violent means.[4] In other words, Augustine, consonant with the social mores of late antiquity, accepted the institution and its legal distinctions of slave and free citizen.[5] Slaves were, as Peter Brown explains, “seen as objects of compassion by Christians”; however, “[t]he destiny of slaves was held to rest in the hands of their masters and mistresses. It was for the owners of the slaves, and for no one else, to ensure that slaves were fed, clothed, and protected.”[6]

Brown further adds that Christian morality taught that masters ought not treat their slaves with cruelty, nor should they exploit them sexually (both of which were common practices).[7] Likewise, Christian masters were encouraged, if not expected, to manumit their slaves.[8] In sum, qua institution, Augustine and the Christians of his day by and large did not directly challenge slavery, and in that respect were very much products of their social environment. In fact, it was not until the latter half of the eighteenth century that slavery as an institution “came to be regarded as a moral evil of a peculiar kind.”[9] For Augustine, slavery is an unnatural, prelapsarian institution, which God permits as a form of either “reformatory” or “retributive” punishment for sin.[10] Sometimes cultural blindness has a particularly enduring staying power.

Conceding all of the above, nonetheless, what we find in Divjak letter 10* is an Augustine who actively works to subvert the trafficking and enslavement of some of the most vulnerable, albeit free Roman citizens in Hippo. That is, even though our modern and postmodern sensibilities find highly problematic Augustine’s failure to condemn the institution of slavery, nonetheless, his theological commitments—imperfectly inflected and at times refracted through distorted cultural biases rather than theological truth—compelled him to intercede in word and deed on behalf of the poor and powerless.[11] As we shall see, he and his parishioners were willing to risk their lives in order to subvert the violent, self-serving practices of slave-traders in North Africa.[12]

Notes


[1] Divjak had been engaged in a project to catalogue all Augustinian texts in France—a significant undertaking, given Augustine’s output! While working in a library in Marseille, he discovered a fifteenth century manuscript of both known and previously unknown letters. As a result, in one unexpected and fruitful finding, almost thirty new letters were added to the Augustinian corpus. The Divjak letters were originally published in 1981 in volume 88 of the Corpus Scriptorum Ecclesiasticorum Latinorum (CSEL). (Eno, “Introduction,” in St. Augustine Letters, Vol. VI, 4). For a detailed discussion of the Divjak letters, see Chadwick, “New Letters of St. Augustine.”

[2] Eno, “Introduction,” in St. Augustine Letters, Vol. VI, 5.

[3] Ibid., 75. See also, Lepelley, “Facing Wealth and Poverty,” esp. 28. Lepelley also discusses the social landscape of Hippo and its rather large population of beggars; see, ibid., esp., 4–5.

[4] Garnsey enumerates three defining features of slavery: “the slave was kinless, stripped of his or her old social identity in the process of capture, sale and deracination, and denied the capacity to forge new bonds of kinship through marriage alliance” (Ideas of Slavery from Aristotle to Augustine, 1). See also, Patterson, Slavery and Social Death. Patterson gives the following as a preliminary definition of slavery with respect to personal relations and then devotes his first chapter to an elaboration of that definition: “slavery is the permanent, violent domination of natally alienated and generally dishonored persons” (ibid., 13, italics in original).

[5] As Weidemann explains, several factors, including new restrictions on “the exploitation of peasant labor,” as well as terminating the practice of debt enslavement, contributed to the formation of more rigid social divide.  “The consequent clear and sharp distinction between the rights of citizens, no matter how lowly, and the rightlessness of chattel-slaves was codified and reinforced by the developments of Roman law” (Slavery, 6). Thus, previously understood intermediate statues were increasingly obliterated, making it all the more urgent to stay on the free side of the divide. As Garnsey explains, although both Athens and Rome were chattel slave societies, one must avoid the temptation to flatten out their differences. On these differences, see Garnsey, Ideas of Slavery from Aristotle to Augustine, esp. 2–9.

[6] Brown, Poverty and Leadership in the Later Roman Empire, 61.

[7] For a detailed and informative study of the violence enacted upon slaves in the ancient period, see Glancy, Slavery in Early Christianity. Glancy’s analyses emphasize the “corporeality of ancient slavery,” showing the various ways in which “the bodies of slaves were not themselves neatly bounded nor defined entities. The bodies of slaves were vulnerable to abuse and penetration” (ibid., 3, 12). On the commonly held view that male slaveowners had a “right” to engage in sexual relations wit their female slaves, see Corcoran, Saint Augustine on Slavery, esp. 29–30.

[8] Ibid., 61, 62. Brown further adds that some of the freed slaves were, after careful scrutiny and sufficient time, “received into monasteries or as members of the clergy” (ibid., 62). On the actual frequency of manumission in Rome generally speaking, see Wiedemann, “The Regularity of Roman Manumission.” Wiedemann concludes that though the ideal was that a faithful, loyal slave ought to be freed after a relatively short term of service—perhaps six years with ten years considered rather long—this was not the case in actual practice; rather, “the real world was ruled by self-interest” (ibid., 175). Given Wiedemann’s conclusion, it would be informative to compare, if such is possible, the manumission rates among Christians and non-Christians.

[9] Wiedemann, Slavery, 1.

[10] For this reason, as well as what he believes to be the authoritative teaching of St. Paul (for example, 1 Cor. 7:21–24), one can find many instances in Augustine’s writings where he exhorts slaves unable to obtain their freedom to remain in their condition and to serve their masters “loyally and with a good will” (City of God, 19.15; 944).  One should, however, keep in mind that the New Testament itself presents contrasting and conflicting views on slavery. For example, several scholars interpret St. Paul as exhorting Philemon to manumit Onesimus, Philemon’s slave (and perhaps a fugitive slave), who had converted to Christianity. I describe the latter as a “contrasting case of sorts,” because, depending upon how one interprets these passages, one could argue that the New Testament itself is ambiguous and that those early Christian communities were still very much working out how to deal with the issue of slavery in light of the Christ-event and its individual and socio-political ramifications.

[11] See also, Lepelley, “Facing Wealth and Poverty.” Drawing upon the contents of Divjak letter 20*, Lepelley highlights Augustine’s institution in Hippo of a “matricula pauperum, i.e., a list of poor persons supported by the church,” most of whom were “widows and orphans” (ibid., 5).

[12] Against the charge by modern historians that Augustine cared little for the poor, enslaved, and powerless of society and that he was a promoter of colonialism and imperialism, Lepelley argues convincingly based on Augustine’s sermons, letters, and other primary sources that such theories are prime examples of anachronistic readings that have failed to wrestle with Augustine’s texts and the framework of his historical context.  See Lepelley, “Facing Wealth and Poverty,” esp. 5–10. See also, Brown, Poverty and Leadership in the Later Roman Empire.