Section I.
THIRD DEGREE OF THE PASSIVE WAY OF FAITH, IN ITS COMMENCEMENT, AND ITS
PROGRESS BY VARIOUS SPECIAL DEATHS TO A TOTAL DEATH, TO BURIAL, AND TO
DECAY--DURATION OF THIS TRANSITION, IN WHICH THERE MUST BE NO
ADVANCEMENT BEYOND FAITH, NOR ANY RECEDING--SPOLIATION OF THE SOUL, AND
THE THREE DEGREES OF IT--FIRST DEGREE, WHICH CONCERNS GIFTS, GRACES, AND
FAVOURS, OR ORNAMENTS--ITS NECESSITY AND EFFECTS.
You have seen dying persons who, after they have been believed to be
dead, have all at once assumed a new strength, and retained it until
their death; as a lamp whose oil is spent flickers in the surrounding
darkness, but only to die out the more quickly: thus the soul casts out
flames, which only last for a moment. It has bravely resisted death; but
its oil is spent: the Sun of Righteousness has so withered it up, that
it is forced to die. But does this Sun design anything else with its
fierce rays, except the consumption of the soul? And the poor soul thus
burned thinks that it is frozen! The truth is, that the torment it
suffers prevents its recognising the nature of its pain. So long as the
Sun was obscured by clouds, and gave out rays to a certain extent
moderated, it felt the heat, and thought it was burning, while in
reality it was but slightly warmed: but when the Sun flashed full upon
it, then the soul felt itself burning, without believing that it was so
much as warmed. O loving deceit! O sweet and cruel Love! Have you lovers
only to deceive them thus? You wound these hearts, and then hide your
darts, and make them pursue after that which has wounded them. You
attract them, and show yourself to them, and when they long to possess
you, you flee from them. When you see the soul reduced to the last
extremity, and out of breath from its constant pursuit, you show
yourself for a moment that it may recover life, only to be killed a
thousand times with ever-increasing severity.
O rigorous Lover! innocent murderer! Why dost Thou not kill with a
single blow? Why give wine to an expiring heart, and restore life in
order to destroy it afresh? This is Thy sport. Thou woundest to the
death; and when Thou seest the victim on the point of expiring, Thou
healest one wound in order to inflict another! Alas! usually we die but
once; and the very cruellest murderers in times of persecution, though
they prolonged life, it is true, yet were content to destroy it but
once. But Thou, less compassionate than they, takest away our life time
after time, and restorest it again.
O life, which cannot be lost without so many deaths! O death, which can
only be attained by the loss of so many lives! Perhaps this soul, after
thou hast devoured it in Thy bosom, will enjoy its Beloved. That would
be too great happiness for it: it must undergo another torture. It must
be _buried_ and reduced to _ashes_. But perhaps it will then arrive at
the end of its sufferings, for bodies which decay suffer no longer. Oh!
it is not thus with the soul: it suffers continually; and burial, decay,
and nothingness are even more sensibly felt by it than death itself.
This degree of _death_ is extremely long, and as I have said that very
few pass the other degrees, so I say that far less pass this one. Many
people have been astonished to see very holy persons, who have lived
like angels, die in terrible anguish, and even despairing of their
salvation. It is because they have died in this mystical death; and as
God wished to promote their advancement, because they were near their
end, He redoubled their sorrow. The work of stripping the soul must be
left wholly to God. He will do the work perfectly, and the soul will
second the spoliation and the death, without putting hindrances in the
way. But to do the work for ourselves is to lose everything, and to make
a vile state of a divine one. There are persons who, hearing of this
spoliation, have effected it for themselves, and remain always
stationary; for as the stripping is their own work, God does not clothe
them with Himself. The design of God in stripping the soul is to clothe
it again. He only impoverishes that He may enrich, and He substitutes
_Himself_ for all that He takes away, which cannot be the case with
those whose spoliation is their own work. They indeed lose the gifts of
God, but they do not possess God Himself in exchange.
In this degree the soul has not learned to let itself be stripped,
emptied, impoverished, killed; and all its efforts to sustain itself
will but be its irreparable loss, for it is seeking to preserve a life
which must be lost. As a person wishing to cause a lamp to die out
without extinguishing it, would only have to cease to supply it with
oil, and it would die out of itself; but if this person, while
persistently expressing a wish that the lamp should go out, continued
replenishing it with oil from time to time, the lamp would never go out:
it is the same with the soul in this degree, which holds on, however
feebly, to life. If it consoles itself, does not suffer itself to be
killed, in a word, if it performs any actions of life whatever, it will
thereby retard its death. O poor soul! fight no longer against death,
and you will live by your death. I seem to see a drowning man before me;
he makes every effort to rise to the surface of the water; he holds on
to anything that offers itself to his grasp; he preserves his life so
long as his strength holds out; he is only drowned when that strength
fails. It is thus with Christians. They endeavour as long as possible to
prevent their death; it is only the failure of all power which makes
them die. God, who wishes to hasten this death, and who has compassion
upon them, cuts off the hands with which they cling to a support, and
thus obliges them to sink into the deep. Crosses become multiplied, and
the more they increase, the greater is the helplessness to bear them, so
that they seem as though they never could be borne. The most painful
part of this condition is, that the trouble always begins by some fault
in the sufferer, who believes he has brought it upon himself.
At last the soul is reduced to utter self-despair. It consents that God
should deprive it of the joy of His gifts, and admits that He is just in
doing it. It does not even hope to possess these gifts again.
When those who are in this condition see others who are manifestly
living in communion with God, their anguish is redoubled, and they sink
in the sense of their own nothingness. They long to be able to imitate
them, but finding all their efforts useless, they are compelled to die.
They say in the language of Scripture, "The thing which I greatly feared
is come upon me" (Job iii. 25). What! they say, to lose God, and to lose
Him for ever, without the hope of ever finding Him again! To be deprived
of love for time and for eternity! To be unable to love Him whom I know
to be so worthy of my affection!
Oh! is it not sufficient, Divine Lover, to cast off your spouse, to turn
away from her, without compelling her to lose love, and lose it, as it
seems, for ever? She believes she has lost it, and yet she never loved
more strongly or more purely. She has indeed lost the vigour, the
sensible strength of love; but she has not lost love itself; on the
contrary, she possesses it in a greater degree than ever. She cannot
believe this, and yet it is easily known; for the heart cannot exist
without love. If it does not love God, its affection is concentrated
upon some other object: but here the bride of Christ is far from taking
pleasure in anything. She regards the revolt of her passions and her
involuntary faults as terrible crimes, which draw upon her the hatred
of her Beloved. She seeks to cleanse and to purify herself, but she is
no sooner washed than she seems to fall into a slough yet more filthy
and polluted than that from which she has just escaped. She does not see
that it is because she runs that she contracts defilement, and falls so
frequently, yet she is so ashamed to run in this condition, that she
does not know where to hide herself. Her garments are soiled; she loses
all she has in the race.
Her Bridegroom aids in her spoliation for two reasons: the first,
because she has soiled her beautiful garments by her vain complaisances,
and has appropriated the gifts of God in reflections of self-esteem. The
second, because in running, her course will be impeded by this burden of
appropriation; even the fear of losing such riches would lessen her
speed.
O poor soul! what art thou become? Formerly thou wast the delight of thy
Bridegroom, when He took such pleasure in adorning and beautifying thee;
now thou art so naked, so ragged, so poor, that thou darest neither to
look upon thyself nor to appear before Him. Those who gaze upon thee,
who, after having so much admired thee, see thee now so disfigured,
believe that either thou hast grown mad, or that thou hast committed
some great crime, which has caused thy Beloved to abandon thee. They do
not see that this jealous Husband, who desires that His bride should be
His alone, seeing that she is amusing herself with her ornaments, that
she delights in them, that she is in love with herself; seeing this, I
say, and that she sometimes ceases looking at Him in order to look at
herself, and that her love to Him is growing cold because her self-love
is so strong, is stripping her, and taking away all her beauties and
riches from before her eyes.
In the abundance of her wealth, she takes delight in contemplating
herself: she sees good qualities in herself, which engage her affection,
and alienate it from her Bridegroom. In her foolishness she does not see
that she is only fair with the beauties of her Beloved; and that if He
removed these, she would be so hideous that she would be frightened at
herself. More than this, she neglects to follow Him wherever He goes;
she fears lest she may spoil her complexion, or lose her jewels. O
jealous Love! how well is it that thou comest to chastise this proud
one, and to take from her what Thou hast given, that she may learn to
know herself, and that, being naked and destitute, nothing may impede
her course.
Thus, then, our Lord strips the soul little by little, robbing her of
her ornaments, all her gifts, positions, and favours--that is, as to her
perception or conscious possession of them--which are like jewels that
weigh her down; then He takes away her natural capacity for good, which
are her garments; after which He destroys her personal beauty, which
sets forth divine virtue, which she finds it impossible to practise.
This spoliation commences with the graces, gifts, and favours of
conscious love. The bride sees that her husband takes from her, little
by little, the riches He had bestowed upon her. At first she is greatly
troubled by this loss; but what troubles her the most, is not so much
the loss of her riches, as the anger of her Beloved; for she thinks it
is in anger that He thus takes back His gifts. She sees the abuse she
had made of them, and the delight she had been taking in them, which so
fills her with shame that she is ready to die of confusion. She lets Him
do as He will, and dares not say, "Why dost Thou take from me what Thou
hast given?" for she sees that she deserves it, and looks on in silence.
Though she keeps silence, it is not so profound now as afterwards; it is
broken by mingled sobs and sighs. But she is astonished to find, when
she looks at her Bridegroom, that He appears to be angry with her for
weeping over His justice towards her, in no longer allowing her the
opportunity of abusing His gifts, and for thinking so lightly of the
abuse she has made of them. She tries then to let Him know that she does
not care about the loss of His gifts, if only He will cease His anger
towards her. She shows Him her tears and her grief at having displeased
Him. It is true that she is so sensible of the anger of her Beloved that
she no longer thinks of her riches. After allowing her to weep for a
long time, her Lover appears to be appeased. He consoles her, and with
His own hand He dries her tears. What a joy it is to her to see the new
goodness of her Beloved, after what she has done! Yet He does not
restore her former riches, and she does not long for them, being only
too happy to be looked upon, consoled, and caressed by Him. At first she
receives His caresses with so much confusion, that she dare not lift her
eyes, but forgetting her past woes in her present happiness, she loses
herself in the new caresses of her Beloved, and thinking no more of her
past miseries, she glories and rests in these caresses, and thereby
compels the Bridegroom to be angry again, and to despoil her anew.
It must be observed that God despoils the loss little by little; and the
weaker the souls may be, the longer the spoliation continues; while the
stronger they are, the sooner it is completed, because God despoils them
oftener and of more things at once. But however rough this spoliation
may be, it only touches superfluities on the outside, that is to say,
gifts, graces, and favours.
This leading of God is so wonderful, and is the result of such deep love
to the soul, that it would never be believed, except by those who have
experienced it; for the heart is so full of itself, and so permeated
with self-esteem, that if God did not treat it thus, it would be lost.
It will perhaps be asked, If the gifts of God are productive of such
evil consequences, why are they given? God gives them, in the fulness of
His goodness, in order to draw the soul from sin, from attachment to the
creature, and to bring it back to Himself. But these same gifts with
which He gratifies it--that He may wean it from earth and from self to
love Him, at least from gratitude--we use to excite our self-love and
self-admiration, to amuse ourselves with them; and self-love is so
deeply rooted in man, that it is augmented by these gifts; for he finds
in himself new charms, which he had not discovered before; he delights
in them, and appropriates to himself what belongs only to God. It is
true, God could deliver him from it, but He does not do it, for reasons
known only to Himself. The soul, thus despoiled by God, loses a little
of its self-love, and begins to see that it was not so rich as it
fancied, but that all its virtue was in Christ; it sees that it has
abused His grace, and consents that He should take back His gifts. The
bride says, "I shall be rich with the riches of my Bridegroom, and
though He may keep them, yet, from my union in heart and will with Him,
they will still be mine." She is even glad to lose these gifts of God;
she finds herself unencumbered, better fitted for walking. Gradually she
becomes accustomed to this spoliation; she knows it has been good for
her; she is no longer grieved because of it; and, as she is so
beautiful, she satisfies herself that she will not cease to please her
Bridegroom by her natural beauty and her simple garments, as much as she
could with all her ornaments.
Section II.
SECOND DEGREE OF THE SPOLIATION OF THE SOUL, AS TO ITS GARMENTS, OR ITS
FACILITY FOR THE EXTERIOR PRACTICE OF VIRTUE--ITS CAUSES, WHICH ARE THE
APPROPRIATION OF THESE VIRTUES, AND SATISFACTION IN THEM, INSTEAD OF THE
RECOGNITION OF NATURAL HELPLESSNESS, AND ABSENCE OF ALL GOOD IN SELF.
When the poor bride is expecting always to live in peace, in spite of
this loss, and sees clearly the good which has resulted to her from it,
and the harm she had done to herself by the bad use which she had made
of the gifts which now have been taken from her, she is completely
astonished to find that the Bridegroom, who had only given her temporary
peace because of her weakness, comes with yet greater violence to tear
off her clothing from her.
Alas, poor bride! what wilt thou do now? This is far worse than before,
for these garments are necessary to her, and it is contrary to all
propriety to suffer herself to be stripped of them. Oh! it is now that
she makes all the resistance in her power. She brings forward all the
reasons why her Bridegroom should not thus leave her naked: she tells
Him that it will bring reproach upon Himself. "Alas!" she cries, "I have
lost all the virtues which Thou hast bestowed upon me, Thy gifts, the
sweetness of Thy love! But still I was able to make an outward
profession of virtue; I engaged in works of charity; I prayed
assiduously, even though I was deprived of Thy sensible benefits: but I
cannot consent to lose all this. I was still clothed according to my
position, and looked upon by the world as Thy bride: but if I lose my
garments, it will bring shame upon Thee." "It matters not, poor soul;
thou must consent to this loss also: thou dost not yet know thyself;
thou believest that thy raiment is thine own, and that thou canst use it
as thou wilt. But though I acquired it at such a cost, thou hast given
it back to me as if it were a recompense on thy part for the labours I
have endured for Thee. Let it go; thou must lose it." The soul having
done its best to keep it, lets it go, little by little, and finds itself
gradually despoiled. It finds no inclination for anything; on the
contrary, all is distasteful to it. Formerly it had aversions and
difficulties, without absolute powerlessness; but here all power is
taken from it: its strength of body and mind fails entirely; the
inclination for better things alone remains, and this is the last robe,
which must finally be lost.
This is done very gradually, and the process is extremely painful,
because the bride sees all the while that it has been caused by her own
folly. She dares not speak, lest she may irritate the Bridegroom, whose
anger is worse to her than death. She begins to know herself better, to
see that she is nothing in herself, and that all belongs to her
Bridegroom. She begins to distrust herself, and, little by little, she
loses her self-esteem.
But she does not yet hate herself, for she is still beautiful, though
naked. From time to time she casts a pitiful look towards the
Bridegroom, but she says not a word: she is grieved at His anger. It
seems to her that the spoliation would be of little moment if she had
not offended Him, and if she had not rendered herself unworthy to wear
her nuptial robes.
If she was confused when at the first her riches were taken from her,
her confusion at the sight of her nakedness is infinitely more painful.
She cannot bear to appear before her Bridegroom, so deep is her shame.
But she must remain, and run hither and thither in this state. What! is
it not even permitted to her to hide herself? No; she must appear thus
in public. The world begins to think less highly of her. It says, "Is
this that bride who was once the admiration of angels and of men? See
how she has fallen!" These words increase her confusion, because she is
well aware that her Bridegroom has dealt justly with her. She does what
she can to induce Him to clothe her a little, but He will do nothing,
after having thus stripped her of all, for her garments would satisfy
her by covering her, and would prevent her seeing herself as she is.
It is a great surprise to a soul that thinks itself far advanced towards
perfection to see itself thus despoiled all at once. It imagines the old
sins, from which it was once purged, must have returned. But it is
mistaken: the secret is, that she was so hidden by her garments as to be
unable to see what she was. It is a terrible thing for a soul to be thus
stripped of the gifts and graces of God, and it is impossible that any
should know or imagine what it is without the actual experience of it.
Section III.
THIRD DEGREE OF THE SPOLIATION OF THE SOUL, WHICH CONCERNS ITS BEAUTY,
OR THE PERCEPTIBLE ACTION OF DIVINE VIRTUE--HOW GOD THUS LEADS THE SOUL
TO SELF-DESPAIR AND TO TRUE PURITY--INTERVAL OF REST, FOLLOWED BY THE
INCREASE OF THE PRECEDING OPERATIONS, TILL THEY END IN MYSTIC DEATH.
All this would be but little if the bride still retained her beauty; but
the Bridegroom robs her of that also. Hitherto she has been despoiled of
gifts, graces, and favours (facility for good): she has lost all good
works, such as outward charity, care for the poor, readiness to help
others, but she has not lost the divine virtues. Here, however, these
too must be lost, so far as their practice is concerned, or rather the
habit of exercising them, as acquired by herself, in order to appear
fair: in reality, they are all the while being more strongly implanted.
She loses virtue as virtue, but it is only that she may find it again in
CHRIST. This degraded bride becomes, as she imagines, filled with pride.
She, who was so patient, who suffered so easily, finds that she can
suffer nothing. Her senses revolt her by continual distractions. She
can no longer restrain herself by her own efforts, as formerly; and what
is worse, she contracts defilement at every step. She complains to her
Beloved that the watchmen that go about the city have found her and
wounded her (Cant. v. 7). I ought, however, to say that persons in this
condition do not sin willingly. God usually reveals to them such a
deep-seated corruption within themselves, that they cry with Job, "Oh,
that Thou wouldest hide me in the grave, that Thou wouldest keep me in
secret, until Thy wrath be past!" (Job xiv. 13).
It must not be supposed that either here or at any other stage of
progress God suffers the soul really to fall into sin; and so truly is
this the case, that though they appear in their own eyes the most
miserable sinners, yet they can discover no definite sin of which they
are guilty, and only accuse themselves of being full of misery, and of
having only sentiments contrary to their desires. It is to the glory of
God that, when He makes the soul most deeply conscious of its inward
corruption, He does not permit it to fall into sin. What makes its
sorrow so terrible is, that it is overwhelmed with a sense of the
purity of God, and that purity makes the smallest imperfection appear as
a heinous sin, because of the infinite distance between the purity of
God and the impurity of the creature. The soul sees that it was
originally created pure by God, and that it has contracted not only the
original sin of Adam, but thousands of actual sins, so that its
confusion is greater than can be expressed. The reason why Christians in
this condition are despised by others, is not to be found in any
particular faults which are observed in them, but because, as they no
longer manifest the same ardour and fidelity which formerly
distinguished them, the greatness of their fall is judged from this,
which is a great mistake. Let this serve to explain or modify any
statements or representations in the sequel, which may appear to be
expressed too strongly, and which those who do not understand the
experience might be liable to misinterpret. Observe, also, that when I
speak of _corruption_, of _decay_, &c., I mean the destruction of the
old man by the central conviction, and by an intimate experience of the
depth of impurity and selfishness which there is in the heart of man,
which, bringing him to see himself as he is apart from God, causes him
to cry with David, "I am a worm and no man" (Ps. xxii. 6), and with Job,
"If I wash myself with snow water, and make my hands never so clean, yet
shalt Thou plunge me in the ditch, and mine own clothes shall abhor me"
(Job ix. 30, 31).
It is not, then, that this poor bride commits the faults of which she
imagines herself guilty, for in heart she was never purer than now; but
her senses and natural powers, particularly the senses, being
unsupported, wander away. Besides which, as the speed of her course
towards God redoubles, and she forgets herself more, it is not to be
wondered at that in running she soils herself in the muddy places
through which she passes; and as all her attention is directed towards
her Beloved, although she does not perceive it by reason of her own
condition, she thinks no more of herself, and does not notice where she
steps. So that, while believing herself most guilty, she does not
willingly commit a single sin; though all her sins appear voluntary to
herself, they are rather faults of surprise, which often she does not
see until after they are committed. She cries to her Bridegroom, but He
does not heed her, at least not perceptibly, though He sustains her with
an invisible hand. Sometimes she tries to do better, but then she
becomes worse; for the design of her Bridegroom in letting her fall
_without wounding herself_ (Ps. xxxvii. 24) is that she should lean no
longer on herself; that she should recognise her helplessness; that she
should sink into complete self-despair; and that she should say, "My
soul chooseth death rather than life" (Job vii. 15). It is here that the
soul begins truly to _hate itself_ and to _know itself_ as it would
never have done if it had not passed through this experience.
All our natural knowledge of self, whatever may be its degree, is not
sufficient to cause us really to hate ourselves. "He that loveth his
life shall lose it; and he that hateth his life in this world, shall
keep it unto life eternal" (John xii. 25). It is only such an experience
as this which can reveal to the soul its infinite depth of misery. No
other way can give true purity; if it give any at all, it is only
superficial, and not in the depth of the heart, where the impurity is
seated.
Here God searches the inmost recesses of the soul for that hidden
impurity which is the effect of the self-esteem and self-love which He
designs to destroy. Take a sponge which is full of impurities, wash it
as much as you will, you will clean the outside, but you will not render
it clean throughout unless you press it, in order to squeeze out all the
filth. This is what God does. He squeezes the soul in a painful manner,
but He brings out from it that which was the most deeply hidden.
I say, then, that this is the only way in which we can be purified
radically; and without it we should always be filthy, though outwardly
we might appear very clean. It is necessary that God should make the
soul thoroughly sensible of its condition. We could never believe,
without the experience, of what nature left to itself is capable. Yes,
indeed, our own being, abandoned to itself, is worse than all devils.
Therefore we must not believe that the soul in this state of misery is
abandoned by God. It was never better sustained; but nature is, as it
were, left a little alone, and makes all these ravages without the soul
in itself taking any part in them. This poor desolate bride, running
hither and thither in search of her Beloved, not only soils herself
grievously, as I have said, by falling into faults of surprise and
self-esteem, but she wounds herself with the thorns that come in her
way. She becomes so wearied at length that she is forced to die in her
race for want of help; that is, to expect nothing from herself or her
own activity.
That which is productive of the highest good to the soul in this
condition is that God manifests no pity towards it; and when He desires
to promote its advancement, He lets it run even to death; if He stops it
for a moment, by doing which He ravishes and revives it, it is because
of its weakness, and in order that its weariness may not compel it to
rest.
When He sees that it is becoming disheartened and inclined to give up
the race altogether, He looks upon it for a moment, and the poor bride
finds herself wounded anew by this look. She would willingly say to
Him, "Alas! why hast Thou thus compelled me to run? Oh, that I could
find Thee; and see Thee face to face!" But alas! when she seems to lay
hold of Him, He flees from her again. "I sought Thee," she cries, "but I
found Thee not" (Cant. iii. 1).
As this look from her Bridegroom has increased her love, she redoubles
her speed in order to find Him: nevertheless she was delayed just so
long as the look lasted, that is, in sensible joy. This is why the
Bridegroom does not often cast such looks upon her, and only when He
sees that her courage is failing.
The soul then dies at the end of its race, because all its active
strength is exhausted; for though it had been passive, it had not lost
its active strength, though it had been unconscious of it. The bride
said, "Draw me, we will run after thee" (Cant. i. 3). She ran indeed,
but how? By the loss of all; as the sun travels incessantly, yet without
quitting his repose. In this condition she so hates herself, that she
can hardly suffer herself. She thinks her Bridegroom has good reason to
treat her as He does, and that it is His indignation against her which
makes Him leave her. She does not see that it is in order to make her
run that He flees, that it is in order that He may purify her that He
suffers her to become so soiled. When we put iron in the fire, to purify
it and to purge it from its dross, it appears at first to be tarnished
and blackened, but afterwards it is easy to see that it has been
purified. Christ only makes His bride experience her own weakness, that
she may lose all strength and all support in herself, and that, in her
self-despair, He may carry her in His arms, and she may be willing to be
thus borne; for whatever her course may be, she walks as a child; but
when she is in God, and is borne by Him, her progress is infinite, since
it is that of God Himself.
In addition to all this degradation, the bride sees others adorned with
her spoils. When she sees a holy soul, she dare not approach it; she
sees it adorned with all the ornaments which her Bridegroom has taken
from her; but though she admires it, and sinks into the depths of
nothingness, she cannot desire to have these ornaments again, so
conscious is she of her unworthiness to wear them. She thinks it would
be a profanation to put them upon a person so covered with mud and
defilement. She even rejoices to see that, if she fills her Beloved with
horror, there are others in whom He can take delight, and whom she
regards as infinitely happy in having gained the love of her God: as for
the ornaments, though she sees others decorated with them, she does not
suppose that these are the sources of their happiness. If she sees any
blessedness in the possession of them, it is because they are the tokens
of the love of her Beloved. When she is thus sensible of her littleness
in the presence of such as these, whom she regards as queens, she does
not know the good which will result to her from this nakedness, death,
and decay. Her Bridegroom only unclothes her that He may be Himself her
clothing: "Put ye on the Lord Jesus Christ," says St Paul (Rom. xiii.
14). He only kills her that He may be her life: "If we be dead with
Christ, we believe that we shall also live with Him." He only
annihilates her that she may be transformed in Himself.
This loss of virtue is only brought about by degrees, as well as the
other losses, and this apparent inclination for evil is involuntary; for
that evil which makes us so vile in our own eyes is really no evil at
all.
The things which bring defilement to these persons are certain faults
which only lie in the feelings. As soon as they see the beauty of a
virtue, they seem to be incessantly falling into the contrary vice: for
example, if they love truth, they speak hastily or with exaggeration,
and fancy they lie at every moment, although in fact they do but speak
against their sentiments; and it is thus with all the other virtues; the
more important these virtues are, and the more strongly they cling to
them, because they appear the more essential, the greater is the force
with which they are torn from them.
Section IV.
ENTRANCE OF THE SOUL INTO MYSTIC DEATH, AS TO ITS SENSIBILITIES, POWERS,
AND EVEN ITS PERCEIVED FOUNDATION--IMPORTANT OBSERVATIONS ON THIS
CONDITION.
This poor soul, after having lost its all, must at last lose _its own
life_ by an utter self-despair, or rather it must die worn out by
terrible fatigue. Prayer in this degree is extremely painful, because
the soul being no longer able to make use of its own powers, of which it
seems to be entirely deprived, and God having taken from it a certain
sweet and profound calm which supported it, is left like those poor
children whom we see running here and there in search of bread, yet
finding no one to supply their need, so that the power of prayer seems
to be as entirely lost as if we had never possessed it; but with this
difference, that we feel the pain occasioned by the loss, because we
have proved its value by its possession, while others are not sensible
of the loss, because they have never known its enjoyment. The soul,
then, can find no support in the creature; and if it feels itself
carried away by the things of earth, it is only by impetuosity, and it
can find nothing to satisfy it. Not that it does not seek to abandon
itself to the things in which it formerly delighted; but alas! it finds
in them nothing but bitterness, so that it is glad to leave them again,
taking nothing back but sadness at its own unfaithfulness.
The _imagination_ goes altogether astray, and is scarcely ever at rest.
The three powers of the soul, the _understanding_, the _memory_, and the
_will_, by degrees lose their life, so that at length they become
altogether dead, which is very painful to the soul, especially as
regards the will, which had been tasting I know not what of sweetness
and tranquillity, which comforted the other powers in their deadness and
powerlessness.
This unexplainable something which sustains the soul at its foundation,
as it were, is the hardest of all to lose, and that which the soul
endeavours the most strenuously to retain; for as it is too delicate, so
it appears the more divine and necessary: it would consent willingly to
be deprived of the two other powers, and even of the will, so far as it
is a distinct and perceived thing, if only this something might be left;
for it could bear all its labours if it may have within itself the
witness that it is born of God.
However, this must be lost, like the rest--that is, as to the
sentiment--and then the soul enters into the sensible realisation of all
the misery with which it is filled. And it is this which really produces
_the spiritual death_; for whatever misery the soul might endure, if
this, I know not what, were not lost, it would not die; and if, on the
other hand, this were lost without the soul being conscious of its
misery, it would be supported, and would not die. It can easily
understand that it must give up all dependence upon its own feelings or
upon any natural support, but to lose an almost imperceptible comfort,
and to fall from weakness, to fall into the mire, to this it cannot
consent. This is where reason fails, this is where terrible fears fill
the heart, which seems to have only sufficient life to be sensible of
its death.
It is, then, the loss of this imperceptible support, and the experience
of this misery, which causes death.
We should be very careful, in such times as these, not to let our senses
be led away willingly to creatures, seeking willingly consolation and
diversion. I say _willingly_, for we are incapable of mortifications and
attentions reflected upon ourselves, and the more we have mortified
ourselves, the stronger will be the bearing in the contrary direction,
without being aware of it; like a madman, who goes wandering about, if
you attempt to keep him too rigorously within bounds, apart from its
being useless, it would retard his death.
What must we do then? We must be careful to give no support to the
senses, to suffer them, and to let them find recreation in innocent
ways; for as they are not capable of an inward operation, by
endeavouring to restrain them we should injure health, and even mental
strength. What I say applies only to this degree; for if we were to make
this use of the senses in the time of the strength and activity of
grace, we should do wrong; and our Lord Himself in His goodness makes us
see the conduct that we should pursue; for at first, He puts such a
pressure on the senses, they have no liberty. They only have to desire
something in order to be deprived of it; God orders it thus that the
senses may be drawn from their imperfect operation, to be confined
within the heart; and in severing them outwardly, He binds them inwardly
so gently, that it costs them little to be deprived of everything; they
even find more pleasure in this deprivation than in the possession of
all things. But when they are sufficiently purified, God, who wishes to
draw the soul out of itself with a contrary movement, permits the senses
to expand outwardly, which appears to the soul as a great impurity.
However, it has now happened seasonably, and to endeavour to order
things otherwise, would be to purify ourselves in a different way from
that which God desires, and therefore to defile ourselves anew.
This does not prevent our making mistakes in this outward development of
the senses; but the confusion which it occasions us, and our fidelity in
making use of it, is the furnace in which we are most quickly purified,
by dying the soonest to ourselves. It is here also that we lose the
esteem of men. They look on us with contempt, and say, "Are not these
the persons whom we formerly admired? How are they become thus
disfigured?" "Alas!" we reply, "look not upon me, because I am black"
(Cant. i. 6). "It is the sun which has thus discoloured me." It is at
this point that we suddenly enter the third degree, that of burial and
decay.
CHAPTER VIII.
THIRD DEGREE OF THE PASSIVE WAY OF FAITH IN ITS
CONSUMMATION--CONSUMMATED STATE OF SPIRITUAL
DEATH--BURIAL--DECAY--ADVICE AS TO THE CONDUCT OF PERSONS IN THESE
CONDITIONS, WHICH ARE FOLLOWED BY A NEW LIFE.
The torrent, as we have said, has passed through every imaginable
vicissitude. It has been dashed against rocks; indeed, its course has
been but a succession of falls from rock to rock; but it has always
reappeared, and we have never seen it really lost. Now it begins to lose
itself in gulf after gulf. Formerly it still had a course, though it was
so precipitate, so confused, and so irregular; but here it is engulphed
with a yet greater precipitation in unsearchable depths. For a long time
it disappears altogether from view, then we perceive it slightly, but
more by hearing than by sight, and it only appears to be again
precipitated in a deeper gulf. It falls from abyss to abyss, from
precipice to precipice, until at last it falls into the depths of the
sea, where, losing all form, it is lost to be found no more, having
become one with the sea itself. The soul, after many deaths, expires at
last in the arms of Love; but it does not even perceive those arms. It
has no sooner expired, than it loses all vital action, all desire,
inclination, tendency, choice, repugnance, and aversion. As it draws
near to death, it grows weaker; but its life, though languishing and
agonising, is still life, and "while there is life there is hope," even
though death be inevitable. The torrent must be buried out of sight.
O God! what is this? What were only precipices become abysses. The soul
falls into a depth of misery from which there is no escape. At first
this abyss is small, but the further the soul advances, the stronger
does it appear, so that it goes from bad to worse; for it is to be
remarked, that when we first enter a degree, there clings to us much
that we have brought in with us, and at the end we already begin to feel
symptoms of that which is to come. It is also noticeable that each
degree contains within it an infinitude of others.
A man, after his death and before his burial, is still among the living:
he still has the face of a man, though he is an object of terror; thus
the soul, in the commencement of this degree, still bears some
resemblance to what it was before; there remains in it a certain secret
impression of God, as there remains in a dead body a certain animal heat
which gradually leaves it. The soul still practises devotion and prayer,
but this is soon taken away from it. It must lose not only all prayer,
every gift of God, but God Himself to all appearance--that is, so far as
He was possessed selfishly by the _ego_--and not lose Him for one, two,
or three years, but for ever. All facility for good, all active virtue,
are taken from it; it is left naked and despoiled of everything. The
world, which formerly esteemed it so much, begins to fear it. Yet it is
no visible sin which produces the contempt of men, but a powerlessness
to practise its former good works with the same facility. Formerly whole
days were spent in the visitation of the sick, often even against
natural inclination; such works as these can be practised no longer.
The soul will soon be in an entire oblivion. Little by little, it loses
everything in such a degree, that it is altogether impoverished. The
world tramples it under foot, and thinks no more of it. O poor soul!
thou must see thyself treated thus, and see it with terror, without
being able to prevent it. It must suffer itself to be buried, covered
with earth, and trodden under foot by all men.
It is here that heavy crosses are borne, and all the heavier that they
are believed to be merited. The soul begins to have a horror of itself.
God casts it so far off, that He seems determined to abandon it for
ever. Poor soul! thou must be patient, and remain in thy sepulchre. It
is content to remain there, though in terrible suffering, because it
sees no way of escape from it; and it sees, too, that it is its only fit
place, all others being even sadder to it. It flees from men, knowing
that they regard it with aversion. They look upon this forlorn Bride as
an outcast, who has lost the grace of God, and who is only fit to be
buried in the earth.
The heart endures its bitterness; but, alas! how sweet this state is
even now, and how easy it would be to remain in the sepulchre, if it
were not necessary to decay! The old man becomes gradually corrupted;
formerly there were weaknesses and failings, now the soul sees a depth
of corruption of which it had hitherto been ignorant, for it could not
imagine what were its self-esteem and selfishness. O God! what horror
this soul suffers in seeing itself thus decaying! All troubles, the
contempt and aversion of man, affect it no longer. It is even insensible
to the deprivation of the Sun of Righteousness; it knows that His light
does not penetrate the tomb. But to feel its own corruption, that it
cannot endure. What would it not rather suffer? But it must experience,
to the very depths of its being, what it is.
And yet, if I could decay without being seen by God, I should be
content: what troubles me is the horror which I must cause Him by the
sight of my corruption. But, poor desolate one! what canst thou do? It
should suffice thee, one would think, to _bear_ this corruption, without
_loving_ it: but now thou art not even sure that thou dost not desire
it! The soul is in darkness, without being able to judge whether its
terrible thoughts proceed from itself or from the evil one.
It is no longer troubled at being cast off by God; it is so conscious of
its demerit, that it consents to the deprivation of the sensible
presence of God. But it cannot endure the thought that the taint of its
corruption reaches even to God. It does not wish to sin. Let me decay,
is its cry, and find my home in the depths of hell, if only I may be
kept free from sin. It no longer thinks of love, for it believes itself
to be incapable of affection. It is, in its own opinion, worse than when
it was in a state of nature, since it is in the state of corruption
usual to the body deprived of life.
At length by degrees the soul becomes accustomed to its corruption: it
feels it less, and finds it natural, except at certain times, when it is
tried by various temptations, whose terrible impressions cause it much
anguish. Ah, poor torrent! wast thou not better off on the mountain-top
than here? Thou hadst then some slight corruption, it is true; but now,
though thou flowest rapidly, and nothing can stop thee, thou passest
through such filthy places, so tainted with sulphur and saltpetre, that
thou bearest away their odours with thee.
At last the soul is reduced to a state of nothingness, and has become
like a person who does not exist, and never will exist; it does nothing,
either good or ill. Formerly it thought of itself now it thinks no
longer. All that is of grace is done as if it were of nature, and there
is no longer either pain or pleasure. All that there is, is that its
ashes remain as ashes, without the hope of ever being anything but
ashes: it is utterly dead, and nothing affects it either from without or
within--that is, it is no longer troubled by any sensible impressions.
At last, reduced to nonentity, there is found in the ashes _a germ of
immortality_, which lives beneath these ashes, and in due time will
manifest its life. But the soul is in ignorance of it, and never expects
to be revived or raised from the dead.
The faithfulness of the soul in this condition consists in letting
itself be buried, crushed, trampled on, without making any more movement
than a corpse, without seeking in any way to prevent its putrefaction.
There are those who wish to apply balm to themselves. No, no; leave
yourselves as you are. You must know your corruption, and see the
infinite depth of depravity that is in you. To apply balm is but to
endeavour by good works to hide your corruption. Oh, do it not! You will
wrong yourselves. God can suffer you; why cannot you suffer yourselves?
The soul, reduced to nothingness, must remain in it, without wishing to
change its state; and it is then that the torrent loses itself in the
sea, never to find itself in itself again, but to become one with the
sea. It is then that this corpse feels without feeling, that it is
gradually reanimated, and assumes _a new life_; but this is done so
gradually that it seems like a dream. And this brings us to the last
degree, which is the commencement of the _divine and truly inner life_,
including numberless smaller degrees, and in which the advancement is
infinite: just as this torrent can perpetually advance in the sea, and
imbibe more of its nature, the longer it remains in it.
CHAPTER IX.
FOURTH DEGREE OF THE PASSIVE WAY OF FAITH, WHICH IS THE COMMENCEMENT OF
THE DIVINE LIFE--TRANSITION FROM THE HUMAN STATE TO THE DIVINE, AND TO
THE RESURRECTION OF THE SOUL IN GOD--DESCRIPTION OF THIS LIFE AND OF ITS
PROPERTIES, GRADATIONS, IDENTITY, INDIFFERENCE--SENTIMENTS OF THE
SOUL--ITS EXISTENCE IN GOD--ITS PEACE, ETC.--POWER AND VIEWS WITH REGARD
TO OTHERS, TO ITSELF, TO ITS CONDITION, TO ITS ACTIONS, TO ITS WORDS, TO
ITS FAULTS--MIND OF CHRIST--VARIOUS OBSERVATIONS.
When the torrent begins to lose itself in the sea, it can easily be
distinguished. Its movement is perceptible, until at length it gradually
loses all form of its own, to take that of the sea. So the soul, leaving
this degree, and beginning to lose itself, yet retains something of its
own; but in a short time it loses all that it had peculiar to itself.
The corpse which has been reduced to ashes is still dust and ashes; but
if another person were to swallow those ashes, they would no longer
have an identity, but would form part of the person who had taken them.
The soul hitherto, though dead and buried, has retained its own being;
it is only in this degree that it is really taken out of itself.
All that has taken place up to this point has been in the individual
capacity of the creature; but here the creature is taken out of his own
capacity to receive an infinite capacity in God Himself. And as the
torrent, when it enters the sea, loses its own being in such a way that
it retains nothing of it, and takes that of the sea, or rather is taken
out of itself to be lost in the sea; so this soul loses the human in
order that it may lose itself in the divine, which becomes its being and
its subsistence, not essentially, but mystically. Then this torrent
possesses all the treasures of the sea, and is as glorious as it was
formerly poor and miserable.
It is in the tomb that the soul begins to resume life, and the light
enters insensibly. Then it can be truly said that "The people which sat
in darkness saw great light; and to them which sat in the region and
shadow of death light is sprung up" (Matt. iv. 16). There is a
beautiful figure of this resurrection in Ezekiel (chap. xxxvii.), where
the dry bones gradually assume life: and then there is that other
passage, "The hour is coming, and now is, when the dead shall hear the
voice of the Son of God; and they that hear shall live" (John v. 25). O
you who are coming out of the sepulchre! you feel within yourselves a
germ of life springing up little by little: you are quite astonished to
find a secret strength taking possession of you: your ashes are
reanimated: you feel yourselves to be in a new country. The poor soul,
which only expected to remain at rest in its grave, receives an
agreeable surprise. It does not know what to think: it supposes that the
sun must have shed upon it a few scattered rays through some opening or
chink, whose brightness will only last for a moment. It is still more
astonished when it feels this secret vigour permeating its entire being,
and finds that it gradually receives a new life, to lose it no more for
ever, unless it be by the most flagrant unfaithfulness.
But this new life is not like the former one: it is a _life in God_. It
is a perfect life. The soul _lives no longer_ and works no longer of
itself, but _God_ lives, acts, and operates in it (Gal. ii. 20); and
this goes on increasing, so that it becomes perfect with God's
perfection, rich with God's riches, and loving with God's love.
The soul sees now that whatever it owned formerly had been in its own
possession: now it no longer possesses, but is possessed: it only takes
a new life in order to lose it in God; or rather it only lives with the
life of God; and as He is the principle of life, the soul can want
nothing. What a gain it has made by all its losses! It has lost the
created for the Creator, the nothing for the All in all. All things are
given to it, not in itself, but in God; not to be possessed by itself,
but to be possessed by God. Its riches are immense, for they are God
Himself. It feels its capacity increasing day by day to immensity: every
virtue is restored to it, but in God.
It must be remarked, that as it was only despoiled by degrees, so it is
only enriched and vivified by degrees. The more it loses itself in God,
the greater its capacity becomes; just as the more the torrent loses
itself in the sea, the more it is enlarged, having no other limits than
those of the sea: it participates in all its properties. The soul
becomes strong and firm: it has lost all means, but it has found the
end. This divine life becomes quite natural to it. As it no longer feels
itself, sees itself, or knows itself, so it no longer sees or
understands or distinguishes anything of God as distinct or outside of
itself. It is no longer conscious of love, or light, or knowledge; it
only knows that God is, and that it no longer lives except in God. All
devotion is action, and all action is devotion: all is the same; the
soul is indifferent to all, for all is equally God. Formerly it was
necessary to exercise virtue in order to perform virtuous works; here
all distinction of action is taken away, the actions having no virtue in
themselves, but all being God, the meanest action equally with the
greatest, provided it is in the order of God and at His time: for all
that might be of the natural choice, and not in this order, would have
another effect, leading the soul out of God by unfaithfulness. Not that
it would be brought out of its degree or its loss, but out of the
divine plan, which makes all things one and all things God. So the soul
is _indifferent_ as to whether it be in one state or another, in one
place or another: all is the same to it, and it lets itself be carried
along naturally. It ceases to think, to wish, or to choose for itself;
but remains content, without care or anxiety, no longer distinguishing
its inner life to speak of it. Indeed it may be said not to possess one:
it is no longer in itself; it is all in God. It is not necessary for it
to shut itself up within itself; it does not hope to find anything
there, and does not seek for it. If a person were altogether penetrated
with the sea, having sea within and without, above and below, on every
side, he would not prefer one place to another, all being the same to
him. So the soul does not trouble itself to seek anything or to do
anything; that is, of itself, by itself, or for itself. It remains as it
is. But what does it do? Nothing--always nothing. It does what it is
made to do, it suffers what it is made to suffer. Its peace is
unchangeable, but always natural. It has, as it were, passed into a
state of nature; and yet how different from those altogether without
God!
The difference is, that it is compelled to action by God without being
conscious of it, whereas formerly it was nature that acted. It seems to
itself to do neither right nor wrong, but it lives satisfied, peaceful,
doing what it is made to do in a steady and resolute manner.
God alone is its guide; for at the time of its loss, it lost its own
will. And if you were to ask what are its desires, it could not tell. It
can choose for itself no longer: all desire is taken away, because,
having found its centre, the heart loses all natural inclination,
tendency, and activity, in the same way as it loses all repugnance and
contrariety. The torrent has no longer either a declivity or a movement:
it is in repose, and at its end.
But with what satisfaction is this soul satisfied? With the satisfaction
of God, immense, general, without knowing or understanding what it is
that satisfies it; for here all sentiments, tastes, views, particular
opinions, however delicate they may be, are taken from it: that certain
vague, indefinable something, which formerly occupied without occupying
it, is gone, and nothing remains to it. But this insensibility is very
different to that of death, burial, and decay. That was a deprivation of
life, a distaste, a separation, the powerlessness of the dying united
with the insensibility of the dead; but this is an _elevation_ above all
these things, which does not remove them, but renders them useless. A
dead man is deprived of all the functions of life by the powerlessness
of death; but if he were to be raised gloriously, he would be full of
life, without having the power to preserve it by means of the senses:
and being placed above all means by virtue of his germ of immortality,
he would no longer feel that which animated him, although he would know
himself to be alive.
In this degree God cannot be tasted, seen, or felt, being no longer
distinct from ourselves, but one with us. The soul has neither
inclination nor taste for anything: in the period of death and burial it
experienced this, but in a very different manner. Then it arose from
distaste and powerlessness, but now it is the effect of _plenitude_ and
_abundance_; just as if a person could live on air, he would be full
without feeling his plenitude, or knowing in what way he had been
satisfied; he would not be empty and unable to eat or to taste, but free
from all necessity of eating by reason of his satisfaction, without
knowing how the air, entering by all his pores, had penetrated equally
at all parts.
The soul here is in God, as in the air which is natural to it, and it is
no more sensible of its fulness than we are of the air we breathe. Yet
it is full, and nothing is wanting to it; therefore all its desires are
taken from it. Its peace is great, but not as it was before. Formerly it
was an inanimate peace a certain sepulture, from which there sometimes
escaped exhalations which troubled it. When it was reduced to ashes, it
was at peace; but it was a barren peace, like that of a corpse, which
would be at peace in the midst of the wildest storms of the sea: it
would not feel them, and would not be troubled by them, its state of
death rendering is insensible. But here the soul is raised, as it were,
to a mountain-top, from which it sees the waves rolling and tossing,
without fearing their attacks; or rather it is at the bottom of the sea,
where there is always tranquillity, even while the surface is agitated.
The senses may suffer their sorrows, but at the centre there is always
the same calm tranquillity, because He who possesses it is immutable.
This, of course, supposes the faithfulness of the soul; for in whatever
state it may be, it is possible for it to recede and fall back into
itself. But here the soul progresses infinitely in God; and it is
possible for it to advance incessantly; just as, if the sea had no
bottom, any one falling into it would sink to infinitude, and going down
to greater and greater depths of the ocean, would discover more and more
of its beauties and treasures. It is even thus with the soul whose home
is in God.
But what must it do in order to be faithful to God? Nothing, and less
than nothing. It must simply suffer itself to be possessed, acted upon,
and moved without resistance, remaining in the state which is natural to
it, waiting for what every moment may bring to it, and receiving it from
Him, without either adding to or taking from it; letting itself be led
at all times and to any place, regardless of sight or reason, and
without thinking of either; letting itself go naturally into all things,
without considering what would be best or most plausible; remaining in
the state of evenness and stability in which God has placed it, without
being troubled to do anything; but leaving to God the care of providing
its opportunities, and of doing all for it; not making definite acts of
abandonment, but simply resting in the state of abandonment in which it
already is, and which is natural to it.
The soul is unable to act in any way of itself without a consciousness
of unfaithfulness. It possesses all things by having nothing. It finds a
facility for every duty, for speaking and for acting, no longer in its
own way, but in God's. Its faithfulness does not consist in ceasing from
all activity, like one who is dead, but in doing nothing except by the
principle which animates it. A soul in this state has no inclination of
its own in anything, but lets itself go as it is led, and beyond that
does nothing. It cannot speak of its state, for it does not see it;
though there is so much that is extraordinary, it is no longer as it
was in the former degrees, where the creature had some part in it, that
which was in a great measure its own; but here the most wonderful things
are perfectly natural, and are done without thought. It is the same
principle that gives life to the soul which acts in it and through it.
It has a sovereign power over the hearts of those around it, but not of
itself. As nothing belongs to it, it can make no reserves; and if it can
say nothing of a state so divine, it is not because it fears vanity, for
that no longer exists; it is rather because what it has, while
possessing nothing, passes all expression by its extreme simplicity and
purity. Not that there are not many things which are but the accessories
of this condition, and not the centre, of which it can easily speak.
These accessories are like the crumbs which fall from that eternal feast
of which the soul begins to partake in time; they are but the sparks
which prove the existence of a furnace of fire and flame; but it is
impossible to speak of the principle and the end, because only so much
can be imparted as God is pleased to give at the moment to be either
written or spoken.
It may be asked, Is the soul unconscious of its faults, or does it
commit none? It does commit them, and is more conscious of them than
ever, especially in the commencement of its new life. The faults
committed are often more subtile and delicate than formerly. The soul
knows them better, because its eyes are open; but it is not troubled by
them, and can do nothing to rid itself of them. It is true that, when it
has been guilty of unfaithfulness or sin, it is sensible of a certain
cloud; but it passes over, without the soul itself doing anything to
dispel it, or to cleanse itself; apart from which, any efforts it might
make would be useless, and would only serve to increase its impurity; so
that it would be deeply sensible that the second stain was worse than
the first. It is not a question of returning to God, because a _return_
presupposes a departure; and if we are in God, we have but to abide in
Him; just as, when there arises a little cloud in the middle region of
air, if the wind blows, it moves the clouds, but does not dissipate
them; if, on the contrary, the sun shines forth, they will soon be
dispelled. The more subtile and delicate the clouds are, the more
quickly they will be dissipated.
Oh! if we had sufficient fidelity never to look at ourselves, what
progress might we not make! Our sights of ourselves resemble certain
plants in the sea, which, just so long as their support lasts, prevent
bodies from falling. If the branches are very delicate, the weight of
the body forces them down, and we are only delayed for a moment; but if
we look at ourselves willingly and long, we shall be delayed just so
long a time as the look may occupy, and our loss will be great indeed.
The defects of this state are certain light emotions or sights of self,
which are born and die in a moment--certain winds of self, which pass
over the calm sea, and cause ripples; but these faults are taken from us
little by little, and continually become more delicate.
The soul, on leaving the tomb, finds itself, without knowing how,
clothed with the _inclinations_ of Christ; not by distinct and natural
views of Him, but by its natural condition, finding these inclinations
just when they are needed, without thinking of them; as a person who
possesses a hidden treasure might find it unexpectedly in the time of
his need. The soul is surprised when, without having reflected on the
mind and disposition of Christ, it finds them naturally implanted within
it. These dispositions of Christ are lowliness, meekness, submission,
and the other virtues which He possessed. The soul finds that all these
are acting within it, but so easily, that they seem to have become
natural to it. Its treasury is in God alone, where it can draw upon it
ceaselessly in every time of need, without in any degree diminishing it.
It is then that it really "puts on" Jesus Christ (Rom. xiii. 14); and it
is henceforth He who acts, speaks, moves in the soul, the Lord Jesus
Christ being its moving principle. Now those around it do not
inconvenience it; the heart is enlarged to contain them. It desires
neither activity nor retreat, but only to be each moment what God makes
it to be.
As in this condition the soul is capable of infinite advancement, I
leave those who are living in it to write of it, the light not being
given me for the higher degrees, and my soul not being sufficiently
advanced in God to see or to know them. All that I shall add is, that it
is easy to see by the length of the road necessary to be taken in order
to arrive at God that the end is not so soon attained as we are apt to
imagine, and that even the most spiritual and enlightened mistake the
consummation of the _passive way of light and love_ for the end of this
one, when in reality it is but the commencement.
I must also remark, that what I have said touching the _mind_ of Christ
commences as soon as we enter the way of _naked faith_. Although the
soul in the former degrees has no distinct sights of Christ, it has
nevertheless a desire to be conformed to His image. It covets the cross,
lowliness, poverty; then this desire is lost, and there remains a secret
inclination for the same things, which continually deepens and
simplifies, becoming every day more intimate and more hidden. But here
the mind of Christ is the mind of the soul, natural and habitual to it,
as something no longer distinct from itself, but as its own being and
its own life; Christ exercising it without going out of the soul, and
the soul exercising it with Him, in Him, without going out of Him; not
like something distinct, which it knows, sees, attempts, practises, but
as that which is natural to it. All the actions of life, such as
breathing, are done naturally, without thought, rule, or measure; and
they are done unconsciously by the person who does them. It is thus with
the mind of Christ in this degree, which continually develops, as the
soul is more transformed in Him, and becomes more thoroughly one with
Him.
But are there no crosses in this condition? As the soul is strong with
the strength of God Himself, God lays upon it more crosses and heavier
ones than before; but they are borne divinely. Formerly the cross
charmed it; it was loved and cherished; now it is not thought of, but is
suffered to go and come; and the cross itself becomes God, like all
other things. This does not involve the cessation of suffering, but of
the sorrow, the anxiety, the bitterness of suffering. It is true that
the crosses are no longer crosses, but God. In the former stages, the
cross is virtue, and is exalted more and more as the condition is more
advanced: here the soul feels it to be God, like the rest; all that
constitutes the life of this soul, all that it has, moment by moment,
being God to it.
The outward appearance of these persons is quite ordinary, and nothing
unusual is observed in them except by those who are capable of
understanding them.
All is seen in God, and in its true light; therefore this state is not
subject to deception. There are no visions, revelations, ecstasies,
ravishments, or translations. All these things do not belong to this
state, which is above them all. This way is simple, pure, and naked,
seeing nothing out of God; and thus seeing all as God sees it, and with
His eyes.
_PART II._
CHAPTER I.
MORE PARTICULAR DESCRIPTION OF SOME OF THE CHARACTERISTICS OF THE DIVINE
RESURRECTION LIFE--TRUE LIBERTY AND THE RISEN LIFE, IN DISTINCTION FROM
THAT WHICH IS NOT SO, OF WHICH JOB IS AN ILLUSTRATION--COMMENCEMENT OF
THE APOSTOLIC LIFE--ITS FUNCTIONS AND ITS FRUITS--ON THE PRACTICE OF
VIRTUE, PARTICULARLY OF HUMILITY--BLESSEDNESS OF BEING LOST IN
GOD--RARITY OF PERFECT ABANDONMENT--RAYS OF GLORY ESCAPED FROM WITHIN.
I omitted to say that this is where true liberty begins; not, as some
imagine, a liberty which necessitates idleness; that would be
imprisonment rather than liberty, fancying ourselves free because,
having an aversion to our own works, we no longer practise them. The
liberty of which I speak is of a different nature; it does all things
easily which God would have done, and the more easily in proportion to
the duration and the painfulness of the incapacity to do them which we
have previously experienced. I confess I do not understand the
resurrection state of certain Christians, who profess to have attained
it, and who yet remain all their lives powerless and destitute; for here
the soul takes up a true life. The actions of a raised man are the
actions of life; and if the soul remain lifeless, I say that it may be
dead or buried, but not risen. A risen soul should be able to perform
without difficulty all the actions which it has performed in the past,
only they would be done in God. Did not Lazarus, after his resurrection,
exercise all the functions of life as formerly, and Jesus Christ after
His resurrection was willing to eat and to converse with men. And so of
those who believe themselves to be risen with Christ, and who are
nevertheless stunted in their spiritual growth and incapable of
devotion,--I say, that they do not possess a resurrection life, for
there everything is restored to the soul a hundred-fold. There is a
beautiful illustration of this in the case of Job, whose history I
consider a mirror of the spiritual life. First God robbed him of his
wealth, which we may consider as setting forth gifts and graces; then of
his children; this signifies the destruction of natural sensibilities,
and of our own works, which are as our children and our most cherished
possessions: then God deprived him of his health, which symbolises the
loss of virtue; then He touched his person, rendering him an object of
horror and contempt. It even appears that this holy man was guilty of
sin, and failed in resignation; he was accused by his friends of being
justly punished for his crimes; there was no healthy part left in him.
But after he had been brought down to the dunghill, and reduced as it
were to a corpse, did not God restore everything to him, his wealth, his
children, his health, and his life?
It is the same with spiritual resurrection; everything is restored, with
a wonderful power to use it without being defiled by it, clinging to it
without appropriating it as before. All is done in God, and things are
used as though they were not used. It is here that true liberty and true
life are found. "If we have been planted in the likeness of Christ's
death, we shall be also in the likeness of His resurrection" (Rom. vi.
5). Can there be freedom where there are powerlessness and restrictions?
No; "If the Son shall make you free, ye shall be free indeed," but with
His liberty.
This is where true liberty begins. Nothing that God desires is difficult
to us, or costs us anything; and if a person is called to preach, to
instruct, &c., he does it with a marvellous facility, without the
necessity of preparing a discourse, being well able to practise what
Jesus commanded His disciples, "Take no thought how or what ye shall
speak: for I will give you a mouth and wisdom, which all your
adversaries shall not be able to gainsay nor resist" (Matt. x. 19; Luke
xxi. 15). This is not given till after an experience of powerlessness;
and the deeper that experience has been, the greater is the liberty. But
it is useless to endeavour to force ourselves into this condition; for
as God would not be the source, we should not realise the desired
results. It may well be said of this risen life, that all good things
are given with it. In this state, the soul cannot practise the virtues
as virtues; it is not even conscious of them; but all the virtues have
become so habitual to it, that it practises them naturally, almost
instinctively. When it hears others speak of deep humiliation, it is
surprised to find that it experiences nothing of the kind; and if it
sought to humble itself, it would be astonished, as though it were
guilty of unfaithfulness, and would even find it impossible, because the
state of annihilation through which it has passed has placed it below
all humiliation; for in order to be humbled, we must _be something_, and
nothingness cannot be brought lower; its present state has placed it
above all humility and all virtue by its transformation into God, so
that its powerlessness arises both from its annihilation and its
elevation. Those persons have nothing outwardly to distinguish them from
others, unless it be that they do no harm to any one; for, so far as the
exterior is concerned, they are very ordinary, and therefore do not
attract observation, but live in a state of quiet rest, free from all
care and anxiety. They experience a deep joy, arising from the absence
of all fear, or desire, or longing, so that nothing can disturb their
repose or diminish their joy. David possessed this experience when he
said, "The Lord is my light and my salvation, whom shall I fear? The
Lord is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid" (Ps. xxvii.
1).
A heart ravished with joy no longer looks at itself, nor thinks of
itself; and its joy, though great, is not an object of contemplation.
The soul is in a state of ravishment and ecstasy which cause no
uneasiness, because God has enlarged its capacity almost to infinitude.
Those ecstasies which cause the loss of consciousness are the effect of
human imperfection, and are nevertheless the admiration of men. God is,
as it were, drawing the soul out of itself that it may be lost in Him;
but as it has neither sufficient purity nor strength to bear the
process, it becomes necessary, either that God should cease thus to draw
it, which involves the cessation of the ecstasy, or that nature should
succumb and die, which not unfrequently happens. But in this
resurrection life, the ecstasy lasts, not for a few hours only, but for
ever, without either violence or variation, God having purified and
strengthened the subject of it to the extent necessary to enable it to
bear this glorious ravishment. It seems to me that when God goes out of
Himself, He creates an ecstasy,--but I dare not say this for fear of
teaching an error. What I say then is, that the soul drawn out of itself
experiences an inward ecstasy; but a happy one, because it is only drawn
out of itself in order that it may be drowned and lost in God, quitting
its own imperfections and its own limited thoughts to participate in
those of God.
O happy nothingness! where does its blessedness end? O poverty-stricken,
weary ones! how well ye are recompensed! O unutterable happiness! O
soul! what a gain thou hast made in exchange for all thy losses! Couldst
thou have believed, when thou wast lying in the dust, that what caused
thee so much horror could have procured thee so great a happiness as
that which thou now possessest? If it had been told thee, thou couldst
not have credited it. Learn now by thine own experience how good it is
to trust in God, and that those who put their confidence in Him shall
never be confounded.
O abandonment! what gladness canst thou impart to the soul, and what
progress it might have made if it had found thee at first; from how
much weariness it might have been delivered if it had known how to let
God work! But, alas! men are not willing to abandon themselves, and to
trust only in God. Even those who appear to do it, and who think
themselves well established in it, are only abandoned in imagination,
and not in reality. They are willing to abandon themselves in one thing
and not in another; they wish to compromise with God, and to place a
limit to what they will permit Him to do. They want to give themselves
up, but on such and such conditions. No; this is not abandonment. An
entire and total abandonment excepts nothing, keeps back nothing,
neither death, nor life, nor perfection, nor salvation, nor heaven, nor
hell. O poor souls! give yourselves up utterly in this abandonment; you
will get only happiness and blessing from it. Walk boldly on this stormy
sea, relying on the word of Jesus, who has promised to take upon Himself
the care of all those who will lose their own life, and abandon
themselves to Him. But if you sink like Peter, ascribe it to the
weakness of your faith. If we had the faith calmly, and without
hesitation, to face all dangers, what good should we not receive! What
do you fear, trembling heart? You fear to lose yourself? Alas! for all
that you are worth, what would that matter? Yes, you will lose yourself
if you have strength to abandon yourself to God, but you will be lost in
Him. O happy loss! I do not know how sufficiently to repeat it. Why can
I not persuade every one to make this abandonment? and why do men preach
anything less? Alas! men are so blind that they regard all this as
folly, as something fit for women and weak minds; but for great minds it
is too mean; they must guide themselves by their own meagre share of
wisdom. This path is unknown to them, because they are wise and prudent
in themselves; but it is revealed to babes, who can suffer self to be
annihilated, and who are willing to be moved by God at His pleasure,
leaving Him to do with them as He will, without resistance, without
considering what others will say. Oh, how difficult it is to this proper
prudence to become nothing both in its own eyes and in the sight of
others! Men say that their one object in life is to glorify God, while
it is really their own glorification. But to be willing to be nothing in
the sight of God, to live in an entire abandonment, in utter
self-despair, to give themselves to Him when they are the most
discouraged, to leave themselves in His hands, and not to look at self
when they are on the very edge of the abyss; it is this that is so rare,
and it is this which constitutes perfect abandonment. There sometimes
occur in this life wonderful manifestations to the natural senses, but
this is not usual; it is like Christ on the Mount of Transfiguration.
CHAPTER II.
STABILITY, EXPERIENCES, ELEVATION, EXTREME PURITY, AND PEACE OF THE SOUL
IN THE CONDITION OF ABANDONMENT--ALL IS PURELY GOD TO IT--FOR ITS LOST
LIBERTY IT FINDS THAT OF GOD--STATE IN WHICH ALL IS DIVINELY SURE,
EQUAL, AND INDIFFERENT.
The soul having attained a divine state, is, as I have already said, an
immovable rock, proof against all blows or shocks, unless it be when the
Lord desires it to do something contrary to custom; then, if it does not
yield to His first promptings, it has to suffer the pain of a constraint
to which it can offer no resistance, and is compelled by a violence,
which cannot be explained, to obey His will.
It is impossible to tell the strange proofs to which God subjects the
hearts which are perfectly abandoned, and which offer no resistance to
Him in anything; neither, if I could speak of them, should I be
understood. All that I can say is, that He does not leave them the
shadow of anything that could be named, either in God or out of God. And
He so raises them above all by the loss of all, that nothing less than
God Himself, either in earth or heaven, can stop them. Nothing can harm
them, because there is no longer anything hurtful for them, by reason of
their union with God, which, in associating with sinners, contracts no
defilement, because of its essential purity.
This is more real than I can express: the soul participates in the
purity of God; or rather, all natural purity having been annihilated,
the purity of God alone exists in its nothingness; but so truly, that
the heart is in perfect ignorance of evil, and powerless to commit it,
which does not however prevent the possibility of its falling; but this
seldom happens here, because the profound nothingness of the soul does
not leave anything that can be appropriated to itself; and it is
appropriation alone which can cause sin, for that which no longer exists
cannot sin.
The peace of those in this condition is so invariable and so profound,
that nothing either in earth or hell can disturb it for a moment. The
senses are still susceptible to suffering; but when they are
overpowered by it, and cry out with the anguish, if they are questioned,
or if they examine themselves, they will find nothing in themselves that
suffers: in the midst of the greatest pain, they say that they suffer
nothing, being unable to admit that they are suffering, because of the
divine state of blessedness which reigns in the centre or supreme part.
And then there is such an entire and complete separation of the two
parts, the inferior and the superior, that they live together like
strangers; and the most extraordinary trouble does not interrupt the
perfect peace, tranquillity; joy, and rest of the superior part; as the
joy of the divine life does not prevent the suffering of the inferior.
If you wish to attribute any goodness to those who are thus transformed
in God, they will object to it, not being able to find anything in
themselves that can be named, affirmed, or heard. They are in a complete
_negation_. It is this which causes the difference of terms and
expressions employed by writers on this subject, who find a difficulty
in making themselves understood, except by those whose experience
accords with their own. Another effect of this negation is, that the
soul having lost all that was its own, God having substituted Himself,
it can attribute nothing either to itself or to God; because it knows
God only, of whom it can say nothing. Here all is God to the soul,
because it is no longer a question of seeing all _in_ God; for to see
things in God is to distinguish them in Him. For instance, if I enter a
room, I see all that is there in addition to the room itself, though it
be placed within it; but if all could be transformed into the room
itself, or else were taken out of it, I should see nothing but the room
alone. All creatures, _celestial_, _terrestrial_ or _pure
intelligences_, disappear and fade away, and there remains only God
Himself, as He was before the creation. The soul sees only God
everywhere; and all is God; not by thought, sight, or light, but by an
identity of condition and a consummation of unity, which rendering it
God by participation, without its being able to see itself, prevents it
seeing anything anywhere; it can see no created being out of the
Uncreated, the only uncreated One being all and in all.
Men would condemn such a state, saying it makes us something less than
the meanest insect; and so it does, not by obstinacy and firmness of
purpose, but by powerlessness to interfere with ourselves. You may ask
one in this condition, "Who leads you to do such and such a thing? Is it
God who has told you to do it, or has made known to you His will
concerning it?" He will reply, "I know nothing, and I do not think of
knowing anything: all is God and His will; and I no longer know what is
meant by the will of God, because that will has become natural to me."
"But why should you do this rather than that?" "I do not know: I let
myself be guided by Him who draws me." "Why so?" "He draws me because I,
being no longer anything, am carried along with God, and am drawn by Him
_alone_. _He_ goes hither and thither: _He_ acts; and I am but an
instrument, which I neither see nor regard. I have no longer a separate
interest, because by the loss of myself I have lost all self-interest.
Neither am I capable of giving any reason for my conduct, for I no
longer have a conduct: yet I act infallibly so long as I have no other
principle than that of the Infallible One."
And this blind abandonment is the permanent condition of the soul of
which I speak; because having become one with God, it can see nothing
but God; for having lost all separateness, self-possession, and
distinction, it can no longer be abandoning itself, because, in order to
abandon ourselves, we must do something, and have the power of disposing
of ourselves.
The soul is in this condition "hidden _with Christ_ in God" (Col. iii.
3); _mingled_ with Him, as the river of which we have spoken is mingled
with the sea, so that it can be separated no more. It has the ebb and
flow of the sea, no longer by choice, will, and liberty, but by nature:
the immense sea having absorbed its shallow limited waters, it
participates in all the movements of the sea. It is the sea which bears
it, and yet it is not borne, since it has lost its own being; and having
no other motion than that of the sea, it acts as the sea acts: not
because it naturally possesses the same qualities, but because, having
lost all its natural qualities, it has no others but those of the sea,
without having the power of ever being anything but sea. It is not, as
I have said, that it does not so retain its own nature, that, if God so
willed it, in a moment it could be separated from the sea; but He does
not do this. Neither does it lose the nature of the creature; and God
could, if He pleased, cast it off from His divine bosom: but He does not
do it, and the creature acts as it were divinely.
But it will be said that by this theory I deprive man of his liberty.
Not so; he is no longer free except by an excess of liberty, because he
has lost freely all created liberty. He participates in the uncreated
freedom, which is not contracted, bounded, limited by anything; and the
soul's liberty is so great, so broad, that the whole earth appears to it
as a speck, to which it is not confined. It is free to do all and to do
nothing. There is no state or condition to which it cannot accommodate
itself; it can do all things, and yet takes no part in them. O glorious
state! who can describe thee, and what hast thou to fear or to
apprehend? O Paul! thou couldst say, "who shall separate us from the
love of Christ?" "I am persuaded," says the great apostle, "that
neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor
things present, nor things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other
creature, shall be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in
Christ Jesus our Lord" (Rom. viii. 35, 38, 39). Now these words, "I am
persuaded," exclude all doubt. But what was the foundation of Paul's
assurance? It was in the infallibility of God alone. The epistles of
this great apostle, this mystical teacher, are often read, but seldom
understood; yet all the mystic way, its commencement, its progress, its
end, are described by St Paul, and even the divine life; but few are
able to understand it, and those to whom the light is given see it all
there clearer than the day.
Ah! if those who find it so difficult to leave themselves to God could
only experience this, they would confess that though the way might be
arduous, a single day of this life was a sufficient recompense for years
of trouble. But by what means does God bring the soul here? By ways
altogether opposed to natural wisdom and imagination. He builds up by
casting down; He gives life by killing. Oh! if I could tell what He
does, and the strange means which He uses to bring us here. But silence!
men are not able to hear it; those who have experienced it know what it
is. Here there is no need of place or time; all is alike, all places are
good; and wherever the order of God may take us, it is well, because all
means are useless and infinitely surpassed: when we have reached the
end, there is nothing left to wish for.
Here all is God: God is everywhere and in everything, and therefore to
the soul all is the same. Its religion is God Himself, always the same,
never interrupted; and if sometimes God pours some stream of His glory
upon its natural powers and sensibilities, it has no effect upon the
centre, which is always the same. The soul is indifferent either to
solitude or a crowd: it no longer looks forward to deliverance from the
body in order that it may be united to God. It is now not only united,
but transformed, changed into the Object of its love, which causes it no
longer to think of loving; for it loves God with His own love, and
naturally, though not inamissibly.
CHAPTER III.
IN WHICH IS EXPLAINED BY A COMPARISON THAT WHICH CONCERNS PERFECT UNION
OR DEIFORMITY--SECRETS OF GOD REVEALED TO HIS HIDDEN ONES, AND BY THEM
TO OTHERS--PERMANENCE AND PROGRESS OF THIS CONDITION, THOUGH
VARIABLE--NATURAL CAPACITY MUST BE LOST--THE PARTICIPATED CAPACITY OF
GOD BY TRANSFORMATION GLOWS INFINITELY.
A similitude occurs to my mind which appears very appropriate to this
subject: it is that of grain. First it is separated from the husk, which
sets forth conversion and separation from sin: when the grain is
separate and pure, it must be ground (by affliction, crosses, sickness,
&c.); when it is thus bruised and reduced to flour, there must still be
taken from it, not that which is impure, for this is gone, but all that
is coarse, that is, the bran; and when there is nothing left but the
fine flour, then it is made into bread for food. It appears as though
the flour were soiled, blackened, and blighted; that its delicacy and
whiteness were taken from it, in order that it may be made into a paste
which is far less beautiful than the flour. Lastly, this paste is
exposed to the heat of the fire. Now this is precisely what happens to
the soul of which I have been speaking. But after the bread is baked, it
is fit for the mouth of the king, who not only unites it to himself by
contact with it, but eats it, digests it, consumes it, and annihilates
it, that it may enter into his composition, and become part of himself.
You will observe that though the bread has been eaten by the king, which
is the greatest honour it can receive, and is its end, yet it cannot be
changed into his substance unless it be annihilated by digestion, losing
all its natural form and quality. Oh, how well this sets forth all the
conditions of the soul; that of union being very different to that of
transformation, in which the soul, in order to become one with God,
transformed and changed into Him, must not only be eaten, but digested,
that, after having lost all that was its own, it may become one with God
Himself: "That they all may be one, as Thou, Father, art in me, and I
in Thee; that they also may be one in us, I in them, and Thou in me,
that they may be made perfect in one." (John xvii. 21, 23). "He that is
joined unto the Lord is one spirit" (1 Cor. vi. 17).
This state is very little known, therefore it is not spoken of. O state
of life! how narrow is the way which leadeth unto thee! O love the most
pure of all, because Thou art God Himself! O love immense and
independent, which nothing can limit or straiten!
Yet these people appear quite common, as I have said, because they have
nothing outwardly to distinguish them, unless it be an infinite freedom,
which is often scandalised by those who are limited and confined within
themselves, to whom, as they see nothing better than they have
themselves, all that is different to what they possess appears evil. But
the holiness of these simple and innocent ones whom they despise is a
holiness incomparably more eminent than all which they consider holy,
because their own works, though performed with such strictness, have no
more strength than the principle in which they originate, which is
always the effort, though raised and ennobled, of a weak creature; but
those who are consummated in the divine union act in God by a principle
of infinite strength; and thus their smallest actions are more agreeable
to God than the multitude of heroic deeds achieved by others, which
appear so great in the sight of men. Therefore those in this degree do
not seek for great things to do, resting contented with being what God
makes them at each moment. These do more, without doing anything, for
the conversion of a kingdom, than five hundred preachers who have not
attained this condition.
God sometimes, however, permits these people to be known, though not
fully. Many people apply to them for instruction, to whom they
communicate a vivifying principle, by means of which many more are won
to Christ; but this is done, without care or anxiety, by pure
Providence. If people only knew the glory which is rendered to God by
such as these, who are scorned by the world, they would be astonished;
for it is they who render to God a glory worthy of Himself; because God,
acting as God within them, brings into them a glory worthy of Him.
Oh, how many Christians, quite seraphic in appearance, are far from
this! But in this condition, as in all others, there are souls more or
less divine. God hides them in His bosom, and under the veil of a most
common life, so that they may be known to Him alone, though they are His
delight. Here the secrets of God, in Himself and in the hearts of those
in whom He dwells, are revealed; not by word, sight, or light, but by
the science of God, which abides in Him; and when such people have to
write or speak, they are themselves astonished to find that all flows
from a divine centre, without their having been aware that they
possessed such treasures. They find themselves in a profound science,
without memory or recollection; like an inestimable treasure, which is
unobserved until there is a necessity for its manifestation; and it is
in the manifestation to others that they find the revelation to
themselves. When they write, they are astonished to find themselves
writing of things with which they neither knew nor believed themselves
to be acquainted; although, as they write, they cannot doubt their
apprehension of them. It is not so with other Christians; their light
precedes their experience, as a person sees from afar the things which
he does not possess, and describes what he has seen, known, heard, &c.
But these are persons who hold a treasure within themselves, which they
do not see until after the manifestation, although it is in their
possession.
Yet, after all, this does not well express the idea which I wish to
convey. God is in this soul; or rather the soul no longer exists; it no
longer acts, but God acts, and it is the instrument. God includes all
treasures in Himself, and manifests them through this soul to others;
and thus, as it draws them from its centre, it becomes aware of their
presence, though it had never reflected upon them before. I am sure that
any who have attained this degree will enter into my meaning, and will
easily distinguish the difference between the states I have described.
Those whom I mentioned first, see things and enjoy them as we enjoy the
sun; but the others have become one with the sun itself, which does not
enjoy nor reflect upon its own light. This condition is permanent, and
its only vicissitude, so far as its centre is concerned, is a greater
advancement in God: and as God is infinite, He can continually make the
soul more divine by enlarging its capacity, as the water of which we
have spoken expands in proportion as it is lost in the sea, with which
it mingles incessantly without ever leaving it. It is the same with
these souls. All who are in this degree have God, but some more and some
less fully. They are all full, but all do not possess an equal
plenitude. A little vase when full is as truly filled as a larger one,
yet it does not contain an equal quantity. So all these souls are filled
with the fulness of God, but it is according to their receptive
capacity, which capacity God continually enlarges. Therefore the longer
Christians live in this divine condition, the more they expand, and
their capacity becomes continually more immense, without anything being
left for them to do or desire; for they always possess God in His
fulness, and He never leaves an empty corner in their hearts. As they
grow and enlarge, He fills them with Himself, as we see with the air. A
small room is full of air, but a large one contains more. If you
continually increase the size of a room, in the same proportion the air
will enter, infallibly though imperceptibly: and thus, without changing
its state or disposition, and without any new sensation, the soul
increases in capacity and in plenitude. But this growing capacity can
only be received in a state of nothingness, because in any other
condition there is an opposition to growth.
It may be well here to explain what may appear a contradiction, when I
say, that the soul must be brought to nothing in order to pass into God,
and that it must lose all that is its own; and yet I speak of capacity
which it retains.
There are two capacities. One is natural to the creature, and this is
narrow and limited: when it is purified, it is fitted to receive the
gifts of God, but not God Himself; because what we receive within us
must of necessity be less than ourselves, as that which is enclosed in a
vase must be of less extent, though it may be of greater value, than the
vase which contains it.
But the capacity of which I speak here is a capacity to extend and to
lose itself more and more in God, after the soul has lost its
appropriation, which confined it to itself; and this capacity being no
longer restricted nor limited, because its annihilation has deprived it
of all form, disposes the soul to flow into God, so that it loses
itself, and flows into Him who is beyond comprehension. The more it is
lost in Him, the more it develops and becomes immense, participating in
His perfections, and being more and more transformed in Him, as water in
communication with its source continually mingles with it. God, being
our original source, has created us with a nature fit to be united,
transformed, and made one with Himself.
CHAPTER IV.
THE FIRST MOVEMENTS OF THESE SOULS ARE DIVINE--THEIR SUFFERINGS ARE NOT
BY REFLECTION, BUT BY IMPRESSION--GREATNESS OF THESE SUFFERINGS, WHICH,
HOWEVER, DO NOT VARY THEIR REST OR CONTENTMENT BECAUSE OF THEIR
DEIFICATION, WHICH PROGRESSES INFINITELY, BUT GRADUALLY--THEIR PEACE
DISTURBED NEITHER BY GOOD NOR EVIL, AS GOD IS NEITHER TROUBLED NOR
DISTURBED BY THE SIGHT OF MAN'S SIN, ALL THINGS CONTRIBUTING TO HIS
GLORY.
The soul has now nothing to do but to remain as it is, and to follow
without resistance all the movements of its Guide. All its movements are
of God, and He guides it infallibly. It is not thus in the inferior
conditions, unless it be when the soul begins to taste of the centre;
but then it is not so infallible, and they would be deceived who applied
this rule to any but the most advanced state.
It is the duty of this soul to follow blindly with reflection all the
movings of God. Here all reflection is banished, and the soul would
find a difficulty in indulging in it, even if it desired to do so. But
as by an effort it might accomplish it, this habit should be
scrupulously avoided; because reflection alone has the power of leading
man to enter into himself, and of drawing him out of God. Now, I say,
that if man does not go out of God he will never sin; and if he sin, it
is because he has gone out of Him, which can only be the effect of
appropriation; and the soul can only take itself back from its
abandonment by reflex action, which would be to it a hell similar to
that into which the great angel fell when, looking with complacency upon
himself, and preferring himself to God, he became a devil. And this
state would be more terrible as that which had been previously attained
was more advanced.
It will be objected that suffering is impossible in this condition, not
only as to the centre, but also as to the senses, because in order to
suffering there must be reflex action, and it is reflection which
constitutes the principal and the most painful part of suffering. All
this is true in a certain sense; and as it is a fact that souls far less
advanced than these suffer sometimes by reflection, sometimes by
impression, I maintain that it is also true that those in this degree
cannot suffer otherwise than by impression. This does not imply that
sorrow may not be unlimited, and far more intense than that which is
reflected, as the burning of one brought into actual contact with fire
would be much more severe than that of one who is burned by the
reflection of fire. It will be said, But God can teach them by means of
reflection how to suffer. God will not make use of reflection for this
end. He can show them in a moment what they have to suffer by a direct
view, and not by a reflected one, as those in heaven see in God that
which is in Him, and that which passes out from Him to His creatures,
without looking at these things or reflecting upon them, but remaining
absorbed and lost in God. It is this which deceives so many
spiritually-minded people, who imagine that nothing can be either known
or suffered but by reflection. On the contrary, this kind of knowledge
and suffering is very slight compared to that which is imparted in other
ways.
All such suffering as can be distinguished and known, though expressed
in such exaggerated terms, does not equal that of those who do not know
their suffering, and cannot admit that they do suffer, because of the
great separation between the two parts. It is true that they suffer
extreme pain; it is true that they suffer nothing, and that they are in
a state of perfect contentment.
I believe that, if such a soul were taken to hell, it would suffer all
the cruel tortures of its fate in a complete contentment, because of the
beatitude of its transformed centre; and this is the cause of the
indifference which they feel towards all conditions.
As I have said, this does not prevent their experiencing the extremity
of suffering, as the extremity of suffering does not hinder their
perfect happiness. Those who have experienced it will be well able to
understand me.
It is not here as in the passive state of love. There the soul is filled
with a love of suffering and of the good pleasure of God: here it is a
loss of the will in God by a state of deification, where all is God
without its being recognised as such. The soul is established by its
condition in its sovereign, unchangeable good. It is in a perfect
beatitude, where nothing can cross its perfect happiness, which is
rendered its permanent condition; for many possess it temporarily, or
know it temporarily, before it becomes their permanent condition. God
gives first the knowledge of the condition, then a desire for it; then
He gives it confusedly and indistinctly; and lastly, He makes it a
normal condition, and establishes the soul in it for ever.
It will be said that when once the soul is established in this
condition, nothing more can be done for it. It is just the reverse:
there is always an infinitude to be done on the part of God, not on that
of the creature. God does not make the life divine all at once, but by
degrees. Then, as I have said, He enlarges the capacity of the soul, and
can continually deify it more and more, God being an unfathomable depth.
O Lord! "how great is Thy goodness, which Thou hast laid up for them
that fear Thee!" (Ps. xxxi. 19).
It was the sight of this state of blessedness which elicited such
frequent exclamations from David after he had been purified from sin.
But in conclusion, I say that these persons cannot be troubled by sin,
because, although they hate it infinitely, they no longer suffer from
it, seeing it as God sees it; and though, if it were necessary, they
would give their lives to prevent the commission of a single sin, if God
so willed it, they are without action, without desire, without
inclination, without choice, without impatience, in a state of complete
death, seeing things only as God sees them, and judging them only with
God's judgment.
THE END.
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