SECOND DEGREE OF THE PASSIVE WAY OF FAITH--SHORT DESCRIPTION OF THIS
DEGREE--ENTRANCE INTO IT AND USELESS EFFORTS TO AVOID IT--GRADATIONS AND
ADVANCEMENTS IN THIS DEGREE, IN WHICH OCCUR FREQUENT MANIFESTATIONS OF
CHRIST TO THE SOUL--THE USES AND ABUSES WHICH IT MAKES OF THEM, BY WHICH
IT IS BROUGHT TO MYSTICAL DEATH, OR TO THE THIRD DEGREE OF THIS PASSIVE
WAY OF FAITH.
The torrent having come to the brow of the hill, enters at the same time
into the _second degree of the passive way of faith_. This soul, which
was so peacefully resting on the mountain-top, had no thought of leaving
it. However, for want of a declivity, these waters of Heaven by their
stay upon earth were becoming tainted; for there is this difference
between stagnant waters which have no outlet, and those which are in
motion and have an outlet, that the first, with the exception of the
sea, and those large lakes which resemble it, grow putrid, and their
want of motion causes their destruction. But when, after leaving their
source, they have an easy outlet, the more rapidly they flow, the more
they are preserved.
You will remember I remarked before of this soul, that as soon as God
imparted to it the gift of _passive_ faith, He gave it at the same time
an instinct to seek after Him as its centre; but in its unfaithfulness
it stifles by its repose this instinct to seek God, and would remain
stationary, if God did not revive this instinct by bringing it to the
edge of the mountain, whence it is compelled to precipitate itself. At
first it is sensible that it has lost that calmness which it expected to
retain for ever. Its waters, formerly so tranquil, begin to be noisy. A
tumult is seen in its waves; they run and dash over. But where do they
run? Alas! as they imagine, it is to their own destruction. If it were
in their power to desire anything, they would wish to restrain
themselves, and return to their former calm. But this is impossible. The
declivity is found; they must be precipitated from slope to slope. It is
no longer a question of abyss or of loss. The water, that is the soul,
always reappears, and is never lost in this degree. It is embroiled and
precipitated; one wave follows another, and the other takes it up and
crashes it by its precipitation. Yet this water finds on the slope of
the mountain certain flat places where it takes a little relaxation. It
delights in the clearness of its waters; and it sees that its falls, its
course, this breaking of its waves upon the rocks, have served to render
it more pure. It finds itself delivered from its noise and storms, and
thinks it has now found its resting-place; and it believes this the more
readily because it cannot doubt that the state through which it has just
passed has greatly purified it, for it sees that its waters are clearer,
and it no longer perceives the disagreeable odour which certain stagnant
parts had given to it on the top of the mountain; it has even acquired a
certain insight into its own condition; it has seen by the troubled
state of its passions (the waves) that they were not lost, but only
asleep. As when it was descending the mountain, on its way to this
level, it thought it was losing its way, and had no hope of recovering
its lost peace, so now that it no longer hears the dash of its waves,
that it finds itself flowing calmly and pleasantly along the sand, it
forgets its former trouble, and never imagines there will be a return of
it: it sees that it has acquired fresh purity, and does not fear that it
will again become soiled; for here it is not stagnant, but flows as
gently and brightly as possible. Ah, poor torrent! You think you have
found your resting-place, and are firmly established in it! You begin to
delight in your waters. The swans glide upon them, and rejoice in their
beauty. But what is your surprise while, as you are flowing along so
happily, you suddenly encounter a steeper slope, longer and more
dangerous than the first! Then the torrent recommences its tumult.
Formerly it was only a moderate noise; now it is insupportable. It
descends with a crash and a roar greater than ever. It can hardly be
said to have a bed, for it falls from rock to rock, and dashes down
without order or reason; it alarms every one by its noise; all fear to
approach it. Ah, poor torrent! what will you do? You drag away in your
fury all that comes in your way; you feel nothing but the declivity down
which you are hurried, and you think you are lost. Nay, do not fear;
you are not lost, but the time of your happiness is not yet come. There
must be many more disturbances and losses before then; you have but just
commenced your course.
At last this dashing torrent feels that it has gained the foot of the
mountain and another level spot. It resumes its former calm, and even a
deeper one; and after having passed it may be years in these changes, it
enters the third degree, before speaking of which I will touch upon the
condition of those who enter it, and the first steps in it. The soul
having passed some time in the tranquillity of which we have spoken,
which it imagines it has secured for ever, and having, as it supposes,
acquired all the virtues in their full extent, believing all its
passions to be dead; when it is expecting to enjoy with the greatest
safety a happiness it has no fear of losing, is astonished to find that,
instead of mounting higher, or at least remaining in its present
position, it comes to the slope of the mountain. It begins, to its
amazement, to be sensible of an inclination for the things it had given
up. It sees its deep calm suddenly disturbed; distractions come in
crowds, one upon another; the soul finds only stones in its path,
dryness and aridity. A feeling of distaste comes into prayer. Its
passions, which it thought were dead, but which were only asleep, all
revive.
It is completely astonished at this change. It would like either to
return to the top of the mountain, or at least to remain where it is;
but this cannot be. The declivity is found, and the soul must fall (not
into sin, but into a privation of the previous degree and of feeling).
It does its best to rise after it falls; it does all in its power to
restrain itself, and to cling to some devotional exercise; it makes an
effort to recover its former peace; it seeks solitude in the hope of
recovering it. But its labour is in vain. It resigns itself to suffer
its dejection, and hates the sin which has occasioned it. It longs to
put things right, but can find no means of doing it; the torrent must go
on its way; it drags with it all that is opposed to it. Then, seeing
that it no longer finds support in God, it seeks it in the creature; but
it finds none; and its unfaithfulness only increases its apprehension.
At last, the poor bride, not knowing what to do, weeping everywhere the
loss of her Beloved, is filled with astonishment when He again reveals
Himself to her. At first she is charmed at the sight, as she feared she
had lost Him for ever. She is all the more happy, because she finds that
He has brought with Him new wealth, a new purity, a great distrust of
self. She has no longer the desire to stop, as she formerly had; she
goes on continuously, but peacefully and gently, and yet she has fears
lest her peace should be disturbed. She trembles lest she should again
lose the treasure which is all the dearer to her because she had been so
sensible of its loss. She is afraid she may displease Him, and that He
will leave her again. She tries to be more faithful to Him, and not to
make an end of the means.
However, this repose carries away the soul, ravishes it, and renders it
idle. It cannot help being sensible of its peace, and it desires to be
always alone. It has again acquired a spiritual greediness. To rob it of
solitude is to rob it of life. It is still more selfish than before,
what it possesses being more delightful. It seems to be in a new rest.
It is going along calmly, when all at once it comes to another descent,
steeper and longer than the former one. It is suddenly seized with a
fresh surprise; it endeavours to hold itself back, but in vain; it must
fall; it must dash on from rock to rock. It is astonished to find that
it has lost its love for prayer and devotion. It does violence to itself
by continuing in it. It finds only death at every step. That which
formerly revived it is now the cause of its death. Its peace has gone,
and has left a trouble and agitation stronger than ever, caused as much
by the passions, which revive (though against its will) with the more
strength as they appeared the more extinct, as by crosses, which
increase outwardly, and which it has no strength to bear. It arms itself
with patience; it weeps, groans, and is troubled. The Bride complains
that her Beloved has forsaken her; but her complaints are unheeded. Life
has become death to her. All that is good she finds difficult, but has
an inclination towards evil which draws her away. But she can find no
rest in the creature, having tasted of the Creator. She dashes on more
vehemently; and the steeper the rocks, and the greater the obstacles
which oppose her course, the more she redoubles her speed. She is like
the dove from the ark, which, finding no rest for the sole of its foot,
was obliged to return. But alas! what could the poor dove have done if,
when it desired to re-enter the ark, Noah had not put out his hand to
take it in? It could only have fluttered round about the ark, seeking
rest but finding none. So this poor dove flutters round the ark till the
Divine Noah, having compassion on her distress, opens the door and
receives her to Himself. Oh, wonderful and loving invention of the
goodness of God! He only eludes the search of the soul to make it flee
more quickly to Him. He hides Himself that He may be sought after. He
apparently lets her fall, that He may have the joy of sustaining her and
raising her up. Oh, strong and vigorous ones, who have never experienced
these artifices of love, these apparent jealousies, these flights,
lovely to the soul which has passed them, but terrible to those who
experience them! You, I say, who do not know these flights of love,
because you are satisfied with the abiding presence of your Beloved; or,
if He hide Himself, it is for so short a time that you cannot judge of
the joy of His presence by the pain of a long absence; you have never
experienced your weakness, and your need of His help; but those who are
thus forsaken learn to lean no longer on themselves, but only on the
Beloved. His rigours have rendered His gentleness the more needful for
them.
These persons often commit faults through sheer weakness, and because
they are deprived of all sensible support; and these faults so fill them
with shame, that, if they could, they would hide themselves from their
Beloved. Alas! in the terrible confusion into which they are thrown, He
gives them a glimpse of Himself. He touches them with His sceptre, like
another Ahasuerus (Esther v. 2), that they may not die; but His tender
caresses only serve to increase their confusion at the thought of having
displeased Him. At other times He makes them sensible, by His severity,
how much their unfaithfulness displeases Him. Oh! then if they could
sink into dust, they would. They would do anything to repair the injury
done to God; and if, by any slight neglects, which appear crimes to
them, they have offended their neighbour, what return are they not
willing to make? But it is pitiful to see the state of that one who has
driven away her Beloved. She does not cease to run after Him, but the
faster she goes, the further He seems to leave her behind; and if He
stops, it is only for a moment, that she may recover breath. She feels
now that she must die; for she no longer finds life in anything; all has
become death to her; prayer, reading, conversation--all is dead: she
loses the joy of service, or rather, she dies to it, performing it with
so much pain and weariness, that it is as death to her. At last, after
having fought well, but uselessly, after a long succession of conflicts
and rest, of lives and deaths, she begins to see how she has abused the
grace of God, and that this state of death is better for her than life;
for as she sees her Beloved returning, and finds that she possesses Him
more purely, and that the state which preceded her rejoicing was a
purification for her, she abandons herself willingly to _death_, and to
the coming and going of her Beloved, giving Him full liberty to go and
come as He will. She receives instruction as she is able to bear it.
Little by little she loses her joy in herself, and is thus prepared for
a new condition.
But before speaking of it, let me say, that in proportion as the soul
advances, its joys become short, simple, and pure, and its privations
long and agonising, until it has lost its _own_ joy, to find it no more:
and this is the _third degree_, that of _death_, _burial_, and _decay_.
This second degree ends in death, and goes no further.