(Editors' Note: The author composed a series on three great bishops of the early church for midweek Advent services last year. As both biographical and spiritual stories, they are a good way to incorporate the history of the church into the present life of the church. The story of Athanasius has already appeared, and that of Augustine will follow.)

I am Ambrose, bishop of Milan, Italy. It was in this northern Italian city that I once served as a Roman consular. A consular is something like a governor, much like Pontius Pilate in Judea centuries ago. Sixteen out of the over one hundred provinces in the Roman Empire at my time were governed by a consular. My father held a similar position in the conquered territories of Gaul, and at an early age I was introduced to leading Roman officials who came to our home to visit. It was not surprising that my father, who had the same name as I, Ambrosius, made sure that I was schooled in the subjects that led to becoming a lawyer. I loved the reading of the Greek classics, Homer and the Greek dramatists, and I loved the training I received in the art of rhetoric: the ability to deliver words to educate, to delight, and to persuade. This was of foremost importance for lawyers and statesmen.

Then, when I was thirty-four years old, a series of events happened that changed my life. The Arian bishop Auxentius died. The Arians didn’t go away after the Council of Nicea adopted the Nicene Creed as an expression of the true teachings about our Lord in the year 325. But on Auxentius’s death, the orthodox Christians said they would reclaim Milan cathedral. Both groups packed into the cathedral. There was much shouting, and it appeared that violence would break out. Being the consular of Milan, I was called in to settle the conflict. I wasn’t even baptized. I was merely a catechumen in the church, meaning that I was just learning the faith. This was largely due to my older sister Marcelina: twenty years earlier, in Rome, she had “received the veil,” that is, she took the vow of celibacy, dedicating herself to Jesus, who himself had not married and was born of a virgin. Her response to the call to discipleship was an appropriate response in the Roman culture at the time. There was so much promiscuity, so much unfaithfulness in marriage, and so many divorces, that celibacy seemed the appropriate Christian response.

Under her influence I myself didn’t marry. Later I wrote three essays on virginity. I had my sister in mind when I wrote those essays, but I also felt that it was an appropriate response to our Lord’s call to discipleship. Our Christmases celebrated the virginity of Mary, the mother of our Savior, and the living Word made flesh, God performing his salvific miracle among us.

But back to the people inside the Milan cathedral calling on me in to settle the conflict between the orthodox Christians and the Arians. Perhaps the crowd had heard of my father’s ability to settle disputes, or perhaps they had heard of my skills of oratory, but there I was, only thirty-four years old, standing before a crowd of angry church people, doing my best to settle them down. I sat there in front of them calmly and said very little because I had learned from the great Roman orator Cicero that the first thing one needs to know is how to say the right word at the right time. It is what is the Psalmist recommends in Psalm 39. I would tell the same thing to the priests under my charge later: watching his tongue was the first lesson for a priest of the church. On that occasion in 374, a year after the great Athanasius had died, I guarded my tongue and sat there and took in all their yelling and shouting against each other. With a Stoic calmness I sat there, just like what I imagined the great Cicero would do in the Roman Senate. To my amazement, the crowd became quiet, and I hadn’t said a word. Silence is a form of communication. Did you know that? Eventually, a deep calm settled over the crowd.

Then, out of the silence, a small boy was heard shouting: “Ambrose, Ambrose for bishop.” The once angry crowd joined in and shouted in unison, “Ambrose for bishop.” They continued and continued this chant until I couldn’t take it any longer. “Why me? I haven’t even been baptized.” Although I’d had some instruction, I was not baptized. In fact, I did all within my powers in the days and weeks that followed to demonstrate that I wouldn’t make a good bishop. I even ran away and invited prostitutes into my home, but the people still wanted me as their bishop! The word reached the Roman Emperor Valentinian, who himself was a Christian of sorts and decided that the popular approval of the people was an expression of the will of God. He insisted that I be baptized, and then finally I said I would be the next bishop of Milan. Being a loyal Roman, I consented to become a bishop but only after I had the opportunity to go through the appropriate preparatory steps, because there were no seminaries at the time. The church instead chose the best educated in the secular world to be their leaders.

First I served as a janitor in the cathedral, then I visited the sick and the dying, then I served as a reader in the worship services, then I preached, and finally I was ordained as a priest so I could offer the holy mysteries of the sacrament of the altar. Only then would I allow myself to be a candidate for bishop.

My life was never the same again. I had loved the poems of Homer and the plays of Aeschylus. This classical education led me to be a totally committed Roman for, although the Romans conquered the Greeks, the Greeks conquered the Romans culturally; and I was conquered by the Greek and Roman classics. However, once I became a bishop, the classics didn’t matter any more, except the writings of one influential Roman—Cicero, who lived fifty years before our Lord was born.

As soon as I became a bishop, my older brother Satyrus gave up an important position and dedicated his life to take care of all of my daily duties so that I could dedicate myself fully to my duties as a bishop. What a remarkable brother he was. I am ever grateful for all the things he did for me. It was at this time that I also gave up all my worldly possessions. Is it not true that this is what the Lord had done? Being born in a manger was only the beginning his homelessness.

After I became a bishop, I pursued the study of Greek. I read the Septuagint, that is the Old Testament, in Greek. I read the Greek fathers like Athanasius, who died when I was thirty-three years old, a year before I was made bishop, and the church father St. Basil, whose thoughts I made my own. But I never forgot about the great contributions the great Roman senator Cicero made to the Roman culture. His finely crafted rhetorical words shaped the Senate more than any of the great Roman generals who conquered lands for Rome. I remember especially his long letter to his son Marcus. It laid out for a future senator how a Roman statesman should live and act. His son Marcus was going to school in Athens at the time, taking the classes in rhetoric, just like I did. He was taught how to deliver a speech or a panegyric, which was a eulogy delivered for a deceased Roman statesmen or military officer, in order to give immortality to the one who died or to deliver a speech that would educate, delight, or persuade the audience to believe and think a certain way. But Marcus was not a good student. In fact, in far off Athens, he lived a destitute life. I used that letter as a structure for my letter or essay on the duties of the priests, the pastors, under me.

For instance, I wrote that the first thing a priest or a pastor should do is watch his tongue. Words, misplaced words, can get a pastor in trouble. Watch your words. Appropriate words at the right time means you have your emotions under control. No sudden outbursts. I drew upon the biblical example of King David and how he acted at the time when his son Absalom led a revolt against him. One of Absalom’s supporters taunted David as he fled from his son, but David didn’t respond. He remained calm. A calm demeanor is an appropriate behavior in most pastoral situations, in most crises.

I also emphasized in my essay entitled “The Duties of the Priests” that a priest, a pastor, should have friends. What is a friend? A friend is one who in private is bold enough to criticize, yet remains a friend. A friend is also one to whom you can share secrets—secrets of your life that you would not tell to any one else. Do you have such a friend? It is good to have friend like that. We have a friend like that; he is Jesus, our Lord. He was born among us to be our friend. He knows our secrets even before we tell him, and his guidance often criticizes our behavior, our words. He disciplines us because he loves us.

It was not long and the Arians were back trying to reclaim the cathedral of Milan for themselves. They surrounded the large cathedral and shouted angry words at us who were trapped inside. I did not urge violence but instead in those tense hours I composed songs, much like Arius had done in behalf of his cause. The people inside were given copies of the words, and I began to lead them in singing. They were songs to our Lord and champion Jesus, who delivered us from sin and death. If we were in the right, he would come and save us and he could do it without any help, just like he did when he healed the sick, stilled the storm, and rose from the dead. He did not need any help when he broke through the bonds of death either, because from an infant he was fully God. I firmly believed that.

In the cathedral we sang those hymns over and over again. “Come very Sun of truth and love; Pour down Thy radiance from above, And shed the Holy Spirit’s ray, On all we think or do or say, Alleluia!” And do you know what happened? The Arians went away. It was then I began writing hymns. Prayers in the forms of songs to our Lord are a powerful force. Don’t disbelieve it. When Jesus came in the flesh and when he died on the cross for us, he made it possible for us to go directly to the almighty Father in heaven for our aid.

It wasn’t long before Theodosius was made emperor. Although Constantine fifty years before had claimed to be a Christian, it was Theodosius who embraced it wholeheartedly. But you know none of us Christians are perfect. Theodosius wasn’t either. He demonstrated how human he was once in a very violent way. It happened in Thessalonica, a city way across the Adriatic Sea in Macedonia, the land of Alexander the Great. He had made a daring political move when he appointed a German, a barbarian German, to be the prefect of the city of Thessalonica. The Thessalonians did not accept this. In fact, they started riots in their streets. People were unruly and Theodosius did a monstrous thing; he ordered his legions to announce that there would be horse races in their stadium. Seven thousand Thessalonians came to the stadium thinking they would be entertained with Roman horse races. Once they were inside, the Roman soldiers locked the gates and went in and slaughtered all seven thousand of them. Seven thousand murders! It reminded me of what Herod the Great had done when he slaughtered the innocent babies of Bethlehem.

Some time later Theodosius came to Milan. He would come because Milan was an imperial city, a city where his Roman legions rested before they ascended up and over the Alps. When Emperor Theodosius came, I could not give him what he wanted—the sacrament of the altar. With that much blood on his hands, do you think any one should receive the body and blood of our Lord? No, no, no! I refused Emperor Theodosius. I told him that unless he repented of his sin of murder, I would not allow him to participate in the holy mysteries.

When I said that, I didn’t know what the emperor would do. Would he have his soldiers come and arrest me? Would they come to murder me, too? Or would he obey what I commanded? What do you think? He docilely and obediently followed my command. He did not participate in the holy mysteries. Such power did the office of the bishop have in my time. But the baby Jesus had more. In his hands he held the stars of the universe. In his smile was the face of God. In his willingness to come among us he willed to save the world.

I wrote of this in one of my hymns: “Savior of the nations come, Virgin’s Son make here Your home! Marvel now, O heaven and earth, That the Lord chose such a birth. Here a maid was found with child, Yet remained a virgin mild. In her womb this truth was shown: God was upon his throne. For You are the Father’s Son, Who in flesh the victory won. By your mighty power make whole, All our ills of flesh and soul.”

I am Ambrose, Bishop of Milan, Italy.

Gordon Beck is Pastor at Salem Lutheran Church in Florissant, Missouri.