Sermon LXXIV. On the Manner in which the Bridegroom Comes and Goes, and on the Necessity of Uniting Grace and Truth

"Return: be like, my Beloved, to a roe or a young hart on the mountains of Bethel."

"Return, my Beloved," cries the Spouse. It is evident that He Whom she thus recalls is not now present, yet has been with her, and that but a short time ago. For she is calling Him back, as it seems, whilst He is still in the act of retiring. That He is so soon solicited to return is a proof both of the greatness of her love and of the attraction of His amiability. But who are these fervent votaries of charity? Who are these tireless devotees of love, of whom the one is pursued and the other driven forward by the ungovern- * able force of affection? For my part, I must fulfil the promise which I made you in my last discourse, and which I have not forgotten, that is, to interpret this passage of the Word and the individual soul. Yet to accomplish such a task in anything like a worthy manner is, I acknowledge, quite beyond my power, unless I am assisted by the Word Himself. In truth an exposition of this verse would come more fittingly from one better versed and more experienced than I can claim to be in the ways of mystical and holy love. Nevertheless, I must discharge my duty and endeavour to satisfy your desires. I see the danger before me, yet I do not turn aside, because you, my brethren, compel me to go forward. You compel me, I say, to walk "in great matters and in wonderful things above me" Alas for me! I tremble lest I should hear myself addressed in the words of reproach, "Why dost thou declare the delights of My love, and take My secrets in thy mouth? "Yet listen to me as to a man who is afraid to speak, but may not keep silence. Perchance my fears may serve as an excuse for the rashness of my undertaking, and still more the fruit of edification to you, if indeed there should be any. And these tears which flow from my eyes— haply to these also God will have regard.

"Return my Beloved," entreats the Spouse. Very well. He was going away: He is recalled. Who shall explain to me this mystery of divine mutability? Who shall enable me to comprehend rightly what is meant by the retiring and returning of the Word? Shall we suppose that the Bridegroom is here acting with fickle inconstancy? He Whose immensity fills all space, whence can He be said to come, or whither to go or to return? Besides He is a Spirit, and what manner of locomotion is a pure spirit capable of? * Finally, how can He Who is God admit of any kind of motion, since God is absolutely and essentially immutable?

However, "he that can understand, let him understand "these things. But let us, my brethren, proceeding with simplicity and caution in this exposition of a sacred and mystical utterance, accommodate ourselves to the usage of Holy Scripture, which, m our human words, "speaketh wisdom hidden m a mystery; which commends the Divinity to our love by investing Him with human affections; and which, from the¹

familiar images of earthly objects, as from chalices of *' vile material, gives our human minds to drink things rare and precious, even the mysterious and invisible things of God. Let us, I say, follow the precedent of the chaste Scriptural narrative, and let us say that the Word of God, as the Divine Bridegroom of the soul, visits her and departs from her according to His good pleasure. Only we must remember that in all this there is question, not of any change or motion in the Word, but merely in the feelings of the soul herself. For example, whenever she experiences the consolations of grace, she acknowledges the presence of her Bridegroom. When she is deprived of such consolation, she complains of His absence, and begs Him to come back to her, saying with the Psalmist, "My heart hath said to Thee: my face hath sought Thee: Thy Face, O Lord, will I still seek." Why indeed should she not seek Him? Surely, after having been separated from so sweet a Bridegroom, she is incapable — I will not say of desiring, but even — of thinking of anything else. Therefore she cannot but seek Him when He is absent from her, and recall Him when He is going away. The Word, consequently, is recalled; He is recalled by the desire of the soul, yet only of that soul which He has once permitted to taste of His sweetness. Is not her desire a cry of the soul? Yea, and a strong cry. "The Lord hath heard the desire of the poor," as the Psalmist sings. Hence, when the Bridegroom withdraws, the soul, by her continuous desire of Him, keeps up one uninterrupted cry, as it were, one uninterrupted "Return, my Beloved," until He comes back to console her.

And now, my brethren, give me the soul that is wont to be visited often by her Divine Bridegroom, the soul that has daring from familiarity, a relish for spiritual delights from her experience of the same, and a sufficiency of leisure from her contempt of the world — show me such a soul and I will unhesitatingly assign to her both the voice and the name of the Spouse. Neither should I suppose it impossible to regard the words now under consideration as spoken by her. Indeed, it is a soul of this kind that is introduced here as speaker. For the fact of her recalling the Bridegroom proves beyond a doubt that she has already merited to enjoy His presence, although not to her heart's content. Otherwise, instead of asking Him to return, she would simply have asked Him to come. But the word she makes use of — revertere — signifies to come back or to return. And perhaps the reason of His retiring was in order that He might be more fervently recalled and clasped more strongly. For we read how once of old "He made as if He would go farther," not that He really desired to leave the disciples, but because He wanted to hear them say to Him, "Stay with us. Lord, because it is towards evening." On another occasion also He came walking upon the sea, whilst the apostles were plying the oars and "labouring in rowing"; and He made as if He would pass them by, although He had no such intention, but only wished to try their faith and to excite them to pray. For, as the Evangelist goes on to say, "They thought it was an apparition and they cried out; for thev all saw Him and were troubled." Therefore the same kind of pious simulation, or rather call it the same kind of salutary dispensation, which the Word in the flesh then visibly practised, the Word in the Spirit never ceases to exercise with unwearied diligence, yet in a spiritual way, in regard to the soul that is devoted to Him. When passing her by. He desires that she would lay hold of Him; and when going away, He wishes to be called back. For He is by no means an irrevocable Word. He goes away and He comes back according to His pleasure, visiting the soul "in the early morning and suddenly proving" her. His departure is always part of His special providence over her, whilst His return is ever due to the influence of His love. Both His goings and His comings are regulated by divine prudence. But the special motive of each is known only to Himself.

You now understand, my brethren, how these vicissitudes of the Word's retiring and returning are accomplished in the soul, according to what is written, "I go away, and I come unto you," also, "A little while and you shall not see Me, and again a little while and you shall see Me." 0 little while and little while! Oh, the long, long length of that little while! Sweet Lord, dost Thou call that a little while, the time in which we do not see Thee? Far be it from me to gainsay the word of my Lord, but to my mind it certainly seems a long while, yea a very long while. Nevertheless it may truly be described either as little or as long: it is little for our merits; it is long for our desires. You have all this in the Prophet Habacuc, where he says, "If (He) make any delay, wait for (Him) for He shall surely come and He shall not be slack." How shall He not be slack if He makes a delay, unless the meaning intended is that the haste which is sufficient for merit is not enough for desire? Now the loving soul is borne on by her feelings; she is drawn forward by her desires; she has no regard to merit; she closes her eyes to her Bridegroom's Majest' and opens them wide to the delights of His love, "setting them in her Saviour and dealing confidently in Him." For without the least fear or embarrassment she recalls the Word, and asks with confidence to be again allowed to enjoy the sweetness of His society; and using her wonted liberty she addresses Him not as her Lord, but as her Beloved. "Return, my Beloved," she cries. Then she goes on, "Be like to a roe or to a young hart upon the mountains of Bethel." But of this hereafter.

Now, my brethren, I will ask you to "bear with some little of my folly." I want to explain to you, according to promise, what has been my own experience in this matter. "It is not expedient indeed," but I will expose myself only for the sake of benefiting you. If what I shall have to say proves helpful to your progress, I shall console myself for my folly.; if not, I shall freely acknowledge my imprudence. I confess, therefore, that even to me—"I speak as it were in foolishness"—the Bridegroom has condescended to pay a visit, and indeed not once but many times. But although He has often come into my soul, I have never been able to ascertain the exact moment of His entrance. I have been conscious of His presence within me; I could afterwards recall that He had been present; sometimes I have even had a presentiment of His coming; yet I have never perceived Him either in the act of entering or in the act of retiring. Whence He comes to my soul, and whither He withdraws Himself on leaving me, and by what way He comes in, and by what goes out,— as to all these questions, I am still in ignorance, according to what we read in the Gospel, "Thou knowest not whence He cometh and whither He goeth." Nor is this surprising, since He is the Same to Whom the Psalmist says, "And Thy footsteps shall not be known." Certainly He does not enter through the eyes, for He has no colour; nor through the ears, since He makes no sound; nor through the organ of smell, because His mingling is with the mind, not with the atmosphere — He is the Author of the air, not its odour. Neither does He gain admission through the avenue of the mouth, because He is not anything which can be eaten or drunk. The sense of touch is equally powerless to attain to Him, since He is altogether intangible. By what way then, does He enter? Or perhaps it would be more correct to say that He does not enter at all, inasmuch as He is not any one of those things which exist outside us? But neither can He be said to come from within me, because He is good, and "I know there dwelleth not in me that which is good." I have ascended to what is highest in me, and behold! I have found the Word to be higher still. Influenced by a pious curiosity, I have descended to explore the lowest depths of my being, only to find that He was still deeper down. If I looked to my exterior, I perceived Him beyond what is outermost. And if I turned my gaze inward, I saw Him more interior than what is inmost. Then I realised the truth of what I had read, namely, that "in Him we live and move and be." But blessed is the soul in which He is also, which lives for Him and is moved by Him.

But then you will ask me how can I even tell that He is present, since "His ways are unsearchable"? I answer that "the Word of God is living and effectual"; and as soon as He enters, He arouses my slumbering soul. moves, softens, and wounds my heart, which before was so hard and stony, so wicked and corrupt. He also begins "to root up and to pull down, to build and to plant," to irrigate what was dry, to illuminate what was dark, to open what was shut, to heat what was cold, to "make the crooked straight and the rough ways plain," so that "my soul may bless the Lord, and all that is within me may bless His holy name." Whenever, therefore, the Divine Bridegroom visits my interior, as He often does. He gives no sign to indicate His entrance, whether by voice, by vision, or by the sound of His footsteps. For it is not to any movements on His part, nor to any activity of my own senses that I am indebted for the knowledge that He has come into my soul. I have been made conscious of His presence from the feelings of my heart, as mentioned already. The expulsion of vices and the repression of carnal affections have revealed to me the might of His virtue. His scrutiny and reproof of my secret sins have filled me with admiration for the profundity of His wisdom. I have experienced His goodness and gentleness in whatever httle improvement there has appeared in my life. He has shown me to some extent the "loveliness of His beauty" in the "renewal and reformation of the spirit of my mind," that is to say, of my interior man. And from the contemplation of all these perfections I have been overwhelmed with awe at the "multitude of His greatness."

Fiu-therfore, the departure of the Bridegroom has the same effect on such pious dispositions as the removal of the fire from beneath the boiling pot. Immediately all my fervour and devotion begins to relax, to languish, and to cool. It is by this change I come to know that He has withdrawn from me. Thereupon, my soul cannot but be a prey to sadness until He returns. And this shall be a sign to me that He has come back, when I feel my heart once more beginning to burn within me. After having so much experience of the goodness of the Word, is it any wonder, my brethren, if even I appropriated the words of the Spouse, calling on Him to return whenever He retires? For although there is no equality, there is at least some similarity between the desires which animate her and me. So long as I live, it shall be my custom to recall the Word by the word of recalling, which is "Return" (revertere). And as often as He escapes from me, so often will I call Him back. I will not cease to cry after Him, as He goes, with the fervent desire of my heart, calling on him to return and to "restore unto me the joy of His salvation," to restore unto me Himself. I confess to you, my children, that in the mean-time I can take no pleasure in anything else, since I have not Him Who is my only delight. And I beg of Him not to return to me empty, but "full of grace and truth," according to His custom, and as He has done yesterday and the day before. Herein, as it seems to me, the comparison of the roe and the young hart may be clearly exhibited, because truth has the eyes of the roe, and grace the hart's vivacity.

Both these things are necessary for me: truth, from which I cannot conceal myself; and grace, from which I am unwilling to hide. No divine visitation can be perfect if it brings either of them without the other. For truth, unaccompanied by grace, is capable of depressing the soul with its severity; whilst grace. dissociated from truth, has a tendency to relax by unduly elating her. The former is bitter unless it be seasoned with the latter, and the latter, if not restrained by the former, grows light and extravagant and not seldom over-bold. For how many has it been of no advantage to have received grace, because they did not receive with it the steadying ballast of truth! The consequence was that they began to take more complacency than was expedient in the grace bestowed upon them, whilst they lost the wholesome fear of the eyes of truth; and, paying no further attention to the roe's mature gravity, gave themselves up unreservedly to the giddiness and sprightHness of the young hart. Hence it came to pass that they were deprived altogether of the grace in which they wished to rejoice solely. To such as these it may be said, even though it be too late, "Go then and learn what this meaneth, ' Serve ye the Lord with fear, and rejoice unto Him with trembling.'" Thus, a certain holy soul in her "abundance said, ' I shall never be moved.'" But suddenly she perceived that the Word had turned away His Face from her, and then she became not only moved, but even "troubled."² And so she was taught by affliction that the gift of devotion suffices her not, unless it be accompanied by the counterpoise of truth. Therefore, my brethren, the fulness of grace does not consist of grace alone, nor does it consist of truth alone. For what does it avail us to know what we ought to do, if we are not also given the good will to act according to our knowledge? Or of what advantage is it to have the good will, if the power of accomplishment be lacking?³ How many have I known whom the knowledge of the truth rendered sadder than ever, and that for the reason that it was no longer in their power to plead ignorance as an excuse for their sins! For they were now as men who knew, yet refused to accomplish what truth demanded of them.

From what I have said it ought to be evident that grace without truth is insufficient, as also truth without grace. But this is saying too little. Not only is it not enough to possess one of these gifts without the other, but it is even inexpedient. What proof have I of this? "To him, therefore, who knoweth to do good and doth it not, to him it is sin." So speaks St. James. And Christ tells us in the Gospel that "the servant who knew the will of his Lord and did not according to His will, shall be beaten with many stripes." These testimonies demonstrate the inexpediency of truth without grace. But what of grace without truth? We read in St. John, "And after the morsel, Satan entered into him." The Evangelist is speaking of Judas, who although he had received the gift of grace, did not walk in truth with the Master of truth, or rather with the Master Who is Truth, and thus made room in himself for the devil. Listen now to the Psalmist, "He fed them with the fat of wheat, and filled them with honey out of the rock." Who are these so fed and filled? We are told in the preceding verse, "The enemies of the Lord have lied to Him." Therefore those whom He fed with fat and with honey, they lied to Him, because the gift of truth was not united in them with the gift of grace. Of the same persons we find in another place, "The children that are strangers have lied to me, strange children have faded away, and have halted from their paths." How indeed could they have helped halting since they were content to possess the one foot of grace without adding thereto the second of truth? Therefore it is written of the "enemies of the Lord" who "have lied to Him" that "their time (of punishment) shall be for ever"; just as the time of their leader, who "stood not in truth" but was a liar from the beginning, so that he deserved to hear it said to him, "Thou hast lost thy wisdom in thy beauty." For my part, I want no such beauty as would deprive me of wisdom.

Dost thou ask me, my brother, what is that beauty, so evil and so pernicious? It is thine own. But perchance thou art still without understanding? Then I will speak more plainly. It is the beauty which thou makest private and proper to thyself. I do not find fault with the gift of beauty but with thy abuse of it. Thou mayst perhaps have noticed how the devil is said to have lost his wisdom not simply in beauty, but in his own beauty. Now, unless I mistake, the beauty of an angel and of a soul is the same. For apart from wisdom, what is one or the other but a thing without shape or form? It was wisdom consequently that gave to Satan form and beauty. But he lost that wisdom when he made it his own. Hence it is the same thing to say "Thou hast lost thy wisdom in thy beauty" and "thou hast lost thy wisdom in thy wisdom." The cause of the loss was propriety. Because he was wise for himself, because he did not give glory to God, because he did not return thanks for favours bestowed, because he walked not according to truth in the grace he received, but neglecting the purpose for which it was given, used it for the satisfaction of his own will, — here is the reason why he was deprived of his wisdom. I should rather say, here is the cause which directly and of itself brought about the loss of his wisdom. For to possess wisdom in such manner is the same thing as to lose it. "If Abraham were justified by works," writes St. Paul, "he hath whereof to glory, but not before God." But I say that I can have nothing whereof to glory outside of God. I have lost whatever I do not possess before God. What can be so lost as that which is separated from Him? What is death but the privation of life? And so the only real loss consists in a separation from God. "Woe to you," exclaims the Prophet Isaias, "that are wise in your own eyes, and prudent in your own conceits." Of the same it is written, "I will destroy the wisdom of the wise; and the prudence of the prudent I will reject." They have lost true wisdom, because their own wisdom deprived them of it. How could they have retained anything since they themselves were lost? Or shall it be said that they are not lost whom God ignores?

Now those foolish virgins mentioned in the Gospel, whose foolishness, as I think, had no other cause than their boasting of wisdom, by which wisdom is lost — those, I say, shall hear from God the sentence of reprobation, "I know you not." They also, who use the grace of miracles as a means to their own glorification, they shall have addressed to them the words, "I never knew you." From this it is clear and manifest that grace profits nothing, but is rather a source of danger, if the purity of truth be not found in the intention. It is from the Bridegroom that both these gifts must be sought. For St. John Baptist declares that "grace and truth came by Jesus Christ." If ever, therefore, the Lord Jesus Christ (Who is the Word of God and the Bridegroom of souls) shall knock at my door, bringing with Him either truth without grace or grace without truth, I shall know that He comes not as a Bridegroom but as a Judge. God forbid that this should ever happen me! Let Him "enter not into judgment" with His servant. Let Him come in with peace, let Him come in with cheerfulness and gladness; but let His coming be also attended with gravity and sobriety, to the end that by fixing upon me the severe glance of truth He may repress my frowardness and chasten my joy. Let Him enter my soul as a bounding hart and at the same time as a watchful roe, so that He may, by dissembling, skip over my faults, and out of compassion have regard to the pains which I suffer. Let Him come into me as if descending from "the mountains of Bethel," all radiant and blissful; or as proceeding from the Father, in sweetness and mildness. For thus He will not disdain to be called and to become the Bridegroom of the soul that seeks Him, although He is over all things, God blessed for ever. Amen.

Footnotes

1. Cf. vol. i. p. 33.— (Translator.) ↩

2. Cf. Imitation of Christ, Bk. II. ch. o; also, vol. i. p. 212.— (Translator.) ↩

3. "Quid prodest scire quid te opporteat facere si non detur et velle facere? Quid si velis quidem sed minime possis?" The Saint of course does not mean to insinuate that to will to do good is of no avail unless followed by external accomplishment, which of itself, as is commonly supposed, can contribute nothing to the morality of the interior act. He is simply distinguishing between a desire or inefficacious will (sometimes called a velleity) and a firm determination. In relation to the former, which is a mere complacency or hypothetical will, v.g., I should like to save my soul if it could be done without inconvenience, the latter may be rightly called accomplishment. It is in the same sense the Apostle says, in the person of a sinner, "To will is present with me, but to accomplish that which is good I find not. For the good which I will, I do not; but the evil which I will not, that I do" (Rom. vii. 19, 20). — (Translator.) ↩