_THE DAWN OF SPIRITUAL LIGHT._
I had been in the convent now for some eight years, striving after
perfection; but a wearisome task it was, ever striving to observe all the
minutiæ of convent rules, ever confessing every little deviation from
the three vows aforementioned. I had been taught that baptism had made
me a child of God; that original sin had, by virtue of that rite, been
taken away; but that, subsequently, if I wished to retain God’s favour, I
must confess every sin of omission and commission, in thought, word and
deed; and that should I conceal wilfully any matter, however trivial,
my eternal salvation would be endangered by any such concealment. It is
perhaps difficult for those who have never been under such a hard yoke to
imagine the mental torture such a system creates. I was often filled with
fear lest I had not remembered _everything_, and it is no easy matter to
look back through a whole life and lay everything bare before God, in the
presence of a man, whom we are told to forget entirely, and think we are
but repeating everything to God, who knows all beforehand, but who wills
that we should come to Him in this way; and whatever shame is felt in
thus opening our hearts and all its windings, must be accepted willingly
as a small suffering for our sins. Sometimes a matter seems so silly or
trivial that one thinks it not necessary to confess it. But the very fact
of not wishing to confess it proves it to be wrong, and therefore it must
be confessed. For years I went thus to confession, conscientiously and
scrupulously declaring the whole of my inner and outer life. Thus did I
strive to find the peace I so longed for, and I must say I did enjoy a
certain satisfaction of mind until I inadvertently broke some convent
rule. A sin of anger would be mortal; and had I died without confession
of this sin to a priest and obtaining absolution, there would have been
very little, if any, hope of my soul’s salvation. I would often confess,
and weep tears of real pain and bitter sorrow at my ingratitude to God,
after His wonderful condescension in calling me into the “Religious
Life,” while so many who possibly would have grown far holier than myself
were left in the world, never even having the opportunity of gaining so
bright a crown, or of being so near to Jesus hereafter. I would resolve
and pray that I might never do anything wrong against rule (the rule is
the nun’s guide to perfection, it being the only way that God intends her
to reach perfection) or anything else; and to attain this perfect state,
I would often spend my recreation and sleep time in making novenas to the
blessed Virgin, reciting the Rosary and Litany of the blessed Virgin, or
in invoking the saints; but they never seemed to answer me, and even when
I redoubled my efforts, I sought their help in vain.
It was very difficult for me not to break rule sometimes, and often it
would be impossible to perform obedience, as we had sometimes half a
dozen obediences to fulfil at the same time, or we had some order given,
and when it was accomplished, we would be severely reproved for taking
upon us to dare to do such or such things; and should we try and explain
our conduct, by that very explanation at least half a dozen rules were
broken straightway, namely, silence broken, self-justification, answering
the Superior, unwillingness to take unjust rebuke with great gratitude,
etc., for all of which we had hard penances imposed. The result was that
at times I was in a state of continual penance, and consequently in
prolonged disgrace, whilst some sisters who were not so conscientious in
confessing faults, and doing penances prescribed by rule, were deemed
far holier and much higher up the ladder than myself. At last I thought
myself so bad that I literally _despaired_ of ever reaching perfection,
or of going to heaven at all. But my Father Confessor did not think me
so bad, and, in fact, he flattered me, and declared that he thought very
highly of me; but this only tended to alarm me, as I thought I must be
deceiving myself and him too, and I told him this, but he assured me that
I must not think so, and that he felt sure I could not have such a bad
opinion of myself. However, for months and months I was afraid to go to
sleep lest I should awake in hell; and I was equally afraid to get up
lest some accident should come upon me, and then I should be cast into
perdition. So I was always asking to go to confession at every little
fault or breach of rule.
At last the climax came, when one day the following passage from the
writings of St. Alphonsus Liguori was read aloud: “A soul may yet be
damned for sins which have already been confessed.” How to keep silence I
knew not, for I felt how terribly I had been deceived in being told that
sin confessed is sin forgiven. The next day I asked leave to go to my
Father Confessor, and when I was in his presence he asked me:
“Sister Agnes, have you come to confession?”
I replied, “No, I have not, for I don’t believe in confession, or in
anything, or anybody, or even in myself, and I scarcely believe there is
a God at all.”
“Dear sister, what is the matter with you? I have never seen you like
this before. I always thought you very good.”
Then I quoted the words of Liguori which had so upset me, and added:
“You told me that everything I confessed was forgiven, and I believed
you; but now I find it is not true.”
He made at once the best explanation he could of Liguori’s meaning,
reconciling the words with his own apparently contradictory statement:
both were right then. Be that as it may, I think that from that day I
lost faith in the value and efficacy of confession, though I was obliged
still to go to it.
It was just at this phase of my experience that I began to think about
certain teaching that I had heard vague and indistinct rumours of;
namely, that salvation was wholly the work _finished_ for sinners by the
Saviour’s atoning blood. I had fancied that there was no truth in this,
and had imagined it was some new doctrine introduced by Methodists.
Finding myself in such a dilemma, I began to think a good deal about this
doctrine, and at last I heartily wished it was true. But I had been so
long taught that sacraments were the only sure way to heaven, that I had
much to do, and after doing my utmost, I must look to Christ’s work, so
to speak, to supply my deficiencies, and that only when I appeared in the
presence of God after this mortal life could the great question of my
salvation be settled. I had so long been living under the influence of
such teaching that it may be easily seen I was not very ready to accept
any other form of doctrine. Yet I could not get the new idea out of my
head. I somehow felt convinced of the truth of it, but I was as yet too
fast bound in the old chains, and in this state of hovering between two
opinions I remained for some time, until at length one night I made up
my mind I would not sleep till I had settled the question between my own
soul and God. The result of this decision was that I determined to lay
down at the feet of Jesus all my sins, sorrows, and failings, and even
my best intentions, and just to trust in His _finished_ work. I thought
I had actually done this, and soon fell asleep; but on awaking I felt
greatly disappointed, and, kneeling down before the crucifix in my cell,
I confessed to Christ how bitterly I had been disappointed in finding
that in trusting in His finished work, I had not been able to find
anything beyond a very momentary peace. It was whilst thus kneeling I
felt—as truly I thought as it is represented in “Pilgrim’s Progress”—the
whole burden of everything roll off, and a new life seemed then to thrill
through me.
I had now been, as I have already said, a nun for about eight years, but
my new experience did not force me out of the old routine of convent
life. I quite well remember that Father Ignatius sometimes taught a
doctrine very closely allied to that which I seemed lately so attracted
by, but he muddled it up with a lot of teaching that seemed to contradict
it. He certainly taught that all the sacramental superstructure,
saint-worship, confession, etc., were only acceptable to God after we had
received Christ, and thus it was that I was somehow led to believe that
my new experience was right, but yet that my old life need not be set
aside. I remember I was rather strengthened to continue with new vigour
my self-imposed religiousness. Thus I continued, and it was only after an
experience of some seventeen years that I saw that convent life—and any
other life but that of the faith of the Son of God, who loved me and gave
His life for me—was nothing else but a delusion.