of her teaching is not different from usual. The shortness of
life, the certainty of judgment, the necessity of faith and
repentance, are more or less the topics of her teaching at all
times of the year. But this teaching is ordinarily given to the
assembled congregation, to crowds, to multitudes. But to-day she
speaks to us as individuals. She summons us, one by one, young
and old, and, as we kneel before her, she says to us, while she
scatters dust on our foreheads, "Dust thou art, and unto dust
thou shalt return." It is in this individual and personal
character of her warning that I find its special significance and
impressiveness. There is no mistaking what she means. "Remember,
O man, that thou art dust, and unto dust shalt thou return." She
separates each one of us from all others, and gives her message
to him in particular. It is an emphatic mode of conveying St.
Paul's admonition to St. Timothy: "Take heed to thyself."
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If we take only the sound of the words, it might seem that no
such admonition was necessary. For, in one sense, men attend to
themselves quite enough. But, in fact, there is more than one
self in a man. There is the self that is made up of our passions,
our failings and disgusts, our comforts and conveniences: this is
the self that speaks so loudly in the heart, and obtrudes itself
so disagreeably on others. This, when indulged, is what we call
selfishness, and this it is which it is one main object of
religion to repress. But there is another self in a man, his true
and noble self, that self which makes him an individual being,
which asserts itself most distinctly in that part of his soul
where it comes into closest contact with God, namely, his
conscience. And this self it is very possible for men to forget.
A man may be a priest and have the care of souls, and be employed
in preaching and administering the sacraments, or he may be a
bishop, and live an active life in governing his church, and yet
he may forget himself in this sense. St. Timothy was a bishop, a
sharer in apostolic character and apostolic gifts, and yet St.
Paul did not think it unnecessary to give him the warning of the
text. How must, then, a man forget himself whose occupation is
more secular? Tell me: those eager crowds one meets with in the
streets, hurrying hither and thither, do you think each one of
these realizes that in some sense there is no other in the world
but God and he? Or in a crowded church, on Sunday, when the
preacher, in God's name, is enforcing this duty, or denouncing
that vice, that woman sitting in the pew, that man standing in
the aisle, does he, does she realize that the words are spoken to
them individually, that it is a lesson they are to lay to
heart--to practise? No! I must say what I think, that there are
some who pass through life, from the cradle to the grave, almost
without ever once fully awakening to their own
self-consciousness; to their own individual existence, apart from
the world around them; and their own individual relations to God.
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A man may even practise his religion, may know a great deal about
it, may talk about it, may listen to every word of the sermon in
the church, may say his night prayers, may even go through some
kind of a confession and communion, without fully awaking to
these things. Paradoxical as it may seem, I believe that there
are not a few men, who, of all persons in the world of whom they
have any knowledge, are on terms of the slightest and most
distant acquaintance with themselves.
And I will give you one proof that this is true. You know how
troubled many men are in sickness, or on a sleepless night, or in
times of great calamity. Some persons are greatly troubled in a
storm, when the thunder rolls over their heads, and the lightning
flashes in their eyes. Now, of course, nervousness, physical
causes, mental laws, and social considerations, may enter more or
less into the production of this uneasiness, but is there not
very often something deeper than any of these? Is it not
something that the man has done yesterday, or last week, or last
year, and that he has never set right; some unjust transaction,
some evil deed, some act of gross neglect of duty, some miserable
passion cherished, some impure words spoken, some cruelty or
shrinking from what is right, or falsehood, or mischief-making.
It is not a matter of imagination. It is not fancy, but fact. He
remembers but too well; he knows when it was done, and all the
consequences of it, every thing comes up distinctly. He shuts his
eyes, but he cannot shut it out. You know the clock ticks all day
long; amid the various cares of the day you do not hear it, but
oh, how distinct and loud it is at night when your ear catches
it. Did you ever have an aching tooth, which you could just
manage to bear during the excitement of the day, but which began
to throb and become intolerable when all was still at night, and
you had gone to bed? So the uneasiness I have denoted is a real
pain of the soul, which we manage to keep down and forget, or
deaden, during our seasons of business and enterprise, but in
hours of loneliness and danger makes itself felt.
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And what does this show but that you do not attend to your real
self; that there is some dark corner of your heart in which you
fear to look. You keep the veil down, because you know there is a
skeleton behind it and you are afraid to look at it. And so you
go through life, playing a part, something that you are not, with
smiles on your lips and honeyed words in your mouth, laughing and
jesting, eating and drinking and sleeping, working and trading,
going in and out, paying visits and receiving them, seeking
admiration and flattering others, while all the while, deep down
in your soul, there is that nameless something, that grief like
lead in the bottom of your heart, that wound that you are afraid
to probe, or to uncover, or even to acknowledge.
And now, it is this deceitful way in which men deal with
themselves, this forgetfulness of themselves, that makes death
and judgment so terrible. Death brings out the individuality of
the soul in the most distinct light. Every thing that hides us
from ourselves shall then be removed, every veil and shred torn
away, and only ourselves shall remain. A well-known writer has
expressed this in a few short words: "I shall die alone;" and the
same thought is suggested by the language of the Gospel in
reference to the end of the world: "Two men shall be in the
field, one shall be taken and the other left. Two women shall be
grinding at the mill, one shall be taken and the other left." One
shall be taken, and he shall be taken alone--out of all the
surroundings which have enveloped him here like an atmosphere,
and into which he has been fitted like a long-worn garment. When
our first parents heard the voice of the Lord God calling to them
in the garden after the fall, they hid themselves, and Adam said:
"I was afraid, because I was naked, and I hid myself." So will it
be when the soul stands "before God in its nakedness, ashamed
because of its guilty self-consciousness.
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So it was with the rich man in our Lord's parable. He lived like
the multitude. He had four brothers, and they were all alike.
They had heard the sermons of Moses and the Prophets, but little
did they think it all concerned them. But at last one of them
died, and then he woke up to himself. His life is all before him.
"Thou in thy lifetime receivedst thy good things." That was the
story of it. He sees it all now: he sees what a glutton, what a
proud, hardhearted, avaricious man he had been; he sees what a
creature of sensuality and self-indulgence he is. Very different
is his judgment of himself now, from what it was when, in his
purple robes, he revelled in his banqueting-hall, the air heavy
with perfume, and the table flowing with silver and flowers, and
the slaves bringing in the costly dishes, while Lazarus, the
beggar, sat at his gates, full of sores, and hungering for the
crumbs that fell from his table. And so it will be with us:
awakened to a full consciousness that our relations to God are
the only reality. Stripped of all the circumstances that deceived
and misled and blinded us here; with conscience fully awakened,
with all the consequences of sin open before me and all its guilt
manifest; I shall be brought face to face with myself, with what
I am, with what I have been, with what I have done, with my sins,
and my self-will, and my pride. Yes, this is the real terror of
death and judgment. We think its fearfulness will be in the
frowning Judge, and the throne set amid thunder and lightnings.
Oh, no! the Judge does not frown, He is calm and serene. He sits
radiant in beauty and grace. "When these things begin to come to
pass," says the evangelist, speaking of the signs of the end of
the world, "then look up and lift up your heads, for your
redemption draweth nigh." No! Christ is not transported with
anger. He is always the same; but the way of His coming is
different as they to whom He comes are different. The object is
unchanged, but the medium through which we view it will be
different.
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There shall be an apparition of terror to the wicked, but it will
not be Christ, it will be themselves. The face of Christ shall be
a mirror in which each man shall see himself. Young man, after
your career of vice and profligacy, you shall see yourself, the
moral leper that you are. There the extortioner, the fraudulent
merchant, shall see himself as he is, the unconvicted thief and
robber; there the unfaithful husband or wife shall see themselves
branded with the mark that tells their shame. The proud woman
shall see there the deep stains of her soul in all their
blackness, and her worldly, guilty heart, all laid bare. O sight
of piercing anguish! "O hills and mountains fall on us, and cover
us, and hide us from the wrath of God and of the Lamb." But no,
it is not from the wrath of God and of the Lamb, that we need to
be hidden, it is from ourselves. Which way I fly is hell, myself
am hell. A lost destiny, an existence bestowed in vain. A life
passed as a dream; capacities for happiness never used; graces
refused; time gone; opportunity lost; not merely a law broken, a
punishment inflicted; but I, myself, with my supernatural grace
and destiny--I, with all my lofty hopes and powers--I, ruined and
crushed forever: that is the hopeless, boundless misery. This is
the sore affliction of the guilty after death; and it is the
dread of this dismay that keeps thee trembling all thy life. But,
on the other hand, for a man to face himself, to excite himself
to a consciousness of his own individuality, and to a fulfilment
of his own personal obligation to God, is the way to a peaceful
and happy life. The Scripture uses a notable expression when
describing the return of the prodigal: "He came to himself;" and
in our ordinary language, when we wish to express the idea of a
man's seriously reflecting on his destiny and duty, we say he
enters into himself. These expressions are full of significance.
They teach us that something is to be done that no one can do for
us. Others can help us here, but each one for himself must make
his own individual and personal election sure.
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Each must go down into his own heart, search out all the dark
corners, repent of its sins, resist its passions, direct its aims
and desires. It is not a work done in a day. It is sometimes a
difficult work. There are times in which it pierces to the very
quick of our sensitive being, but it is the real and only way to
true peace. And oh! it is true and living peace when the soul in
its deepest centre is anchored to God; when nothing is covered
over, nothing kept from His sight. There may be imperfections,
there may be sins and repentances, but there must be, when such a
course is habitual, a true and growing peace. Do not look abroad,
my brethren, for your happiness. It is to be found in yourselves.
Happy he who knows the meaning of that word: "My God and I." This
is to walk with God like Abraham. Of this man the Almighty says,
as he did of Jacob, "I have known thee by thy name." His
relations to God are not merely those general ones that grow out
of creation and redemption: to him God is his life, his very
being, the soul of his soul.
To-day, my brethren, if I have led your thoughts in the direction
I have wished, you see that each one of you has a great work to
do, that he must do himself. It will not do for you that you have
had a pious mother or a good wife. It is not enough that some one
around you, who lives near you, or sits near you in the church,
is a good Christian. It is not enough that you are a Catholic,
one of the vast body of believers in the world. Religion is a
personal, individual thing. All other men in the world may stand
or fall: that does not affect you. Each one of us has his own
independent position before God. If you are one of a family, if
you live in a house with others, or work in a room with many
companions, if you are one of a gang of laborers, or a clerk in
an office where many others are employed, or a scholar in a
school where there are many others of your age, there is a circle
around you that separates you from each one of your companions.
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If you were to die to-night, your sentence would be different
from that of every other. It might be contrary to those of all
the others. They might be friends of God, and you His only enemy.
And the difference would be not from any outward cause, but from
yourself. "_I shall see God_," says the prophet, "_whom I
myself shall see, and my eyes shall behold and not another_."
[Footnote 66] And now, if your conscience tells you that there is
something unsatisfactory in your character, something sinful in
your conduct, it is for you to set it right, and to do it without
delay. It is the first duty of Lent. The forty days of grace and
penance are given for redeeming our sins and saving our souls.
What, then, should be each one's resolution? I will enter into
myself, not _we_ will do this, or I will do it if my friend
does, but _I, myself_, I will enter into myself. I will ask
myself what this strange, mysterious life of mine in earnest
means, and whether I am to-day advancing to my destiny. I will
break off my sins, and I will pray. It is in prayer that I shall
understand my duty. It is in God that I shall find myself. The
solemn words of the Church shall not be uttered in vain for me:
"Thou art dust, and unto dust thou shalt return." How many have
heard that warning and are now no more. The young have died, the
old, the pious, the careless, the rich, and the poor, and each
has gone to his own place, the place and portion fitted to his
deeds and his character. Perhaps it will not be very long before
these words will be verified in me. The Mass shall be said for
me, the holy water sprinkled over my lifeless form. What shall it
then profit me what others have said in my favor or against me? I
shall be simply what I am before God. "_What shall it profit a
man to gain the whole world and lose his own soul?" "I shall see
God, whom I myself shall see, and my eyes shall behold and not
another_."
[Footnote 66: Job xix. 27.]
NOTE--This appears to be the last sermon which F. Baker wrote. It
was preached on the evening of the Ash-Wednesday before his death
as the first of the Lenten Course of Sermons.
------------------------------------------
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Sermon XI.
The Negligent Christian.
(Third Sunday In Lent.)
"He that is not with Me is against Me;
and he that gathereth not with Me, scattereth."
--St. Luke XI. 23.
There are many seeds planted in the ground that never come up.
There is a great deal of fruit on the trees that never comes to
ripeness. So among Christians there is a great deal of good that
always remains incomplete and inadequate. Who of us has not seen
such? Who of us does not know such? They have some faith, some
religion, but they bring no fruit to perfection. Now, what is the
blight that destroys all their goodness? It is sloth, negligence,
tepidity, call it what you will. Religion influences them, but
does not control them. They do not reject it, but they do not
obey it, at least consistently and in principle. They are languid
Christians. They are not the worst, but they are not good. They
seek with eagerness the pleasures of the world, and make no
conscience of avoiding smaller sins, even when wilful and
deliberate. They neglect the means of grace, prayer, sermons, and
sacraments, with but little scruple, or approach them carelessly.
They allow themselves a close familiarity with evil, dally with
temptation, and now and then fall into mortal sin. So they go
through life, conscious that they are living an unsatisfactory
life, but making no vigorous efforts to better it. It is of such
men that I would speak this morning; and I propose to show how
displeasing this negligence of our salvation is to God, and how
dangerous it is to ourselves.
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The negligent Christian displeases God because he does not fulfil
the end for which he was created. What is the end for which God
created us? Certainly it is not for ourselves, for before God
created us we were not, and could not have been the end for which
He made us. He must have made us for Himself, for His glory. Yes,
this is the end for which He does every thing, for Himself. From
the very fact that we are created, our end must be to love and
serve God. We are bound, then, to love and serve God, and we are
bound to do it with perfection and alacrity. What kind of
creature is that which renders to God a reluctant and imperfect
service? Suppose a king were to appoint a day to receive the
homage of his subjects, and while he was holding his court, and
one after another was coming forward to kiss his hand or bend the
knee, some one, ill-attired, and with slovenly demeanor, should
approach and offer a heedless reverence. Would it not be taken as
an act of contempt and an offence? Now, God is our King, and He
holds a levee every morning and invites the creation to renew its
homage. The world puts on its best array. The sun comes forth as
a bridegroom out of his chamber, and rejoiceth as a giant to run
his course. The mountains and hills clothe themselves in blue,
and the trees put on their robes of green. The birds sing, and
the waters move and sparkle. Holy and humble men of heart rise
from their beds to enter on their daily course of duty and of
prayer, while within the veil the spirits of the just and the ten
thousand times ten thousand angels bow before the Throne of Him
that lives forever. And now in this great Act of Praise, this
ceaseless sacrifice that creation is offering to its Maker, there
comes in the negligent Christian, cold, distracted, and
unprepared to take his part. He does not kneel down to pray. He
goes to work without a blessing. He does not think of God. Nay,
in His very presence says and does unseemly things. Oh! is he not
a blot on the scene? Is not his presence an offence?
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In the Old Testament, God complains of the Jewish priests because
they brought to Him the halt and the blind and the sick for
sacrifice. He says: "Offer it now to thy prince, will _he_
be pleased with it, or will _he_ regard thy face?" [Footnote 67]
[Footnote 67: Mal. i. 8.]
So in like manner, negligent Christian, God complains of you. You
bring to Him a "lame sacrifice," those feet of thine that stumble
so often in the way of justice; a "blind" and "sick sacrifice,"
that heart of thine, so fond of the world and so weak in the love
of God.
Yes, God requires of us all fervor and perfection--of each one of
us. It is a great mistake to suppose that perfection is required
only of priests or religious; it is required of every one. We are
not all required to seek perfection in the same way. The married
seek it in one way, the unmarried in another. The man of business
seeks it one way, the recluse in another. But everyone is
required to seek it in such way as accords with his state in
life. "That is a faithful servant," says St. Gregory, "who
preserves every day, to the end of his life, an inexhaustible
fervor, and who never ceases to add fire to fire, ardor to ardor,
desire to desire, and zeal to zeal." Our own hearts tell us this
when they are really under the influence of the Spirit of God.
Take a man at his first conversion, either to the faith or to a
good life, and how fervent he is! It is not enough for him to
come to Mass always on a Sunday, he will come now and then on a
week-day. It is not enough for him to keep from what is sinful,
he will not allow himself all that is innocent. He does not think
of bargaining with God. This is his thought--that God is All, and
he is a creature, and that God deserves his best, his all.
By-and-by, alas! as he becomes unfaithful, another spirit comes
over him. He asks: "Is this binding under mortal sin? That duty
is irksome; is it a great matter if I omit it now and then?" God
tells us what he thinks of such a man in the parable of the
Talents.
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When the Lord came to reckon with his servants, he that had
received one talent came and said, "_Lord, I know that thou art
a hard man, thou reapest where thou hast not sown, and gatherest
where thou hast not strewed. And being afraid, I went and hid thy
talent in the earth_." And his Lord in answer said to him:
"_Thou wicked and slothful servant! thou knewest that I reap
where I sow not and gather where I have not strewed. Thou
oughtest therefore to have committed my money to the bankers, and
at my coming I should have received my own with usury. Cast ye
the unprofitable servant into exterior darkness_." [Footnote 68]
[Footnote 68: St. Matt. xxv. 24.]
Again, if fervor in our duties is due to God as our Creator, it
is none the less due to Christ as our Redeemer. Oh, how strong
are the words of St. Paul: "_The love of Christ presseth us;
judging this, that if one died for all, then were all dead. And
Christ died for all, that they also that live may not now live to
themselves but to Him who died for them_." [Footnote 69]
[Footnote 69: II. Cor. v. 14.]