A weak soul does not have the endurance to resist the flesh for

“A weak soul does not have the endurance to resist the flesh for very long. It grows heavy, becomes flesh itself, and the contest ends. But among responsible men, men who keep their eyes riveted day and night upon the Supreme Duty, the conflict between flesh and spirit breaks out mercilessly and may last until death.” Thus spoke Nikos Kazantzakis, the Greek philosopher, poet, and seeker whose pen was dipped in both the agony and the fire of the human condition. His words, like the scriptures of old, ring with a fierce and terrible beauty. In this reflection, he speaks of the eternal battle between the flesh and the spirit — between desire and duty, indulgence and transcendence, comfort and calling. It is not a battle of the body alone, but the endless struggle that defines the very nature of what it means to be human.

The origin of this quote can be traced to Kazantzakis’s lifelong spiritual journey, a pilgrimage between the earth and the heavens. Born in Crete — a land of warriors and mystics — he was raised among monks who spoke of divine truth and rebels who fought for freedom. In his great works, such as Zorba the Greek and The Last Temptation of Christ, he wrestled with the question that haunted him all his life: how can the spirit, which yearns for eternity, dwell in harmony with the flesh, which craves the dust? This was no abstract idea for him; it was a torment. His faith demanded holiness, but his humanity demanded passion. Out of that conflict came this wisdom — that the weak soul surrenders to the lower call of the flesh, while the strong soul wages the endless war, refusing peace until its final breath.

When Kazantzakis says the “weak soul grows heavy and becomes flesh itself,” he speaks not of condemnation, but of surrender. The weak spirit, untested and untrained, yields quickly to the temptations of ease — to pleasure, to comfort, to the noise of the world. It ceases to aspire, to reach upward, and instead sinks downward into indulgence. Like a warrior who lays down his sword before the battle is over, the weak soul mistakes relief for peace. But true peace is not found in surrender; it is earned only through struggle. For the flesh is not evil, but it is insistent — it pulls, it whispers, it hungers — and only the disciplined soul can resist being devoured by it.

By contrast, the “responsible men,” as Kazantzakis calls them — those who “keep their eyes riveted upon the Supreme Duty” — are the ones who embrace this struggle as sacred. These are the souls who understand that life’s purpose is not comfort, but transformation. They do not flee from conflict; they live within it, allowing it to purify them. Their lives are a crucible in which the spirit is refined. For them, every desire becomes a battlefield, every weakness a test. Such men — and women — are not free from temptation, but rather made greater by resisting it. The war between spirit and flesh never ends, but in fighting it, they become luminous.

Consider the life of Saint Augustine, once a man of indulgence and excess, who later became one of the pillars of Christian thought. In his youth, he was consumed by pleasure, chasing the desires of the body and the praise of men. Yet the call of the spirit grew louder within him until it tore him apart. His Confessions tell of this very war — a man divided against himself, longing for purity but bound by habit. “Lord, make me chaste,” he once prayed, “but not yet.” It was only through years of torment and repentance that he finally rose above the pull of the flesh and dedicated himself to the divine. His story is the living proof of Kazantzakis’s words: the strong soul does not escape conflict; it endures it, and is sanctified through it.

Kazantzakis does not romanticize this struggle. He calls it merciless, for indeed it is — the flesh never ceases its song, and the spirit never ceases its striving. The man who commits himself to the Supreme Duty — whether it be truth, justice, love, or faith — will find no rest, because every day the battle renews itself. Yet in that unending battle lies a strange kind of peace — not the peace of stillness, but the peace of purpose. The warrior of the soul learns to bear both pain and temptation with dignity, for he knows that the worth of a life is measured not by victory alone, but by the nobility of the fight.

The lesson, then, is one of endurance and sacred conflict. Do not envy the one who feels no struggle; pity him, for he has surrendered too soon. Instead, be among those who labor daily between the pull of the earth and the call of the stars. Keep your eyes fixed upon your Supreme Duty — whatever noble truth your soul is bound to serve. There will be days when the flesh triumphs, when you fall and falter. Rise again. For it is not perfection that defines the strong, but perseverance. The spirit that endures the war until death, even in defeat, is greater than the one that never fought at all.

So remember the wisdom of Nikos Kazantzakis: the conflict between flesh and spirit is not a curse, but the proving ground of the soul. Embrace it, and you will know life in its fullness — not the dull comfort of the untested, but the blazing glory of the one who dared to wrestle with his own nature and, in that struggle, found his truth. For it is in that battle — merciless, lifelong, sacred — that man ascends, inch by inch, toward the divine.