of this world, likes and dislikes--all of these being subtle temptations,
and all selfish. For instance, very often I find the human voice the
most horrible thing that I know! I will be in a beautiful state of mind,
and people around me will drag me from it with their maddening
inanities of conversation. This one will speak of the weather, and
that one of food; another of scandal, another of amusements. They
will talk of their love for a dog, for a horse, for golf, for men or
women; but never do I hear at any time, or anywhere, anyone speak
of their love for God. I must listen to all their loves, but if I should
venture to speak of mine they would look at me amazed; indeed, I
never should dare to do it. And this is perhaps the greatest weakness
that I have to fight against now, and one that spoils the harmony of
the mind more than any other--that I cannot always control myself
from secret though unspoken irritation, impatience, and criticisms;
and to criticise is to judge, and in this there is wrong, and the
smallest breeze of wrong is enough to blow to--even to close--the
door into that other lovely world. And not only this, but every such
failure is a disappointment to the Beloved. Many times I say to Him,
"What canst Thou do with us all, Beloved--such a mass of selfish,
foolish, blundering, sinful creatures, all hanging and pulling on to
Thee at the same moment?" And I will be filled with a passionate
desire to so progress that I may stand a little alone and not be a
perpetual drag upon Him, and, feeling strong, perhaps I will say: "I
will give up my share of Thee to someone else, and not draw upon
Thee for a little while, my Beloved Lord." But oh, in less than an
hour, if He should take me at my word! I could cry and moan like a
small child, in my horrible emptiness and longing for Him. And
where now is my strength?--I have not an ounce of it without Him!
By this I learn in my own person how He is life itself to us, in all
ways. He is the air, the bread, and the blood of the soul, and no one
can live without at every moment drawing upon Him, though they
do it insensibly. What a weight to carry, what a burden, this whole
hungry clamouring mass of disobedient men and women! Oh, my
Beloved, how frequently I weep for all Thy bitter disappointment--never
ending!
But this we may be sure of--that all the marvels of His grace are not
poured out on some poor scrappit for no other reason than to give
him pleasure. There is a vast purpose behind it all, and by keenest
attention we must pick up this purpose, understand it, _and do it._
This is the true work of man, to love God with all the heart and mind
and soul and strength, and not those material works with which we
all so easily satisfy ourselves and our consciences, and our _bodily_
needs.
He has marvellous ways (and very difficult to the beginner) of
conveying His wishes. To my finding, the inward life of us is like a
perpetual interchange of conversation between the heart and its
many desires and the mind (which for myself I put into three
parts--the intelligence, the will, the reason). Now, all these parts of my
heart and of my mind formerly occupied themselves entirely with
worldly things, passing from one thing to another in most disorderly
fashion; but now they occupy themselves (save for bodily
necessities) _solely_ with Him. There is a perpetual smooth and
beautiful conversation between them _to_ Him and _of_ Him; and
suddenly He will seem to enter into this conversation, suggesting
thoughts which are not mine.
Often He will stab the soul, but not with words, also the heart; and I
have known such communications lie for weeks before they could
be taken up by the mind, turned into words, and finally as _words_
be digested by the reason. And another way to the soul only--rare,
untransferable to words, and therefore not transmittable to others or
to the reason. This way causes the creature a great amazement, and
is like a flooding or moving of whiteness, or an inwardly-felt
phosphorescence; it is a vitalising ministration greatly enjoyed by
the soul. This is not any ecstasy, and is exceedingly swift; the soul
must be at _high attention_ to receive this, yet neither anticipates
nor asks for it, but is in the act of giving great and joyful adoration.
* * *
I do not remember when I first became fully conscious that the
centre or seat of my emotions was changed, and that I now
responded to all the experiences of life only with the higher parts of
me.
This change I found inexplicable and remarkable, for it was
fundamental, and yet neither intended nor thought of by me. With
this alteration in the physical correspondences to life came a
corresponding alteration in the spiritual of me.
Formerly I supposed that the soul dwelt in, or was even a part of, the
mind. Now, though the mind must be filled wholly with God, and all
other things whatsoever put out of it if we would contemplate Him
or respond to Him, yet neither the brain nor the intelligence of the
creature can come into any contact with Him; and this I soon learnt.
Correspondence with the Divine is accomplished for the creature
through the heart and by the uppermost part of the breast, this latter
place (above the heart and below the mind) is the dwelling-place of
the celestial spark of the soul, which lies, as it were, between two
fires--that of the heart and that of the mind, responding directly to
neither of these, but to God only.
Before I was touched upon the hill I was not aware of the locality of
any part of my soul, neither was there anything which could
convince me that I even possessed a soul. I did no more than believe
and suppose that I did possess one. But the soul, once revived,
becomes the most powerful and vivid part of our being; we are not
able any longer to mistake its possession or position in the body. She
is indeed the wonderful and lovely mistress of us, with which alone
we can unlock the mysteries of God's love.
* * *
How poor and cold a thing is mere belief! No longer do I _believe_
in Jesus Christ: I do _possess Him._ So complete is the change that
He brings about in us that I now only count my life and my time
from the first day of this new God-consciousness that I received
upon the hill, for that was the first day of my real life; just as
formerly I would count my time from the first day of my physical
birth, and from that on to my falling in love and to my marriage,
which once seemed to me to be the most important dates.
Whilst these changes were taking place in me I would often be filled
with uneasiness and some alarm; asking myself what all this could
mean, and if it could be the way of martyrs or saints, for I had no
courage or liking to be one or the other and was very frightened of
suffering. And I think my cunning heart would have liked to take all
the sweets and leave the bitter. How well He knew this, and how
exquisitely He handled me, never forcing, only looking at me,
_inviting_ me with those marvellous perfections of His! How could
I possibly resist Him? All the while, all my waking hours, I felt that
strange, new, incomprehensible, steady, insistent _drawing_ and urgency
of the Spirit in me. Little by little I went--and still go--_towards_
perfection, whilst my cowardly heart endured many fears,
but these are now past. It was not any desire for my own salvation;
to this I have never given so much as two thoughts. It was the
_irresistible attraction_ of our marvellous and beautiful God. He
lured, He drew me with His loveliness, His holy perfections, His
unutterable purity. _I longed to please Him._ The whole earth was
filled with the glamour of Him, and I filled with horror to see how
utterly unlike--apart from the glorious Beloved--I was. How
frightful my blemishes, which must stink in His nostrils! Think of it!
To stink in the nostrils of the Beloved! What lover could endure to
do such a thing? No effort could be too great or painful to beautify
oneself for Him. In this there is no virtue; it is the driving necessity
of love, a necessity known by every lover worthy of the name on
earth. To please and obey this ineffable and exquisite Being!--the
privilege intoxicated me more and more.
All these changes in my heart and mind continually filled me with
surprise, for I was never pious, though inwardly and secretly I had
so ardently sought Him. I was attentive, humble, and reverent,
nothing more.
But though I had perhaps little or no piety, and never read a single
religious book, I had had a deep thirst for the perfect and the holy
and the pure, as I seemed unable to find them here on the earth. In
the quiet solemnity of church, or under the blue skies, I could detach
myself from my surroundings and reach up and out with wistful
dimness towards the ineffable holiness and purity of God--God who,
for me at least, remained persistently so unattainable.
And yet one blessed day I was to find Him suddenly, all in one
glorious hour, no longer unattainable but immanently, marvellously
near, and willing to remain for me so strangely permanently near
that I must sing silently to Him from my heart all the day long--sing
to Him silently, because even the faintest whisper would feel too
gross and loud between my soul and Him. And in hours when I fall
from this wonderful estate I think I come very near hell, so awful is
my loss.
Our greatest need is to relearn the will of God. For we are so
separated from Him that we now look upon His Will as on a cross,
as an incomprehensible sacrifice, as but self-abnegation, pain, and
gloom. We repudiate it in terror.
If we have the will to relearn His Will, we stand still and think of it,
we walk to seek it, we try to accept it, trembling we bow down to it
with obedience and many tears; and behold! it changes to an
Invitation, a sigh of beauty, a breath of spring, the song of birds, the
faces of flowers, the ever-ascending spiral of the mating of all loves,
the sunshine of the Universe; and at last, intoxicated with happiness,
we say: "My God, my Love, I sip and drink Thy Will as an
ambrosial Wine!"
* * *
To the lover of God all affections go up and become enclosed, as it
were, into one affection, which is Himself; so that we have no love
for anyone or anything _apart_ from Him. In this is included, in a
most deep and mysterious fashion, marriage-love in all its aspects.
In every way it can become a sacrament: there is nothing in it which
is not holy, in no way does the marriage bond of the body separate
the spirit from acceptableness to God.
But I was some time before I could arrive at this, and could see
marriage as the physical prototype in this physical world of the
spiritual union with Himself in the spiritual world. And this was
arrived at, not by prudish questionings and criticisms, but by
remembering that this relationship between men and women is His
thought, His plan, not ours. We are responsible for our part in it only
in so far as to keep the bond of it pure and clean and sweet, and
submit ourselves in all things _as completely and orderly as possible
to His plans, whatever they may be._ In this attitude of
unquestioning, unresisting submission, the Holy Spirit finds a swift
and easy channel through us. It is our opposition to the passage of
the Holy Will which causes all the distress and uneasiness of life. He
has no wish to impose distress and suffering upon us. His Will
towards us is pure joy, pure love, pure peace, pure sweetness. This
bond of earthly marriage is of the flesh and can be kept by the body,
and yet the heart, mind, and soul remain in lovely perfect chastity;
and I found that this exquisite freedom--after prolonged endeavours
on the part of the soul and the creature--was at length given them as
a gift by act of grace, and remained in permanence without variation.
* * *
We know that these things are deep mysteries and largely hidden;
but this I know: as the heart feels love in itself for God, in that same
instant comes God into the soul of the lover. Now, where God is we
know that there is neither evil, nor sadness, nor unhappiness, nor
any recollection of such things; therefore, to be a great and constant
lover to Him is to be automatically lifted from all unhappinesses.
This is our wisest and our best desire, to be a splendid lover to our
Most Glorious God.
The more I see of and talk with other people, the more I see how
greatly changed I am. I am _freed._ They are bound. I find them
bound by fears, by anxieties, by worries, by apprehensions of evil
things, by sadness, by fears of death for their loved ones or for
themselves. Now, we are freed of all these things _if we keep to the
Way,_ which is the Road of Love. This change we do not bring
about for ourselves, and do not perhaps even realise that it can be
effected. For myself, I seemed to be lifted into it, or into a
_capacity_ for it, on that day and in that moment in which I first
loved God. This is not to say that since that moment I have not had
to struggle, suffer, and endure, to keep myself in, and progress in
this condition; but my sufferings, struggles, and endurances, being
for love and in love and because of love, were and are in themselves
beautiful, and leave in the recollection nothing inharmonious. They
are the difficult prelude to a glorious melody.
Another thing--we become by this love for Him so large that we
seem to embrace within our own self the Universe! In some
mysterious manner we become in sympathy with all things in the
bond of His making.
Are these things worth nothing whatever, that the majority of people
should be content to spend their lives looking for five-pound notes
and even shillings--and this not only the poor, but the rich more so?
I am far more at a loss to understand my fellow-men than I am to
understand God. We have need of the shillings, but of other and
more lovely things besides, which cost no money and may be had by
the poorest. It is rapidly becoming the only sorrow of my life that
people do not all come to share this Life in which I live. How that
parable knocks at the heart, "Go out into the highways and the
hedges and compel them to come in!" To know all this _fullness_ of
life and not to be able to bring even my nearest and dearest into it:
what a terrible mystery is this!--it is an agony. Now, in this agony I
share the Agony of Jesus. This is a part of the Cross, and only the
Father can make it straight. I see Heaven held out, and _refused;_
love held out, and _refused;_ perfection shown, and killed upon a
cross. What is the crucifix but that most awful of all things--the
Grief of God made Visible? Perfect Love submitting itself to the vile
freewill of man and dying of wounds! My God! my God! and did
_I_ ever have a hand in such a thing? I did.
* * *
What is it that seems more than any other thing whatever to throw us
at last into the arms of God? Suffering. And this not because it is His
will (for how much rather would He have us turn to Him in our joy
and prosperity), but rather that it is _our_ will, that in our earthly
joys and prosperities we turn away from Him, and only seek His
consolations when we see the failure of our health or happiness. And
having by His mercy and forgiveness found Him, we too often and
too easily think to glorify ourselves and name each other saints! Did
Jesus call us saints? These glorifications mankind would appear to
bestow upon itself. He spoke of His flock, and of those who through
Him should have life eternal, and of those who, because of the road
they take, have their joys in this world only.
* * *
When I was being taught to pray for national things and for other
persons, and found these prayers answered, I was inclined to be
afraid; thinking, What am I that I should dare to petition the Most
High? But He showed it me so, which, as in everything, is for all of
us: "It is but a cloud which reflects the glories of the promise of My
rainbow; so can the dust, such as thyself, reflect yet other fashions
of My will and glory. There is no presumption in the cloud that it
should glow with My power; neither is there presumption in thy dust
that it should be My vehicle. Both the cloud and thy dust are Mine."
* * *
As we progress in this new way of living we find an increasing
difficulty in maintaining petition; for on commencing to petition we
will almost invariably be instantly lifted up to such a state of
adoration that the whole soul is nothing but a burning song, a thing
of living worship. At first I was inclined to blame myself, but now I
know that it is acceptable for us to pass from petitioning (no matter
who or what for) to high adoration, even though it is a great personal
indulgence (and the petitioning is a _hard task)--_an indulgence so
extreme that I cannot call to my mind anything in any experience or
time of my life, excepting actual raptures, which could, or can, in
any way compare or be named in the same breath with this most
marvellous joy; for out of this joy of adoration flows the Song of the
Soul.
And all these previous years of my life I have lived with the greater
part of me dead, and most persons the same! The more I think of it,
the more amazed I am at our folly--working and fretting, and
striving and looking for every kind of thing except the one thing,
beautiful, needful, and living, which is the finding of the personal
connection between ourselves and God and the Waters of Life.
Looking to my own experiences, I see clearly how I never could
have found without the most powerful and incessant assistance. We
are, then, never alone. But first we must have _the will to seek these
waters._ This is the secret of the whole matter. He can turn the vilest
into a pure lover--if the vilest be willing to have the miracle
performed on him! This is the grace of God, and what does it cost
Him to pour out this mighty power through us? For everything has
its price. My Lord! my Lord! we are not worthy of it all.
This I notice, that when He removes this grace, very shortly the
mind goes back to a false, uneven, inharmonious state; so we
become like an instrument all out of tune, and are caused
indescribable sufferings, like a musician whose ears and nerves are
tortured by false notes, whilst his unmusical neighbours feel no pain!
The musician pays a price for the privilege of his great gift; so the
lover of Christ.
Again, there is a price to pay for the immeasurable _joy_ of prayer,
for prayers are not always sweet nor life-giving. The prayers to
Christ are always a refreshment, but prayers to the Father may
suddenly be turned without any previous thought or private intention
into a most awful grief for the abominations of the whole world of
us, a terrible wordless burnt-sacrifice of the soul, of unspeakable
anguish. And high petitioning is a fearful and profound strain upon
the soul and the whole creature.
* * *
We say that we have need of the purification and conversion of the
soul; but rather it is first the conversion of the heart, mind, and will
that we have need of. For this would feel to be the drama of our
life--the human heart, intelligence, and will are the ego of the creature.
Our soul is the visitor within this creature, containing within herself
a pure, holy, and incorruptible sparkle of the Divine, and lies choked
and atrophied in her human house until revived and awakened by
her holy lover; and this awakening is not given to her till the heart
and mind of her human house (or the will and spirit of the creature)
is in a state of regeneration, or condition to go forward towards God.
Which is to say, the creature has been touched by repentance and a
desire for the pure and the holy. For if the soul should be awakened
to an unrepentant creature, this Will and imperishable worm of the
creature (which is of greater coarseness and lustiness than the
delicate and fragile soul) will overcome the soul; and this is not the
goal, neither is the death of the creature the goal, but the lifting up of
the creature into the Divine--this is the goal.
After being awakened, then, in her human house, the soul finds
herself locked in with two most treacherous and soiled companions--the
human heart and mind; and so great is her loathing and her
distress, that for shame's sake these two are constrained to improve
themselves. But their progress is slow, and now comes a long and
painful time of alternation between two states. At one time the soul
will conquer the creature, imposing upon it a sovereign beauty of
holiness; and at another the creature will conquer the soul, imposing
upon her its hideous designs and desires, and causing her many
sicknesses. Hence we have the warring which we feel within
ourselves, for the soul now desires her home and the creature its
appetites.
Until this awakening of the soul takes place, we mistake in thinking
that we either live with our soul, or know our soul, or feel with our
soul. She does but stir within us from time to time, awaking strange
echoes that we do not comprehend; and we live with the mind and
the heart and the body only--which is to say, we live as the creature;
and this is why on the complete awakening of the soul we feel in the
creature an immense and altogether indescribable enhancement of
life and of all our faculties, so that in great amazement we say, "I
have never _lived_ until this day." When first the will of the creature
is wholly submitted to the lovely guidance of the divine part of the
soul, then first we know the ineffable joys of the world of free spirit.
For to live with the mind and the body is to be in a state of existence
in nature. But to live with the soul is to live above nature, in the
immeasurable freedom and intensity of the spirit. And this is the
tremendous task of the soul--that she help to redeem the heart and
mind from their vileness of the creature and so lift the human
upwards with herself to the Divine from whence she came. This,
then, is the transmutation or evolution by divine means of the human
into the divine; and for this we need to seek repentance or change of
heart and mind, which is the will of the creature turning itself
towards the beauties of the spirit, that Christ may awaken in us the
glories of that sleeping soul which is His bride.
When the soul is fully revived we can know it by this, that we are
not able any longer to content ourselves with anything nor anyone
save God. Neither are we able to love any save God, for all human
desires and loves mysteriously ascend and are merged into the
Divine. So, though we love our friend, we love him in God, and in
every man perceive but another lover for the Beloved.
* * *
To love God might commence to be expressed as being a great quiet,
an intense activity, a prodigious joy, and the poignant knowledge of
_the immensity of an amazing new life shared._
The contemplation of God might be expressed as the folding up or
complete forgetfulness of all earthly and bodily things, desires, and
attractions, and the raising of the heart and mind and the centring of
them in great and joyful intensity upon God, by means of love. Of
this contemplation of God I find two principal forms: the passive
and the active. In the first we are in a state of steady, quiet, and
loving perception and reception, and at some farness; in this we are
able to remain for hours, entering this state when waking at dawn
and remaining in it till rising.
In active contemplation we are in rapturous and passionate adoration
with great nearness, and are not able to remain in it long because of
bodily weakness. The soul feels to be never tired by the longest
flight, but must return because of the exhaustion of the forlorn and
wretched creature, which creature is complete in itself, having its
body, of which, being able to touch it, we say, "It is my body," and
its heart and mind with intelligence, of which we are wont to think,
"This is myself"; yet it is but a part, for the intelligence of our
creature is by no means the intelligence of the divine soul, but a far
lesser light: for with the intelligence of the divine soul we reach out
to God and attain Him, but with the intelligence of the creature we
reach towards Him but do not attain, for with it we are unable to
penetrate the veil. Therefore, who would know the joys of
contemplation must come to them by love, for love is the only
means by which the creature can attain. The soul attains God as her
birthright, but the creature by adoption and redemption, and this
through love. By love the creature dies and is reborn into the spirit.
* * *
The word "poverty," as used to express a necessary condition of our
coming to God, is a most misleading term. For how can any
condition be rightly named poverty which brings us into the riches
of God? Rather let us use the words "singleness of heart," or
"simplicity": which is to say, we _put out_ all other interests save
those pleasing to God (to commence with), and afterwards we reach
the condition in which we _have no_ interests but in God Himself--the
heart and mind and will of the creature becoming wholly God's,
and God filling them. How can we say, then, that it is poverty to be
filled with God! Rather is it rightly expressed as being a heart fixed
in singleness upon God, through drastic simplification of interests:
the which is no poverty, but the wealth of all the Universe.
* * *