No filter: St. Augustine

By Herman M. Lagon

If saints had yearbooks, Augustine of Hippo’s senior quote might be: “Lord, grant me chastity and self-control… but not yet.” It is blunt, funny, and painfully human—like him. That quote, tucked into his famous Confessions, does not read like some sermon from a marble pedestal. It feels like something a college barkada leader might whisper after a retreat session, torn between wanting to do better and not quite ready to give up his vices.

That is exactly what makes Augustine worth remembering—not as a statue, but as a story. Before becoming a Church Father, philosopher, bishop, and the founder of the Augustinian Order that would later shape institutions like the University of San Agustin, San Jose Placer Parish, and the Augustinian Retreat House, he was a young man with a sharp mind and a messy heart. He questioned everything. He partied. He doubted. He chased pleasure like a scholar chases citations. And for a long time, holiness was not even on his to-do list.

He was not evil—just restless, in that way many of us are when we know we want something more, but we are not sure what. Born in North Africa in 354 A.D., Augustine had everything going for him: brains, charisma, a strong education in rhetoric, and a gift for words. Yet, he found himself drifting. From one ideology to the next, from Manichaean teachings to pagan philosophy, he kept searching for something that could hold him. And while his mother Monica prayed for his soul, Augustine flirted with ideas, women, and a future in high society. His Confessions, if anything, show that sometimes the longest road to wisdom starts with self-inflicted detours.

What makes Augustine feel strikingly modern is his honesty. He did not hide his sins—he wrote about them with disarming clarity. He once stole pears not out of hunger, but for the thrill of doing wrong with friends. It is a simple yet profound story: how we sometimes sin not for the act itself, but to feel included. That same pull exists today—when teens join risky trends or cheat on a test, not out of need, but to avoid seeming “bobo.” No wonder he is still remembered every August 28, the anniversary of his death, especially in institutions shaped by his legacy.

Teachers, students, and parents will recognize this dilemma. It is not just about rules or religion—it is about longing. A longing to belong, to be affirmed, to be enough. Augustine knew that ache. He lived with it. And that is why his eventual conversion feels so powerful. It was not instant. It was not clean. It was slow, messy, and reluctant. Just like real change often is.

His turn toward Christianity came after years of wrestling with doubt. It was not his mother’s tears alone that converted him—though those helped—it was an encounter with truth that felt alive. One afternoon, in a garden in Milan, torn between his divided desires, he heard a child’s voice chanting, “Take and read.” So he picked up Scripture, and the passage he landed on spoke directly to his inner war. It was, in a sense, the most personal call to arms: drop the mask, let grace in.

From there, the transformation was gradual, not magical. He was baptized at 31, lost his beloved son Adeodatus not long after, and chose a quieter life of reflection and service. Eventually, he became Bishop of Hippo, but never acted like someone who had it all figured out. His writings—Confessions, The City of God, On Christian Doctrine—are not manuals of moral superiority. They are field notes from someone still figuring out how grace works in a flawed life.

Teachers and mentors might relate. You guide others, carry expectations, and yet wrestle with your own doubts and contradictions. One day you inspire a room. The next, you feel drained and cynical. Augustine lived that tension. He was intellectually fierce but emotionally fragile, convinced by truth yet pulled by habit. He spent his life teaching people about love while still grieving the wreckage of his own.

This complexity makes him more than just a saint in a textbook. He is a spiritual kuya—imperfect, intense, honest. He understood how sin lingers and how grace surprises. He never pretended he was holy by nature. If anything, he often seemed shocked that God would even want someone like him. In a world where sainthood is often miscast as perfection, Augustine stands out because he never scrubbed out his stains. He turned them into testimony.

That legacy runs deep. His name lives on in classrooms, parishes, and retreat houses led by Augustinians. But the irony is not lost: the order that bears his name, and that now teaches theology, literature, and social responsibility to thousands, was founded by someone who once believed the Bible was too boring to read. That is the punchline and the point. Holiness does not start with piety. It often starts with tension, with contradiction, with a desire that refuses to die.

More than 1,600 years later, modern thinkers still echo Augustine’s wisdom. Philosopher Charles Taylor credits him for shaping how we understand the inner life—our conscience, memory, longing. Philosophers from Heidegger to Arendt to even Bob Dylan have quoted him. In A Secular Age, Taylor says Augustine’s idea of “the restless heart” is now baked into how the modern world thinks about identity. It is not just religious. It is human.

In classrooms today, where students juggle grades, social pressures, and mental health, that restlessness is real. We see it in their questions. We feel it in our fatigue. As educators, we try to offer structure—but we are also just humans, trying not to burn out, trying to balance patience and fairness, trying to believe our work matters. Augustine’s life does not offer a formula, but it does offer a lens: what if holiness is not about arrival, but direction? What if teaching, parenting, and even failing are all parts of that long, meandering journey toward grace?

And what if telling the truth—about where we have been, what we got wrong, and why we still care—is the real beginning of wisdom?

Even saints were unfinished stories. And maybe that is what makes them powerful. Augustine’s life is not just a relic of religious history. It is a mirror. One that says, “You are not too late. You are not too broken. You are just not done.”

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Doc H fondly describes himself as a ‘student of and for life’ who, like many others, aspires to a life-giving and why-driven world that is grounded in social justice and the pursuit of happiness. His views herewith do not necessarily reflect those of the institutions he is employed or connected with.