The Bondage of the Will

This article is based on the translation made in 1823 by Edward Thomas Vaughan. The language has been modernized with the assistance of CoPilot AI, with further alterations and final approval by Thirdmill’s editorial staff.

Let me lay bare your theology, Erasmus, using a few simple comparisons.

Imagine someone trying to write a great poem or deliver a powerful speech, yet never stopping to ask: “What am I actually capable of? Do I have the talent, the knowledge, the skill this task demands?” Instead, he ignores Horace’s wise advice — “Know what your shoulders can bear”—and charges ahead blindly, thinking effort alone will suffice. He dismisses the need for preparation as unnecessary or overly fussy.

Or picture a farmer who wants a bountiful harvest but doesn’t bother to study his soil—something Virgil painstakingly teaches in his Georgics. Instead, he rushes into planting, scattering seeds on sand and mud alike, caring only that the job gets done.

Or consider a general who dreams of victory but never asks whether he has the resources, trained soldiers, or strategic ability to succeed. He ignores the historian’s counsel: “Deliberate before you act; once you’ve deliberated, act swiftly.” Instead, he barrels forward, eyes closed, ears shut, shouting “War! War!” without a plan.

Now, Erasmus, what would you say about such poets, farmers, generals, and statesmen?

Let’s add one more example—from the Gospel. Jesus warns that anyone who builds a tower without first calculating the cost is a fool. What’s His verdict on that kind of recklessness?

Yet this is exactly what you advocate. You tell us to act, but forbid us from first examining our strength—what we can and cannot do—as if such reflection were unnecessary, irreverent, or even sinful. You present yourself as cautious and wise, but in the end, you promote the most dangerous kind of recklessness.

The Sophists may be guilty of foolish speculation, but their error is lighter than yours. You go further: you teach and command people to be reckless. Worse still, you glorify this madness, calling it Christian piety, sobriety, and sound judgment. And if we refuse to follow you, you accuse us of being irreligious, vain, and overly curious.

In trying to avoid one error, you’ve plunged headlong into another—escaping Scylla only to crash into Charybdis.

It’s your confidence in your own eloquence that leads you here. You believe your words can so dazzle people that they won’t notice the dangerous ideas you’re nurturing or the real goal behind your slippery arguments. But God is not fooled—and it’s perilous to challenge Him so carelessly.

If you had promoted this recklessness in poetry, farming, politics, or construction, it would still be outrageous—especially coming from someone like you. But at least Christians, who care little for worldly matters, might have shown some leniency.

But you go further. You urge Christians to be reckless in the very matter of their eternal salvation. You tell them not to examine their own abilities—not to ask what they can or cannot do. That’s not just misguided; it’s unforgivable. For how can someone repent of error if they don’t even know what they’re doing? And unrepentant error leads to unpardonable sin.

This is the abyss into which your “moderate,” skeptical theology leads us.