"The world is out of tune, my son, and the heart is out of tune. The
more our souls vibrate truly to the music of heaven, the more, perhaps,
they must feel the discords of earth. At least it was so with Brother
Martin; until at last, omitting a prostration or a genuflexion would
weigh on his conscience like a crime. Once, after missing him for some
time, we went to the door of his cell, and knocked. It was barred, and
all our knocking drew no response. We broke open the door at last, and
found him stretched senseless on the floor. We only succeeded in
reviving him by strains of sacred music, chanted by the choristers, whom
we brought to his cell. He always dearly loved music, and believed it to
have a strange potency against the wiles of the devil."
"He must have suffered grievously," I said. "I suppose it is by such
sufferings merit is acquired to aid others."
"He did suffer agonies of mind," replied the old monk. "Often he would
walk up and down the cold corridors for nights together."
"Did nothing comfort him?" I asked.
"Yes, my son; some words I once said to him comforted him greatly. Once,
when I found him in an agony of despondency in his cell, I said,
'Brother Martin, dost thou believe in "the forgiveness of sins," as
saith the Creed?' His face lighted up at once."
"The forgiveness of sins!" I repeated slowly. "Father, I also believe in
that. But forgiveness only follows on contrition, confession, and
penance. How can I ever be sure that I have been sufficiently contrite,
that I have made an honest and complete confession, or that I have
performed my penance aright?"
"Ah, my son," said the old man, "these were exactly Brother Martin's
perplexities, and I could only point him to the crucified Lord, and
remind him again of the forgiveness of sins. All we do is incomplete,
and when the blessed Lord says He forgiveth sins, I suppose He means the
sins of _sinners_, who sin in their confession as in everything else. My
son, He is more compassionate than you think, perhaps than any of us
think. At least this is my comfort; and if, when I stand before Him at
last, I find I have made a mistake, and thought Him more compassionate
than He is, I trust He will pardon me. It can scarcely, I think, grieve
Him so much as declaring Him to be a hard master would."
I did not say anything more to the old man. His words so evidently were
strength and joy to him, that I could not venture to question them
further. To me, also, they have given a gleam of hope. And yet, if the
way is not rough and difficult, and if it is not a hard thing to please
Almighty God, why all those severe rules and renunciations--those heavy
penances for trifling offences?
Merciful we know He is. But the emperor may be merciful; and yet, if a
peasant were to attempt to enter the imperial presence without the
prescribed forms, would he not be driven from the palace with curses, at
the point of the sword? And what are those rules at the court of heaven?
If perfect purity of heart and life, who can lay claim to that?
If a minute attention to the rules of an order such as this of St.
Augustine, who can be sure of having never failed in this? The
inattention which caused the neglect would probably let it glide from
the memory. And then, what is the worth of confession?
Christ is the Saviour, but only of those who follow him. There _is_
forgiveness of sins, but only for those who make adequate confession. I,
alas! have not followed him fully. What priest on earth can assure me I
have ever confessed fully?
Therefore I see Him merciful, gracious, holy--a Saviour, but seated on a
high throne, where I can never be sure petitions of mine will reach him;
and, alas! one day to be seated on a great white throne, whence it is
too sure his summoning voice will reach me.
Mary, mother of God, Virgin of virgins, mother of divine grace--holy
Sebastian and all martyrs--great father Augustine and all holy doctors,
intercede for me, that my penances may be accepted as a satisfaction for
my sins, and may pacify my Judge.
_March_ 25.--ANNUNCIATION OF THE HOLY VIRGIN.
My preceptor has put into my hands the Bible bound in red morocco which
Brother Martin, he says, used to read so much. I am to study it in all
the intervals which the study of the fathers, expeditions for begging,
the services of the Church, and the menial offices in the house which
fall to the share of novices, allow. These are not many. I have never
had a Bible in my hands before, and the hours pass quickly indeed in my
cell which I can spend in reading it. The preceptor, when he comes to
call me for the midnight service, often finds me still reading.
It is very different from what I expected. There is nothing oratorical
in it, there are no laboured disquisitions, and no minute rules, at
least in the New Testament.
I wish sometimes I had lived in the Old Jewish times, when there was one
temple wherein to worship, certain definite feasts to celebrate, certain
definite ceremonial rules to keep.
If I could have stood in the Temple courts on that great day of
atonement, and seen the victim slain, and watched till the high priest
came out from the holy place with his hands lifted up in benediction, I
should have known absolutely that God was satisfied, and returned to my
home in peace. Yes, to my _home_! there were no monasteries, apparently,
in those Jewish times. Family life was God's appointment then, and
family affections had his most solemn sanctions.
In the New Testament, on the contrary, I cannot find any of those
definite rules. It is all addressed to the heart; and who can make the
heart right? I suppose it is the conviction of this which has made the
Church since then restore many minute rules and discipline, in imitation
of the Jewish ceremonial; for in the Gospels and Epistles I can find no
ritual, ceremonial, or definite external rules of any kind.
What advantage, then, has the New Testament over the old? Christ has
come. "God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son." This
_ought_ surely to make a great difference between us and the Jews. But
how?
_April_ 9.--ST. GREGORY OF NYSSA.
I have found, in my reading to-day, the end of Eva's sentence--"God so
loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, _that whosoever
believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life_."
How simple the words are!--"Believeth;" that would mean, in any other
book, "trusteth," "has reliance" in Christ;--simply to confide in him,
and then receive his promise not to perish.
But _here_--in this book, in theology--it is necessarily impossible that
believing can mean anything so simple as that; because, at that rate,
any one who merely came to the Lord Jesus Christ in confiding trust
would have everlasting life, without any further conditions; and this is
obviously out of the question.
For what can be more simple than to confide in one worthy of confidence?
and what can be greater than everlasting life?
And yet we know, from all the teaching of the doctors and fathers of the
Church, that nothing is more difficult than obtaining everlasting life;
and that, for this reason, monastic orders, pilgrimages, penances, have
been multiplied from century to century; for this reason saints have
forsaken every earthly joy, and inflicted on themselves every possible
torment;--all to obtain everlasting life, which, if this word
"believeth" meant here what it would mean anywhere but in theology,
would be offered freely to every petitioner.
Wherefore it is clear that "believeth," in the Scriptures, means
something entirely different from what it does in any secular book, and
must include contrition, confession, penance, satisfaction,
mortification of the flesh, and all else necessary to salvation.
Shall I venture to send this end of Eva's sentence to her?
It might mislead her. Dare I for her sake?--dare I still more for my
own?
One hour I have sat before this question; and whither has my heart
wandered? What confession can retrace the flood of bitter thoughts which
have rushed over me in this one hour?
I had watched her grow from childhood into early womanhood; and until
these last months, until that week of anguish, I had thought of her as a
creature between a child and an angel. I had loved her as a sister who
had yet a mystery and a charm about her different from a sister. Only
when it seemed that death might separate us did it burst upon me that
there was something in my affection for her which made her not one among
others, but in some strange sacred sense the only one on earth to me.
And as I recovered came the hopes I must never more recall, which made
all life like the woods in spring, and my heart like a full river set
free from its ice-fetters, and flowing through the world in a tide of
blessing.
I thought of a home which might be, I thought of a sacrament which
should transubstantiate all life into a symbol of heaven, a home which
was to be peaceful and sacred as a church, because of the meek and pure,
and heavenly creature who should minister and reign there.
An then came to me that terrible vision of a city smitten by the
pestilence which I had brought, with the recollection of the impulse I
had had in the forest at midnight, and more than once since then, to
take the monastic vows. I felt I was like Jonah flying from God; yet
still I hesitated until she was stricken. And then I yielded. I vowed if
she were saved I would become a monk.
Not till she was stricken, whose loss would have made the whole world a
blank to me: not till the sacrifice was worthless,--did I make it! And
will God accept such a sacrifice as this?
At least Brother Martin had not this to reproach himself with. He did
not delay his conversion until his whole being had become possessed by
an image no prayers can erase; nay, which prayer and holy meditations on
heaven itself, only rivet on the heart, as the purest reflection of
heaven memory can recall.
Brother Martin, at least did not trifle with his vocation until too
late.