Martyrs as head, Church as body: shared joy

Again the memory of the martyrs, again a feast, and a spiritual assembly. Those ones labored, and we rejoice; those ones wrestled, and we exult. The crown is theirs, and the glory is shared—or rather, the glory belongs to the whole Church. And how can this be, someone says? Because the martyrs are our parts and members. If one member suffers, all the members suffer with it; if one member is honored, all the members rejoice with it (1 Corinthians 12:26). The head is crowned, and the rest of the body exults. One Olympic victor emerges, and a whole people rejoices and receives him with great acclaim. If in the Olympic games those who contributed nothing to those labors enjoy such great pleasure, how much more would this happen with the athletes of piety? We are the feet, the martyrs are the head. But the head cannot say to the feet, “I have no need of you” (1 Corinthians 12:21). The members are glorious, but the surpassing glory does not make them strangers to their connection with the remaining parts. For they become glorious especially when they do not break off their connection with us. Even the eye, though brighter than all the rest of the body, preserves its own glory precisely when it is not cut off from the rest of the body. And why do I speak about martyrs? If their Master was not ashamed to become our head, much more are they not ashamed to be our members. For they have love rooted within them, and love is accustomed to join and bind together things that stand apart, and it does not quibble about worth. Just as they suffer with us in our sins, so we rejoice with them in their achievements. Paul commanded us to do this when he said, “Rejoice with those who rejoice, and weep with those who weep” (Romans 12:15). But weeping with those who weep is easy, while rejoicing with those who rejoice is not very easy. For we more readily suffer with those in misfortune than we share joy with those who prosper. In the one case, the very nature of misfortune is enough to bend even a stone toward sympathy; but in the other case, with prosperity, envy and malice do not allow anyone who is not deeply philosophical to become a partner in the pleasure. For just as love gathers and binds together what is divided, so malice divides what is united. Therefore I urge you, let us practice rejoicing with those who prosper, so that we may cleanse our souls of envy and malice. For nothing drives away this harsh and hard-to-cure disease as much as sharing joy with those who live in virtue. Listen, then, to how Paul excels in both of these. “Who is weak,” he says, “and I am not weak? Who is made to stumble, and I am not on fire?” (2 Corinthians 11:29). He did not say, “and I am not grieved,” but “and I am not on fire,” wanting to show us by this term the intensity of the pain. And again, writing to others, he says, “You have begun to reign without us—and I wish you had begun to reign, so that we also might reign with you” (1 Corinthians 4:8). And again: “Now we live, if you stand firm in the Lord” (1 Thessalonians 3:8). See how precious the good reputation of his brothers was to him—he did not even consider himself alive if they were not being saved.