What, then, am I saying? I am not a worker for virtue who can go without reward; I have not reached that height of virtue. Give me a reward for my labors. What reward? Not the one that people ready to suspect anything might imagine, but one it is safe for me to seek.
Give us rest from these long labors. Show respect for these gray hairs. Honor the fact that I have lived among you as a stranger. Bring in someone else in my place—the man now being sought for you. Let him be someone with clean hands, someone not unskilled in speech, someone able to satisfy you in every way and to share the burden of the Church’s concerns. This is especially the time for such a man.
Look at the condition of this body of mine, worn down by age, illness, and labor. What use have you for an old man who is timid and fainthearted? I am, so to speak, dying every day—not only in body but under the weight of my cares—and I can barely manage even this conversation with you. Do not refuse to believe your teacher’s voice; you have never refused it before.
I am exhausted from being blamed for my gentleness. I am exhausted from fighting on every front: arguments and envy, enemies and our own people. Some strike me in the chest and succeed less well, because an open enemy is easy to guard against. Others lie in wait behind me, and they cause more pain, because an unsuspected attack is more dangerous.
Suppose I were a pilot, and a very skilled one. The sea around us is violent and boils around the ship. The passengers themselves are in an uproar, fighting over different things and crashing against one another as well as against the waves. How long could I remain at the helm, fighting both the sea and the passengers, and still bring the ship safely through this double storm? If safety would have been difficult even with everyone working together, how can we avoid sinking when they are fighting against us instead?