# Sermons (Massillon)/Sermon 3

SERMON III.
THE DISGUSTS ACCOMPANYING VIRTUE.
"Then the Jews took up stones again, to stone him." — John x. 31.
Behold then, my brethren, the marks of gratitude which Jesus Christ receives from men; behold the consolations which heaven prepares for him in the painful exercise of his ministry. There he is treated as a Samaritan, and as one possessed by the devil: here they take up stones to stone him. It is thus that the Son of God has passed all the time of his mortal life, continually exposed to the most obstinate contradiction, finding only hearts insensible to his kindnesses, and rebellious to the truths which he announced to them: yet never did he allow the smallest sign of impatience, or the least complaint to escape him.
And we, my brethren, we, his members and his disciples, alas! the smallest disgusts, the smallest contradictions we experience in the practice of virtue, revolt our delicacy. From the moment we cease to relish those attractions, that sensibility which softens every thing to be found painful in duty, there is nothing but complaint and murmurs: troubled, discouraged, we are tempted almost to abandon God, and to return to the world, as a more agreeable and commodious master. In a word, we would wish to find nothing in the service of God but pleasure and consolation.
But our divine Master, in calling us to his service, has he not declared, in express terms, that the kingdom of heaven is only to be gained by conquest; and that none but those who do violence upon themselves can force it? And what do these words signify, unless that, entering into the service of God, we are not to promise ourselves that we shall always find in it a certain sweetness, a certain relish, which deprives it of all pain, and causes it to be loved? On the contrary, it is almost certain, that in it we shall experience disgusts and contradictions which will exercise our patience, and put our fidelity to frequent trials; that we shall often feel the weight of the yoke, without feeling the unction of grace which renders it light and easy, because piety essentially opposes the gratification of our former tastes and original inclinations, for which we always preserve some unhappy remains of tenderness, and which we cannot mortify without making the heart suffer; that, besides, we shall have to undergo the eternal caprices of an inconstant and volatile heart, so difficult to fix, that, without reason or foundation, it is disgusted in a moment with what it formerly loved most. Behold, my brethren, what we ought to have expected when we embraced the cause of virtue. Here, it is the time of combat and ​trials; peace and felicity are only for heaven; but, notwithstanding this, I say that it is unjust to form, from the disagreeable circumstances which may accompany virtue in this life, a pretext either to abandon God when we have begun to serve him, or to be afraid to serve him when we have begun to know him.
Behold my reasons: in the first place, because disgusts are inevitable in this life; secondly, because those of piety are not so bitter as we imagine them to be; thirdly, because they are less so than those of the world; fourthly, because, were they equally so, they yet possess resources which those of the world have not. Let us investigate those edifying truths, and implore the assistance of divine grace toward their proper explanations.
Reflection I. — I say, in the first place, because disgusts are inevitable in this life. Alas! we complain that the service of God disgusts us; but such is the condition of this miserable life. Man, born fully to enjoy God, cannot be happy here below, where he can never but imperfectly possess him. Disgusts are a necessary consequence of the inquietude of a heart which is out of its place, and is unable to find it on the earth; which seeks to fix itself, but cannot with all the created beings which surround it; which, disgusted with every thing else, attaches itself to God; but being unable to possess him as fully as it is capable of doing, feels always that something is wanting to its happiness; agitates itself, in order to attain it, but can never completely reach it here; finds in virtue almost the same void and the same disgusts it had found in sin, because, to whatever degree of grace it may be exalted, there still remains much to accomplish before it can arrive at that fulness of righteousness and love which will possess our whole heart — will fill all our desires — extinguish all our passions — occupy all our thoughts — and which we can never find but in heaven.
Were it possible to be happy in this world, we should undoubtedly be so in serving God, because grace calms our passions, moderates our desires, consoles our sufferings, and gives us a foretaste of that perfect happiness we expect, and which we shall not enjoy but in a blessed immortality. Of all the situations in which man can find himself in this life, that of righteousness undoubtedly brings him nearest to felicity; but as it always leaves him in the path which conducts to it, it leaves him likewise still uneasy, and, in one sense miserable.
We are therefore unjust to complain of the disgusts which accompany virtue. Did the world make its followers happy, we should then have reason to be dissatisfied at not being so in the service of God. We might then accuse him of using his servants ill; of depriving them of a happiness which is due to them alone; that, far from attracting, he rejects them; and that the world is preferable to him, as a more consoling and faithful master. But examine all stations; interrogate all sinners; consult in rotation the partisans of all the different pleasures which the world promises and the different passions which it inspires; the envious, the ​ambitious, the voluptuous, the indolent, the revengeful, — none are happy, each complains, no one is in his place, every condition has its inconveniences, and sorrows are attached to every station in life. The world is the habitation of the discontented; and the disgusts which accompany virtue, are much more a consequence of the condition of this mortal life, than any imperfection in virtue itself.
Besides, the Almighty has his reasons for leaving the most upright souls below in a state in some respects, always violent and disagreeable to nature: by that, he wishes to disgust us with this miserable life; to make us long for our deliverance, and for that immortal country where nothing shall more be wanting to our happiness.
I feel within me (says the apostle) a fatal law in opposition to the law of God; the good that I would, I do not; but the evil which I would not, that I do. Now, if I do that I would not, it is no more I that do it, but sin that dwelleth in me. I find then a law, that when I would do good, evil is present with me. For I delight in the law of God after the inward man; but I see another law in my members, warring against the law of my mind, and bringing me into captivity to the law of sin which is in my members. O, wretched man that I am! who shall deliver me from the body of this death? — Behold the most natural effect which the disgusts attached to virtue ought to inspire in a Christian heart: hatred of ourselves; contempt of our present life; a desire for eternal riches; an eager anxiety to go and enjoy God, and to be delivered from all the miseries inseparable from this mortal life.
Besides, were virtue always to be accompanied with sensible consolations; did it continually form for man a happy and tranquil state in this world, it would become a temporal recompense; in devoting ourselves to God, we should no longer seek the good of faith, but the consolations of self-love; we would seek ourselves, while pretending to seek God; we would propose to ourselves in virtue, that conscious tranquillity, in which it places the heart, by delivering it from those violent and restless passions which tear it continually, rather than the observance of the rules and the duties which the law of God imposes on us. The Lord would then have only mercenary and interested worshippers, who would come, not to carry his yoke, but to repose themselves under the shadow of his voice; workmen, who would offer themselves, not so much to labour in his vineyard, and to support the fatigues of the day, and the oppression of the heat, as in order to taste in tranquillity the fruits; servants, who, far from improving their talent for the benefit of their master, would turn it to their own utility, and employ it only for their own advantage.
The upright live by faith: now faith hopes, but enjoys not in this world; all is yet to come for Christians; their country, their riches, their pleasures, their inheritance, their kingdoms; the present is not for them. Here, it is the time of tribulation and affliction; ​here, it is a place of exile, and a foreign country, where tears and sighs become the only consolation of the faithful. Surely, then, it is unreasonable to expect delights in a place where every thing recalls the remembrance of our miseries; where every thing presents new dangers to us; where we live surrounded by rocks; where we are a prey to a thousand enemies; where every step endangers our destruction; where all our days are marked by some new infidelity; where, delivered up to ourselves, and without the assistance of Heaven, we do nothing but evil; where we spread the corruption of our heart over the small portion, even of good, which grace enables us to accomplish; — it is unreasonable, I say, to seek felicity and human consolations in a residence so melancholy and disagreeable to the children of God. The days of our mourning and sadness are in this world; those of peace and joy will come afterward. If, by abandoning God, we could acquire real happiness, our inconstancy would seem at least to have an excuse; but, as I have already said, the world has its disgusts as well as virtue; by changing our master, we only change our punishment; in diversifying our passions we only diversify our sorrows. The world has more smiling aspects, I confess, than virtue; but every where the reality is only trouble and vexation of spirit; and since cares are inevitable in this life, and we must encounter disgusts, either on the part of the world or of virtue, can we hesitate for a moment? Is it not preferable to suffer meritoriously than to suffer in vain, and be able to place our sufferings only amongst the number of our crimes? First truth: — Disgusts are inevitable in this life.
Reflection II. — But I say, in the second place, that those of piety are not so bitter as we represent them to ourselves.
For, my brethren, although we agree that the kingdom of God suffers violence; that Jesus Christ is come, in order to make separations and retrenchments which cost much to our nature; that the period of the present life is the time of the birth of the new man, and always followed by pain and sorrows; and that, in order to reconcile us to God, we must begin by waging a cruel war against ourselves; yet it does not follow, that the lot of a soul who serves the Lord, is to be pitied, and that the disgusts which accompany virtue are so bitter as the world represents. Virtue has only the prejudices of the senses and of the passions against it; it has nothing melancholy but the first glance; and its bitterness is not such as to render it a condition which we ought to fly from as insupportable and wretched.
For, in the first place, we are sheltered in it from the disgusts of the world and the passions; and were virtue to possess only the single advantage of placing us safe from the tempests of the passions; from frenzies, jealousies, suspicions, and bitterness of heart; from the void of a worldly life; when, by turning to God, we should gain only our freedom from the yoke of the world; our being placed above the reach of its hopes, of its revolutions, ​troubles, and eternal changes; the becoming masters of our own hearts, and being dependent on none but ourselves: our having none but God to account with; our no longer fatiguing ourselves in vain, by running after phantoms, which continually elude our grasp; — alas! the lot of a just soul would always be worthy of envy; whatever might be the bitter circumstances accompanying virtue, they would still be a thousand times more supportable than the pleasures of the world; and to mourn with the people of God, would be infinitely preferable to participating in the insipid and childish pleasures of the children of the age.
Secondly. If virtue does not protect us from the afflictions and disgraces inevitable upon this earth, it at least softens their asperity: it makes our heart submissive to God; it makes us kiss the hand which is raised up against us; it discovers, in the blows with which the Lord afflicts us, either a cure for our passions, or the just punishment of our crimes. And were virtue to have only the privilege of diminishing our griefs, by diminishing our attachments; of rendering us less feeling to our losses, by gradually detaching us from all the objects which we may one day lose; of preparing our souls for affliction, by keeping it continually submissive to God; were virtue to possess this consolation alone, alas! ought we to lament and complain of any bitterness which attends it? What more can be desired in this miserable life, where almost all our days are distinguished, by new afflictions and adversities; where every thing escapes our grasp; where our relations, friends, and protectors are every moment snatched from us, and continually falling around us; where our fortune has no settlement, but changes its appearance every day; alas! what more can be desired than a situation which consoles us on these events; supports us in these storms; calms us in these agitations; and which, in the eternal changes which take place here below, leaves us at least always the same?
Thirdly. Those reluctances and disgusts which revolt us so strongly against virtue, in reality consist only in repressing the passions which render us unhappy, and are the source of all our pains. They are remedies a little grievous to be sure, but they serve to cure evils which are infinitely more so. It is a constraint which fatigues us, but which, in fatiguing, delivers us from a slavery which weighed us down; it is a bitterness which mortifies the passions, but which, in mortifying, weakens and calms them; it is a sword which pierces the heart to the quick, but which makes the corrupted and defiled matter to flow from it; insomuch, that, in the very moment of the wound's greatest agony, we experience the comfort and certainty of a cure. These are maxims which revolt our nature and inclinations; but which, in revolting, recall them to order and rule. Thus, the bitterness and the thorns of virtue have always at least a present utility, which recompenses their harshness: in disgusting, they purify us; in probing, they cure us; in paining, they calm us. These are not like the disgusts of the world, of which nothing remains to us but the bitterness of ​those fatigues, of those constraints which our passions impose on us; and whose only fruit is, that of augmenting our miseries, by fortifying our iniquitous passions: these are not the worldly violences which lead to nothing, are of no value, and frequently serve only to render us hateful to those whom we would wish to please; which remove to a greater distance from us the favours we wish to merit by them; which always leave us our hatreds, our desires, our uneasinesses, and our pains: these are violences which advance the work of our sanctification, which, by degrees, destroy within us the work of sin; which perfect, which adorn us; which add every day a new splendour to our soul, a new solidity to our virtues, a new force to our faith, a new facility to our approaches toward salvation, a new firmness to our good desires, and which bear along with them the fruit that rewards and consoles us.
I do not add, that the source of our disgusts is in ourselves rather than in virtue; that it is our passions which give birth to our repugnances; that virtue has nothing in itself but what is amiable; that were our hearts not depraved through love to the flesh, we would find nothing sweet and consoling but the pleasures of innocence; that we are born for virtue and righteousness; that these ought to be our first inclinations, as they are our first distinction; and if we find different dispositions within us, at least we have not virtue, but only ourselves to blame. I could add, that perhaps it is the peculiar character of our heart, which spreads for us so much bitterness through the detail of a Christian life; that, being born perhaps with more lively passions, and a heart more sensible to the world and to pleasure, virtue appears more melancholy and insupportable to us; that, not finding in the service of God the same attraction which we have found in that of the world, our heart, accustomed to lively and animated pleasures, is no longer capable of reconciling itself to the expected dreariness of a Christian life; that the endless dissipation in which we have lived, renders the uniformity of duties more irksome to us; the agitation of parties and pleasures, retirement more disgusting; our total submission to the passions, prayer more painful; the frivolous maxims with which our minds are occupied, the truths of faith more insipid and more unknown; that our mind, being filled with only vain things, with fabulous reading, if nothing worse, with chimerical adventures, and theatrical phantoms, is no longer capable of relishing any thing solid; that, never having accustomed ourselves to any thing serious, it is rare that the seriousness of piety does not disgust us, and that we find not God to our taste, if I dare speak in this manner, we who have never relished any thing but the world and its vain hopes. This being the case, what happiness when we bring back to virtue a heart yet uncorrupted by the world! What happiness to enter into the service of God, with happy inclinations and some remains of our original innocence! — when we begin early to know the Lord; when we return to him in that first season of our life when the world has not yet made such profound and des​perate impressions; when the passions, still in their growth, bend easily toward good, and make virtue, as it were, a natural inclination to us! What happiness when we have been able to put an early check upon our heart; when we have accustomed it to bear the yoke of the Lord; and when we have arrested, almost in their infancy, passions which render us miserable in our guilt, and which likewise occasion all the bitterness of our virtues! How many uneasinesses, how many pangs does it prevent! How many, consolations does it prepare! How many comforts spread through the rest of life! and what a difference for the ease and tranquillity of our future years, between days whose primitive ones have been pure, and those which, infected in their source, have felt flow from thence a fatal bitterness, which has blasted all their joys, and spread itself through all the remainder of their career! It is ourselves alone, says a holy father, who render virtue disagreeable; and we are wrong to complain of an evil, in which we have such a share ourselves, or to attribute faults to virtue, which are our own handy-work.
But granting these reflections to have even less solidity; were it even true, that we are not the first and original cause of our disgusts at virtue; it is at least incontestable, that the longer we defer our return to God, the more invincible do we render that distaste which separates us from him; that the more we shrink and draw back, the more do we fortify that repugnance within us to virtue; that if the Christian life offers, at present, only melancholy and tedious duties, they will appear more insupportable in proportion as we grow old in the ways of the world, and in the taste for its iniquitous pleasures. Could the delay of our conversion sweeten the bitter and painful portion of virtue, by holding out a little longer against grace; could we obtain a more favourable composition, as I may say, and, as an article of it, stipulate, that piety should afterward be presented to us with more charms and graces, and with conditions more agreeable and flattering; — alas! whatever risks we may run by deferring it, the hopes of softening our pains and sufferings might serve in some measure to excuse our delays. But delay only prepares new sorrows for us; the more we accustom our heart to the world, the more do we render it unfit for virtue. It is no longer, says the prophet, but a polluted vase, to which the passions we have allowed to settle in it have communicated a taste and smell of death, which generally last the remainder of life. Thus, my brethren, when, after a long course of crimes and deeply-rooted passions, we must return to God, what obstacles do not these frightful dispositions present! What insensibility toward good do we not find within ourselves! Those hearts which the world has always engrossed, and who afterward wish to consecrate to God the remains of a life entirely mundane; what a buckler of brass, says the prophet, do they not oppose to grace! What hardness of heart to the holy consolations of virtue! They may find it just, but it is impossible, they say, to find it amiable: they may return to God, but they ​enjoy him no more: they may nourish themselves with the truth, but it is no more for them but the bread of tribulation and bitterness: they may seek the kingdom of God, and the treasure of the gospel, but it is like unfortunate slaves, condemned to search for gold in the bowels of the earth, and waste their strength against the opposing rocks: they may draw for water from the wells of Jacob, but they can only reap the toil; they can never partake of those comforts and consolations which bear peace and refreshment to the soul: they wish to draw near to God, yet every thing separates them from him; they wish to fly from the world, yet, wherever they go, there they carry it with them in their heart: they seek the society of virtuous people, yet in their company they find a weariness, and a melancholy stiffness, which disgust them with piety itself: they apply themselves to holy books, and, alas! it is only a tiresome and fatiguing decency which supports their patience. It appears, that in virtue they act a borrowed character, so little does it become them, and so much does their part constrain and tire them j and although, in reality, they seek salvation, yet there appears a something so foreign and constrained in their efforts, that we believe they only assume the semblance of it; and that, feeling themselves not born to virtue, they wish, at least, to give themselves the appearance of it.
Disgusts and wearinesses should not, therefore, drive us from virtue; since, in proportion as we retire from it, they become every day more violent and insupportable. But candidly, my brethren, is it for us to reproach God that we weary in his service? Ah! did our slaves and domestics make us the same reproach; had they to lament the weariness they experience in our service, they would certainly be entitled to complain of it. Our eternal humours, from which they suffer so much; our fancies and caprices, to which they must accommodate themselves; our hours and moments, to which they must subject themselves; our pleasures and tastes, to which they must sacrifice their rest and liberty; our indolence, which alone costs them so much, makes them endure so much weariness, pass so many melancholy moments, without our even deigning to observe it; they undoubtedly would be entitled to complain of their cruel situation and sufferings.
Nevertheless, should they venture to say, that they weary in our service; that they reap not the smallest satisfaction from it; that they feel no inclination for us, and that every service they perform is disgusting to a degree scarcely supportable; — alas! we would regard them as fools: we would find them too happy in having to support our humours and caprices; we would think them sufficiently honoured, by being permitted to be near us, and fully recompensed for all their fatigues. Ah, my brethren! and God, does he not sufficiently recompense those who serve him, that they should support any little disgusts or wearinesses which may be found in his service? Are we not still too happy, by his acceptance of our services, in spite of the repugnances which render them cold and languid? Does he not sufficiently load us ​with blessings, to be entitled to exact our sufferance of a fewslight sorrows for his sake? Does he not promise us still more, sufficiently precious to sweeten the trifling disgusts attached to the fulfilment of his ordinances? Must not he find it strange, that vile creatures, who hold all from him, who exist only through him, and who expect all from him, should complain of dislike to his service? That worms of the earth, whose only boast is the honour of belonging to him, dare complain of feeling no inclination for him, and that it is both melancholy and wearisome to serve or to be faithful to him? Is he, then, a master like us; fanciful, intolerant, indolent, entirely occupied with himself, and who seeks only to render himself happy, at the expense of the peace and comfort of those who serve him? Unjust that we are! We dare offer reproaches to the Almighty, which we would regard as outrages upon ourselves, from the mouths of our slaves I
Second truth: — The disgusts which accompany virtue are not so bitter as we represent them to ourselves.
Reflection III. — But even were they so, I have said, in the third place, that they would still be infinitely less than those of the world. And it is here, my brethren, that the testimony of the world itself, and the self-experience of worldly souls, answer every purpose of a proof. For if you continue in the ways of the world and of the passions, what is your whole life but a continual weariness, where, by diversifying your pleasures, you only diversify your disgusts and uneasinesses? What is it but an eternal void where you are a burden to yourself? What is it but a pompous circulation of duties, attentions, ceremonies, amusements, and trifles, which, incessantly revolving, possess one single advantage, that of unpleasantly filling up moments which hang heavy upon you, and which you know not otherwise to employ? What is your life but a flux and reflux of desires, hatreds, chagrins, jealousies, and hopes, which poison all your pleasures, and are the cause that, surrounded by every thing which ought to insure your happiness, you cannot succeed in being contented with yourselves?
What comparison is there between the frenzies of the passions, the chagrin of a striking neglect, the sensibility of a bad office, and the slight sorrows of virtue? What comparison between the unlimited subjections to ambition; the fatigues and toils of pretensions and expectancies; the pains to insure success; the exertions and submissions necessary to please; the cares, uneasinesses, and agitations, in order to exalt ourselves; and the slight violences which assure to us the kingdom of heaven? What comparison between the frightful remorses of the conscience, that internal worm, which incessantly gnaws us; that sadness of guilt, which undermines and brings us low indeed; that weight of iniquity, which overwhelms us; that internal sword which pierces us to the quick; which we know not how to draw forth, and carry with us wherever we go; and the amiable sorrow of that penitence which secures salvation? My God! can we complain of thee, after ​knowing the world? Can thy yoke appear grievous, after quitting that of the passions? And the thorns of thy cross, are they not flowers, when compared to those which the ways of iniquity and the world have sown?
Thus every day we hear the worshippers of the world decry the world they serve; complain with the utmost dissatisfaction of their lot; utter the keenest invectives against its injustice and abuses; censure, condemn, and despise it: but find me, if you can, any truly pious souls, who send forth invectives against virtue; who condemn or despise it; and who detest their lot of being embarked in a voyage so full of chagrin and bitterness. The world itself continually envies the destiny of the virtuous, and acknowledges that none are happy but the upright; but find me a truly pious soul, who envies the destiny of the world; who publishes that none are happy but its partisans; who admires the wisdom of their choice, and regards his own condition as the most miserable and the most foolish: — what shall I say? We have frequently seen sinners, who, through despair and disgust at the world, have fled to opposite extremes; lose rest, health, reason, and life; fall into states of horror, and the blackest melancholy, and no longer regard life but as the greatest torment. But where are the righteous, whom the disgusts which accompany virtue have thrown into such dreadful extremities? They sometimes complain of their sorrows; but they still prefer them to the pleasures of the passions: virtue, it is true, may sometimes appear melancholy and unpleasing to them; but, with all her sadness, they love her much more than guilt: they would wish a few more sensible supports and consolations from the Father of mercies, but they detest those of the world: they suffer, but the same hand which proves, supports them, and they are not tempted beyond their strength: they feel what you call the weight of the yoke of Jesus Christ; but, in recalling the load of iniquity, under which they had so long groaned, they find their present lot happy, and the comparison calms and comforts them.
In effect, my brethren, in the first place, the violences which we do to ourselves, are much more agreeable than those which come from without, and happen in spite of us. Now, the violences of virtue are, at least, voluntary: these are crosses which we choose from reason, and impose upon ourselves from duty: they are often bitter, but we are consoled by the reflection of having chosen them. But the disgusts of the world are forced crosses, which come without our being consulted: it is a hateful yoke, which is imposed on us against our will: we wish it not; we detest it; yet, nevertheless, we must drink all the bitterness of the cup. In virtue, we only suffer, because it is our inclination to suffer: in the world, we suffer so much the more, in proportion as we wish it less, and as our inclinations are inimical to our sufferings.
Secondly. The disgusts accompanying virtue are a burden only to indolence and laziness; these are repugnances, bitter ​only to the senses: but the disgusts of the world, ah! they pierce to the quick; they mortify all the passions; they humble pride, pull down vanity, light up envy, mortify ambition, and none of our feelings escape the influence of their sadness and bitterness.
Thirdly. Those of virtue are sensible only in their first operation: the first efforts cost us much; the sequel softens and tranquillizes them. The passions, which are generally the occasion of any disgust at virtue, have this in particular, that the more we repress them, the more tractable they become; the violences we do to them, gradually calm the heart, and leave us less to suffer from those to come: but the disgusts of the world are always new; as they always find in us the same passions, they always leave us the same bitternesses; those which have gone before only render those that follow more insupportable.
In a word, the disgusts of the world inflame our passions, and consequently increase our sufferings; those of virtue repress them, and by these means gradually establish peace and tranquillity in our soul.
Fourthly. The disgusts of the world happen to those who most faithfully serve it: it does not treat them better, because they are more devoted to its party, and more zealous for its abuses; on the contrary, the hearts most ardent to the world, are almost always those who experience the largest share of its mortifications; because they feel more sensibly its neglect and injustice; their ardour for it is the source of all their uneasinesses. But with God, we have only our coldness to dread; for the disgusts which may accompany virtue, in general, have only relaxation and idleness for principle; the more our ardour for the Lord increases, the more do our disgusts diminish; the more our zeal inflames, the more do our repugnances weaken; the more we serve him with fidelity, the more charms and consolations do we find in his service. It is by relaxing, that we render our duties disagreeable; it is by lessening our fervour, that we add a new weight to our yoke; and if, in spite of our fidelity, the disgusts continue, they are then trials, and not punishments: it is not that consolations are refused, it is a new occasion of merit which is prepared for us: it is not an irritated God, who shuts his heart to us, it is a merciful God, who purifies our own; it is not a discontented master, who suspends his favours, it is a jealous Lord, who wishes to prove our love: our homages are not rejected, our submissions and services are only anticipated; it is not meant to repulse, but to assure to us the price of our sufferings, by rejecting every thing which might still mingle the man with God, ourselves with grace, human supports with the gifts of heaven, and the riches of faith with the consolations of self-love. Behold, my brethren, the last truth with which I shall terminate this discourse: — Not only the disgusts accompanying virtue, are not so bitter as those of the world, but they likewise possess resources which those of the world have not.
​Reflection IV. — I say resources: alas t my brethren, we find none but in virtue. The world wounds the heart, but it furnishes no remedies; it has its chagrins, but nothing to comfort them; it is full of disgusts and bitterness, but we find no resources in it. But in virtue there is no sorrow which has not its consolation; and if in it we find repugnances and disgusts, we find likewise a thousand resources which soothe them.
In the first place, peace of mind, and the testimony of the conscience. What luxury, to be at peace with ourselves; no longer to carry within us that importunate and corroding worm which pursued us every where; no longer to be racked by eternal remorses, which poisoned every comfort of life: in a word, to be delivered from iniquity! The senses may still suffer from the sorrows of virtue, but the heart at least is tranquil.
Secondly. The certainty that our sufferings are not lost; that our sorrows become a new merit for us; that our repugnances, in preparing for us new sacrifices, secure an additional claim to the promises of faith; that were virtue to cost us less, it would likewise bear an inferior price in the sight of God; and that he only renders the road so difficult, in order to render our crown more brilliant and glorious.
Thirdly. Submission to the orders of God, who has his reasons for refusing to us the visible consolations of virtue; whose wisdom consults our interest more than our passions; and who has preferred bringing us to himself by a less agreeable road, because it is a more secure one.
Fourthly. The favours with which he accompanies our sorrows; which sustain our faith at the same time that our violence lowers self-love; which fortify our heart in truth, at the same time that our senses are disgusted with it; which make our mind prompt and fervent, although the flesh is weak and feeble, insomuch, that he renders our virtue so much the more solid as to us it seems melancholy and painful.
Fifthly. The external succours of piety, which are so many new resources in our faintings and thirst: the holy mysteries, where Jesus Christ, himself the comforter of faithful souls, comes to console our heart; the truths of the divine writings, which promise nothing in this world to the upright but tribulation and tears, — calm our fears, by informing us that our pleasures are to come; and that the sufferings which discourage us, far from making us distrust our virtue, ought to render our hope more animated and certain: in a word, the history of the saints, who have undergone the same disgusts and trials; consequently, we have so much the less reason to complain, as characters so infinitely more pious than we, have experienced the same lot; that such has almost always been the conduct of God towards his servants; and that, if any thing in this life can prove his love toward us, it is that of his leading us by the same path that he did the saints, and treating us in this world in the same manner that he did the upright.
Sixthly. The tranquillity of the life and the uniformity of the ​duties which have succeeded to the frenzies of the passions and the tumult of a worldly life, which have provided for us much more happy and peaceful days than those we had ever passed in the midst of dissipation, and which, though they still leave us something to suffer, yet occasion us to enjoy a more tranquil and supportable lot.
Lastly. Faith, which brings eternity nearer to us; which discovers to us the insignificancy of worldly affairs; that we approach the happy term; that the present life is but a rapid instant; and consequently, that our sufferings cannot endure long, but that this fleeting moment of tribulation assures to us a glorious and immortal futurity, which will endure as long as God himself. What resources for a faithful heart! What disproportion between the sufferings of virtue and those of guilt! It is in order to make us feel the difference that God often permits the world to possess us for a time; that in youth we deliver ourselves up to the sway of the passions, on purpose, that, when he afterward recalls us to himself, we may know by experience how much more easy is his yoke than that of the world. I will permit, says he, in the Scriptures, that my people serve the nations of the earth for some time; that they allow themselves to be seduced by their profane superstitions, in order that they may know the difference between my service and the service of the kings of the earth; and that they may feel how much more easy is my yoke than the servitude of men.
Happy the souls, who, in order to be undeceived, have had no occasion for this experience, and who have not so dearly bought the knowledge of this world's vanity, and the melancholy lot of iniquitous passions. Alas! since at last we must be undeceived, and must abandon and despise it; since the day will come, when we shall find it frivolous, disgusting, and insupportable; when, of all its foolish joys, there shall no longer remain to us but the cruel remorse of having yielded to them; the confusion of having followed them; the obstacles to good which they will have left in our heart; why not anticipate and prevent such melancholy regrets? Why not do to-day what we ourselves allow must one day be done? Why wait till the world has made such deep wounds in our heart, to run afterward to remedies, which cannot re-establish us without greater pain, and costing us doubly dear? We complain of some slight disgusts which accompany virtue; but, alas! the first believers, who, to the maxims of the gospel, sacrificed their riches, reputation, and life; who ran to the scaffolds to confess Jesus Christ; who passed their days in chains, in prisons, in shame and in sufferance, and to whom it cost so much to serve Jesus Christ; did they complain of the bitterness of his service? Did they reproach him with rendering unhappy those who served him? Ah! they glorified themselves in their tribulation; they preferred shame and disgrace with Jesus Christ, to all the vain pleasures of Egypt; they reckoned as nothing, wheels, fires, and every instrument of torture, in the hopes of a blessed immortality, which would amply recompense their present sufferings: in the midst of torments they ​chaunted hymns; and regarded as a gain, the loss of all, for the interest of their Master. What a life, in the eyes of the flesh, is that of these unfortunate men, proscribed, persecuted, driven from their country, having only dens and caverns for their habitation, regarded every where as the horror of the universe; become execrable to their friends, their fellow-citizens, and their relations! They esteemed themselves happy in belonging to Jesus Christ. In their opinion, they could not too dearly purchase the glory of being his disciples, and the consolation of pretending to his promises. And we, my brethren, in the midst of too many of the conveniences of life; surrounded by too much abundance, prosperity, and worldly glory; finding, perhaps for our misfortune, in the applauses of the world, which cannot prevent itself from esteeming worth, the recompense of virtue; in the midst of our relations, our children, and our friends, — we complain that it costs us too much to serve Jesus Christ; we murmur against the slight bitterness we experience in virtue; we almost persuade ourselves that God requires too much of his creatures. Ah! when the comparison shall one day be made between these little disgusts which we exaggerate so much, and the crosses, the wheels, the fires, and all the tortures of the martyrs; the austerities of the anchorites; the fasts, the tears, and sufferings of so many holy penitents; alas! we shall then blush to find ourselves almost single before Jesus Christ; we, who have suffered nothing for him; to whom his kingdom has cost nothing; and who, individually bearing before his tribunal more iniquities than a number of saints together, cannot, however, in assembling all our works of piety, compare them united to a single instance of their exertions.
Let us cease, therefore, to complain of God, since he has so many reasons to complain of us. Let us serve him, as he wishes to be served by us. If he softens our yoke, let us bless his goodness, which prepares these consolations for our weakness; if he makes us feel the whole extent of its weight, let us still esteem ourselves happy that he deigns, at that price, to accept of our works and homage. With equal gratitude, let us receive from his hand consolation or affliction, since every thing which proceeds from him alike conducts us to him. Let us learn to be, as the apostle, in want or abundance, provided we belong to Jesus Christ: the essential part is not to serve him with pleasure, it is to serve him with fidelity. In reality, my brethren, in spite of all the disgusts or repugnances which may accompany virtue, there is no real or true pleasure but in serving God; there is no solid consolation to be reaped but by attaching ourselves to him. No, said the sage, it is still better to feed upon the bread of wormwood and gall, with the fear of the Lord, than to live in the midst of pleasure and profane joys, under the lash of his wrath and indignation. Alas! of what pleasure can we be capable, when we are the enemies of God? What pleasure can we taste, when we bear in our heart only the anguish and bitterness of guilt? No, says the sage once more, the fear of God can alone charm our weariness, soften our moments of ​melancholy, soothe our endless anguishes, and enable us to find a certain degree of sweetness even in the evils incident to our nature. It is that which renders retirement sweet, and enables us to enjoy repose, far from the world and its amusements; it is that which makes days pass quickly, and occupies in peace and tranquillity every moment; and though apparently it allows us more leisure than a worldly life, yet it leaves a much smaller portion to weariness.
Great God! what honour does not the world unintentionally pay to thy service! What an affecting eulogium on the destiny of the upright is the lot of sinners! How well, my God, thou knowest to extort glory and praise from even thy enemies! and how little excuse thou leavest to those souls who depart from thy paths, since, in order to draw them from virtue, thou makest a resource to them even of their crimes, and employest their wants to recall them to thy eternal mercies.
Now to God, &c.