Sermons of the Rev. Francis A. Baker, Priest of the Congregation of St. Paul / With a Memoir of His Life

by Francis A. Baker

Sermons.

Sermon I.
The Necessity Of Salvation.
(Mission Sermon.)

"Thou art careful, and art troubled about many things.
But one thing is necessary."
—St. Luke X. 41, 42.

If, my brethren, I should ask each one in this assembly what his business is, I should probably receive a great variety of answers. In so large a congregation as this, drawn as it is from the heart of a rich and important city, there are undoubtedly representatives of all the various avocations that grow out of the requirements of social life; some merchants, some mechanics, some laboring men. I should find some heirs of ease and opulence side by side with homeless beggars. Some of you are heads of families, while others are living under guardianship and subjection; and in answer to my proposed question, you would give me your various employments and states of life. You would tell me that your business is to heal the sick, or to assist at the administration of justice, or to teach, or to learn letters, or to labor. The men would tell me that their occupation is at the office, or the warehouse, or the shop, and the women would tell me that theirs is at home by the family fireside. No! my brethren, it is not so. This is not your business. Your words may be true in the sense in which you use them, but there is a great and real sense in which they are not true. Trade, labor, study—these are not your employments. Your avocations are not so varied as you think they are. Each one of you has the same business. All men who have lived in the world have had but one and the same business. And what is that? The salvation of their souls. However varied your dispositions, your condition in this world, your duties, the end of life is absolutely one and the same to you all. Yes! wherever man is, whatever his position, whatever his age, he has one business on the earth, and only one—to save his soul. All other things may be dispensed with, but this cannot be dispensed with. This is his true, his necessary, his only duty. Do not think that I am exaggerating things in making this assertion. Our Divine Saviour Himself in the words of the text has taught us the same lesson—"Martha, Martha, thou art careful, and art troubled about many things. But one thing is necessary." And what that one thing is, He has taught us, in those memorable words which He uttered on another occasion—"What shall it profit a man, if he gain the whole world, and lose his own soul; or what shall a man give in exchange for his soul?" [Footnote 8] But what then, you say; must every one go into a cloister, must everyone who wishes to do his duty forsake the world, leave house and parents, lands and possessions, and nourish his soul by continual meditation and prayer? No! this is not our Lord's meaning. The end of life is indeed the salvation of our souls, but we must work this out by means of the daily employments appropriate to our several conditions. We must prepare for the life to come by the labors of the life that now is. We must bear our part in this world, but we must do so, always, in subordination to eternity, and thus we shall in some way fulfil the words of the apostle—"They that use this world, let them be as though they used it not;" [Footnote 9] that is, let them not use it in the same way that the children of the world use it, or according to the principles of the world.

[Footnote 8: St. Mark viii. 36, 37]

[Footnote 9: 1 Cor. vii. 31.]

This is enough for the salvation of most men. No one can be excused from doing so much as this. The law of God imperatively and under the highest sanctions requires this of everyone here present. This is your duty to your souls. This is your only duty. This done, all will be done. This neglected, all else will be in vain. To prove this will be the theme of my present discourse.

I will make a remark in the outset: It is important for us to bear in mind that the salvation of our souls is properly our work. The grace of God is indeed necessary in order to will, and to accomplish His good will, but without our co-operation, the grace of God will not save us; accordingly, St. Paul, writing to the Philippians, exhorts them to work out their salvation. [Footnote 10]

[Footnote 10: Philip. ii. 12.]

It is only little children, who die soon after baptism, and persons equivalent to children, who are saved by a sovereign and absolute act of divine power; with regard to all others, God has made their eternal destiny dependent on their own actions. No one of us will be saved merely because Christ died for us; or because He founded the Catholic Church as the church of salvation, and made us its members; or because He has instituted life-giving sacraments; or because God is willing that all should be saved; or because He gives His grace to us all; or because the Blessed Virgin Mary has such power with God; or because the priest can forgive sins. No one will be saved because he has had inspirations of grace, good instruction, good desires, and good purposes. Despite all this, one may be damned. For the Holy Spirit has said distinctly and strongly, "Work out your own salvation." It rests, then, with you to save your souls. The grace of God is indeed necessary. You cannot be saved without the death of Christ, or the sacraments of the Catholic Church, or the gifts of the Holy Spirit, or the absolution of the priest, or the patronage of Mary; but all these things are within your reach, they are all in your power. Now, at the time of the Holy Mission, they are offered to you with especial liberality. God, on His part, has done, one may almost say, all that He could do to make your work easy to you. To make this an acceptable time, it only remains, then, that you do your part. And this you can do. However great your difficulties, however great your temptations, however strong your passions, however importunate your evil companions, may be; however deeply seated your bad habits; you can, each one can, by the help which God is now willing to render him, save his soul.

From this first remark I pass to the immediate subject of my discourse—the obligation of securing our salvation. As we can save our souls, so we ought to do it. Nay, this is our only, our all-engrossing duty; and I shall found my proof of it, my brethren, on this plain rule of common sense and reason, that one ought to bestow that degree of attention and care on any affair which it deserves and requires. Everyone feels that it would be an occupation unworthy of a man to spend his time in writing letters in the sand, or in chasing butterflies from flower to flower; because these occupations are in themselves vain and profitless. Again, anyone would feel it unreasonable, in the father of a family, to set out on a party of pleasure at the very moment that his presence was necessary to arrest some disaster that threatened his family: not because it was wrong in itself for him to seek recreation, but because a higher obligation was then urging. Now, applying these principles, on which everyone acts in matters of daily life, to the matter in question; I say that you are bound to give to the work of your salvation your utmost care and attention, because the care of your souls supremely deserves and urgently requires it. Take in, my brethren, the whole scope of my proposition. There is a work of great consequence before you. I do not speak as the world speaks. The world tells you that your business here is to get gain, to build a house, to rear a family, to leave a name, to enjoy yourself. I say, no. Your business is to seek the grace of God, and to keep it. The world says: seek friends, fall in with the stream, court popularity, do as others do, act on the principles which receive the sanction of the multitude, and a little religion in addition to this will be no bad thing. I say, no. Seek first the kingdom of God and His justice. Fathers, mothers, sons and daughters, masters, servants, ye great ones and ye humble ones of the earth, you are all engaged in the same enterprise. God has intrusted to each one of you a soul. He has intrusted it to you, not to another. You cannot devolve the responsibility of it on another. That is your care on the earth. Whatever cares of other things you may have, you cannot neglect that one work, you cannot interrupt or postpone it, you cannot put any thing in competition with it. If there is a question between any temporal advantages, however great, or suffering, however severe, on one side, and the salvation of your soul on the other; you must renounce these benefits, embrace those tortures. If you must consent to see your family die by inches of starvation, or put your salvation in proximate and certain jeopardy, you must see them starve first. I do not say the case is likely to happen. God rarely allows men to be reduced to such straits. But if the case should occur in the line of duty, nay, if the alternative was presented, of converting the whole world on one side, and avoiding a mortal sin on the other, we must rather consult the welfare of our own souls than that of others; and this not from selfishness, but because God has intrusted to us our own souls, and not the souls of others. And how do I establish my proposition? I waive, my brethren, my right to appeal to your faith, to speak by the authority of Christ, Who is infallible and supreme, and Who has a right to challenge your absolute and instantaneous submission and obedience. I postpone the consideration of that love which we owe to our Maker, and which ought to make us prompt and willing to do His will. I take my stand on the ground of reason and conscience, and I appeal to you to say whether they do not sustain my proposition. I make you the judges. It is your own case, it is true, yet there are points in which even self-love cannot blind our sense of faith; and I ask you whether the care of our soul's salvation should not be our sovereign and supreme care in life, if it be true that the interests of the soul surpass all others in importance, and can not be secured without our continual and earnest efforts. Your prompt and decided answer in the affirmative leaves me nothing more to do than to establish the fact that the salvation of your souls is in fact so important a task. I will do so by proving three points: first, that our souls are our most precious possession; second, that we are in great danger of losing them; and third, that the loss of our souls is the greatest of all losses, and is irreparable.

Our souls are our most precious possession. My brethren, we have souls. When God created man He formed his body out of the slime of the earth. It was as yet but a lifeless form, a beautiful statue, but God breathed upon it and man became a living soul. This soul, the spiritual substance which God breathed into the body, was formed according to an eternal decree of the Blessed Trinity, in resemblance to the Divine essence; that is, endowed with a spiritual nature and possessed of understanding and free will. "Let us make man to our image and likeness," said God; and the sacred writer tells us "God created man to His own image;" and, as if to give greater emphasis to so important an announcement, he repeats, "To the image of God created He him." [Footnote 11]

[Footnote 11: Gen. i. 26.]

Man therefore is a compound being, consisting of a body and soul, allied to the material world through the material body which he possesses, and to the world above us, that is, to God and the angels, through his soul. Now, the excellence of all creatures is in proportion to the degree in which they partake of the perfections of God, who is the Author of all being and all goodness. All existing substances partake of His perfection in some degree; if they do not show forth His moral attributes, at least they reflect His omnipotence; and therefore Holy Scripture calls on the fishes of the sea, the beasts of the earth, the fowls of the air, the sun, moon, stars, earth, mountains and hills, to join with angels and men in blessing God. But the superiority of angels and souls over material creatures consists in this, that they partake of the moral perfections of God: they show us not only what God can do, but what He is. Like Him, they are spiritual beings. "Who makest Thy angels spirits and Thy ministers a burning fire," says the Psalmist. [Footnote 12]

[Footnote 12: Ps. ciii. 4.]

They are not gross substances as our bodies are, but pure, subtle, immaterial essences. They are immortal like Him—at least so as that they can never die. They do not need food nor sleep. They are not subject to decay, or old age, or death; they are endowed with understanding and free will, to know many of the things that God knows and to love what He loves; but, above all, to know Him and love Him. Hence the value of the soul is really immeasurable, and all the treasures of the earth are not to be compared to it. Take the poorest slave on earth, the most wretched inmate of the darkest prison, the most afflicted sufferer whom disease has reduced to a mass of filth and corruption, and that man's soul is more precious and more glorious than the richest diadem of the greatest monarch; nay, than all the treasures of the whole earth, with all the jewels that are hid in the mines and caves under its surface.

Our Lord one day permitted St. Catherine of Sienna to see a human soul, and as she gazed transported at its exceeding beauty, He asked her if He had not had good reason to come down from heaven to save such a glorious creature. The saint said the soul was so beautiful that, if one could see it, one would be willing to suffer all possible pains and torments for love of it. My brethren, if, when you go to your homes, you should find in your house an angel with his face as the appearance of lightning, his eyes as a burning lamp, his body as a crystal, and his feet in appearance like to glittering brass, what would you do? Would you not, like St. John, fall down before his feet and adore him? Would you not faint and fall before him, or if you were so strengthened that you could look upon the glorious vision, would you not gaze upon it with deep and loving awe? Well! such a being you will find there, when you go home. It will go hence with you. It will remain there as long as you remain there. It will come away when you come away. This bright being of whom I speak is no visitor in your house, it is an inmate, it rises with you in the morning, accompanies you through the day, is present with you when you eat, is with you in sickness and in health, in life and in death. This bright and glorious being is yours—it is more yours than any thing else in the world, it is the only thing in the world that is really yours—it is yours; poverty cannot strip you of it, death cannot tear it from you; eternity cannot rob you of it. And this being is your soul, your precious, spiritual, immortal soul. All things else will forsake you, property, family, friends; but this will never forsake you. It is yours. It is yours inalienably and for ever. Your greatest, your only wealth and treasure. Oh, inestimable dignity! We are told of some saints, who used to make an act of respect to everyone they met, by way of saluting his guardian angel, and of others that they bowed down before those whom they knew, by the spirit of prophecy, would shed their blood for the faith. But have we not cause enough to honor man, in the fact that he has a soul, an immortal soul, a soul which shall one day see God? Shall we not feel an ample respect for each other, my brethren, when we think of what we are? Who could ever speak an impure word before another if he thought of the dignity of a human soul? What young man would ever dare to go to scenes where he would blush that his mother or sister should be present, if he remembered that he took his own soul along with him? Who would lie, or cheat, or steal, if he thought of his soul? A great and overpowering thought; how does it belittle all the pride and ostentation of the external world! Come, my brethren, let us go into the streets of this city and look around us. There are stately buildings and proud equipages and gay and brilliant shops—but what are all these to the concourse of human beings, the crowds of immortal souls who are, day by day, making an immortal destiny. There is the old man tottering along on his stick, there is the little child on the way to school, there is the rich lady with her jewels and costly fabrics, there is the laborer with his spade setting out to his daily toil; and each one has a soul, each one will live forever. Let us strive to take in this great thought. The tide of human beings flows on from morning to evening. New faces continually appear. They come and go. We do not know their history, their destiny; but we know that each one has a spiritual nature, is made to the image of God, is possessed of a bright and glorious soul. We shall meet them again. There will come a day when every one of the throng shall meet again every other. New populations; shall come in the place of those who now inhabit the world. The stones of the greatest buildings shall be reduced to powder, nay, the world itself will be reduced to ashes, and each soul that now lives in this city will survive in its own individuality and immortality. There are some, it is true, who do not seem as if they had souls. There are women who have given themselves up to practices of uncleanness by profession, and men who habitually wallow in drunkenness and sensuality; and the conversation of such persons is so horrid and obscene, their countenance so devoid of the least trace of shame or self-respect, they seem from having neglected their souls almost to have lost them. They seem really to have become the brutes whose passions they have imitated. No! even they have souls. They cannot be brutes if they would. They are men, they are made to the image of God, and so they must ever remain. A surgeon [Footnote 13] was once called to attend a man who was afflicted with cancer.

[Footnote 13: The surgeon alluded to was Dr. Baker, and a faithful portrait of the man was taken, which was preserved in the family.]

This terrible disease had affected one entire side of the face, and had made in it the most dreadful ravages. The cheek was one shapeless mass of putrid flesh; the nose undistinguishable from the other features, the eye completely eaten out, and the bones of the forehead perforated like a sponge; but on turning the face of the man, the other side presented a wonderful contrast, being in nowise affected, and showing no trace of sickness except an excessive pallor. The countenance and features were of a noble dignity and beauty, and strikingly like the expression ordinarily observed in the pictures of our Blessed Lord. So it is with men's souls. Sin has eaten deeply into them, has deprived them of comeliness, has almost defaced the form they once had, has blinded their minds and deprived them of the interior eye; but still there remain traces of nobility, of the image of God. O man, whoever thou art, however deeply sunk in sin; I care not whether your body be as filthy as the dunghill or the sink, or your heart be the prey of every passion and the slave of every vice; you have a soul: you have indeed lost much, but you have much remaining; you have that which is of more value than all else in the world—that which is absolutely of more value than all material things; and which to you is of more value than all spiritual things, than all created things in earth and heaven. You are great and noble and spiritual and immortal—you are capable of virtue, happiness, and heaven—you are like God, you resemble Him. His image is stamped upon you. And how little you realize this! Alas, you will realize it at the hour of death.

But, secondly, we are in danger of losing our souls. To lose them in the literal sense is of course impossible, for I have said that they are immortal, and will remain with us forever. It would be in some way a happiness to the wicked, if they could, in this sense, lose their souls, for it would free them from the torment of a miserable eternity. But that cannot be: the loss of our souls of which we speak is the loss of God, who alone is the sufficient and satisfying object of our affection. "Thou hast made our souls for Thee," says St. Augustine, "and they are not at peace until they rest in Thee." The loss of our souls is occasioned by sin, which separates us from God, but it is not final and irremediable until death overtakes us in this state of estrangement. The danger of losing our souls, then, is the danger of falling into mortal sin and dying in that state. Now, the danger of sinning is, in the present course of God's providence, inseparable from the possession of a soul. Free will is a high prerogative, which, while it fits us for the highest state possible, renders sin also possible. As soon as God created the angels, a large part of them rebelled against Him, and were cast out of heaven. As soon as He had made man, our first parents fell and were cast out of Paradise. It is only a rational moral being that can sin; because sin is the voluntary transgression of the Divine law, and therefore cannot be committed by any creature but one who has a will, that is, intellect and the power of choosing. Almost all the material acts of sin which men commit are committed by brutes also. See the rage of the tiger, the thieving of the fox, the impurity of the goat, the treachery of the adder, the gluttony of the swine. But there are no sins in these brutes, because they have mere blind instincts. Man, however, has reason and a will, and therefore he is bound to control the instincts which he shares in common with the brutes, and his failure to control these constitutes sin. He has a soul which belongs to God, and of which God is the sovereign, and his failure to control his passions is rebellion against God, and pride. Further, as the possession of a soul renders sin possible, so the proclivity to evil, which we inherit from the fall, and the temptations of the world, render it exceedingly probable. I do not know a more striking illustration of this, than the fear which the saints have ordinarily had about their salvation. Their sense of the value of the soul; their deep knowledge of their own hearts, and of the root of evil that was in them, the weakness of man without grace, and the uncertainty of grace; have kept men of the greatest sanctity, men who have wrought miracles, who have cast out devils, who have raised the dead to life, always anxious about their perseverance, always begging of God the grace never to to allow them to commit a mortal sin. But if these reasons are enough to make saints tremble, what reasons have not ordinary Christians to fear! A chain of evil habits, unguarded intercourse with men, the constant contact with the world, how fearfully do they augment the risk of losing our souls, which all run necessarily in this world. Why, listen to the conversation of ten men, taken almost at random in this city; for half an hour walk through the city, from one end to the other; and see if the occasions of sin are not more frequent than can be uttered. This is deeply felt by men of the world themselves. It makes them despair. They say there is no possibility of saving their souls in the world. They say it is all in vain to try—that sin meets them at every step. It is not, of course, true that sin is inevitable. If it were, it would not be sin. But it is true that the atmosphere of the world is fearfully surcharged with evil. There is many a home in this city, many a place of public resort, many a den of secret iniquity, many a gaming-room, and drinking-house, over which there is an inscription legible to the angels, written in letters of fire, "The gate of hell." There are many places where souls are sold daily and hourly, and oh, at what a price! Thirty pieces of silver was the price offered for our Redeemer, but the soul is often sold for one, indeed, often for something still more miserable—for the gratification of an impure passion, for the indulgence of revenge, for a day's frolic. It is true the Evil One does not carry on his traffic under its own name and openly—that it is well concealed under specious pretences; but the danger is only so much the greater. The occasions of sin are everywhere spread under our feet like traps and snares, and encircling us on all sides like nets. But even this is not the worst. The loss of God is not only possible because of our free will, probable because of the corruption of the world, but, in many cases, already certain. Men, on all sides, have lost God, and need only an unforeseen death to make certain the loss of their souls. Who can tell how many are living in a state of mortal sin, month by month, day by day, year by year? They go on securely, smilingly; externally all goes on smoothly; they are successful and seemingly happy; they have plans for many years to come; but a voice has spoken, "Thou fool, this night shall they require thy soul of thee." Oh! how many died in mortal sin last year, how many will die in mortal sin next year! It needs only a little thing, a false step, a railway accident, an attack of fever, a change in the weather, a fit of apoplexy, and they are launched into eternity without warning and without preparation—death sealing for perdition those whom it finds deprived of the grace of God. Who, I say, can wonder at this, when he looks around him, and sees how little the soul is valued? O my God! it is enough to make the heart sick. Let us take a Catholic family, for I will not take things at the worst. A father has a family of children. He must send them to school or college. He finds an institution which pleases him, and he will tell you that his children are doing excellently, and that the only drawback is that the school is Protestant or infidel. Is not this to betray the souls of his own children? Sunday comes: it is true that there is the obligation to hear Mass, but some inducement offers itself to idleness or dissipation, and no Mass is heard, because it is only the soul which is injured by the omission. Monday comes: there is an opportunity of making some little gain in an unlawful way. What does it matter? We must get rich, and do like our neighbors. The sons grow up in ignorance, and spend their time mostly at the gaming-table or the place of carousal. The daughters grow up. They must be led by their mother to every scene of folly and sin, because the custom of society requires it. Easter comes: the young people do not like to go to confession, and they add only one sin more, to those with which their hearts are already charged. And then the parents die, and the children come forward to take their places, and to bring up their children in still greater neglect and laxity. Thus Catholics are trained for the world, and souls for hell; and if we take into the account the graver forms of vice, and consider how many are entirely the slaves of passion, we shall not wonder that there are so few that shall be saved. One of the Fathers, speaking of the great responsibility of the priesthood, dilates on the impossibility of a priest's being saved without great exertion and watchfulness. But if it be difficult for a priest to save his soul; what shall I say of the laity, when I consider the prevailing habits of Catholics. It hardly seems to me too strong to say, that to me it would seem a miracle for any such one to be saved. How will men attain that which they do not care for, to which they give no thought? And so it is with the salvation of the soul. Who thinks about it? Who takes any pains for it? Who makes any sacrifice for it? The soul is more precious than any thing else, and yet every thing else is put before it. It is trampled on in business, betrayed in friendships, choked by domestic cares, imprisoned in the filthy bodies of the licentious, and, as it were, annihilated in the drunkard. It is forgotten, neglected, outraged, despised, ignored. It is not so much sold as thrown away. The body is cared for with the most supreme solicitude. Every pain and ache is relieved. Long journeys are undertaken to recover health that is lost or only threatened. The most celebrated physicians are sought after with eagerness. But the soul is allowed for weeks and months and years to go on in a state of spiritual death. Confession, prayer, the sacraments, means so easy, means truly infallible in their efficacy, means within the reach of all, are neglected, on pretences the most frivolous, without reason, and almost without motive. "Who will give water to my head, and a fountain of tears to my eyes, and I will weep day and night for the slain of the daughter of my people?" [Footnote 14]

[Footnote 14: Jer. ix. 1.]

The loss of our souls is the greatest of all evils, because it is irremediable. I will not go into all that this point contains. It is too great a subject for us at present. I will not dwell on all that is meant by the loss of our souls, but I will consider it simply as it is, the failure of reaching our end and destiny, and as irreparable. And to help us to realize this, I will summon as a witness one who was the first to come short of his destiny, the devil. We do not know how long it was after the creation of the angels that the devil sinned and fell; but certainly there was a time when he was a pure, bright spirit, rejoicing in the greatness of his endowments, and with a hope full of immortality. But there came a moment of darkness. He sinned: he was judged: he was cast from heaven, and he sank into hell. There he is now. He is confined in chains and darkness. The tree has fallen; and as it has fallen to the north or to the south, so must it lie forever. Other mistakes may be rectified, but this never. A loss in business may be made good by greater exertions and prudence; a broken-down constitution may be repaired by art and care; a lost reputation may be recovered by integrity and consistency in well-doing; earthly sorrow may be healed by time and other objects; sin may be rooted out by penance; but the loss of the soul is an evil complete and irreparable, and brings with it an undying remorse. "A tree hath hope: if it be cut down, it groweth green again, and the bough thereof sprout. If its root be old in the earth and its stock be dead in the dust, at the scent of water it shall spring and bring forth leaves as when it was first planted." [Footnote 15] But man, when he shall be dead and stripped and consumed, I pray you, where is he? The cry of despair which the first lost soul uttered when he made the terrible discovery that he was really lost, is still ringing in the abodes of the damned, and the keenness of his misery is still unabated. Ages shall go on, the last day shall come, and an eternity shall follow it, and that cry of despair will still be as thrilling, and that anguish as new and as irremediable.

[Footnote 15: Job xiv. 7, 8, 9.]

As reasonable men, I have appealed to you: what is your decision? What does reason, what does conscience, what does self-interest say? You would not be listless if I were to speak to you of your property, your health, your reputation, but now I speak to you of your souls—your precious, immortal souls—your own, your greatest good—a good that you are in danger of losing—the good whose loss is overwhelming and irretrievable. They are in your hands for life or for death. It is said that to one of the heathen soothsayers, who was famed for his skill in discovering hidden things, a person once came with a living bird in his hand, and asked the seer to tell whether it was living or dead. The inquirer intended to crush the bird with his hand if the wise man should say it was living, and to let it fly if he should say it was dead, and thus in either case to put the pretended magician to shame. But the soothsayer suspected the design, and answered: "The bird is in your hand—to kill it or to let it live." So I answer you, my brethren. Your souls are in your hands, to kill them or to let them live. You can crush them in your grasp and smother their convictions, or you can open your hand and let them fly forth in freedom and gladness. Oh, have pity on your souls! Your souls are yours. No one will be the loser by the loss of your souls but yourselves. God will not be the less happy if you are damned; the saints will not lose any of their happiness if you fail of your salvation; the angels will be as light and blissful; the earth will go on just the same as when you were on it; only you, you yourselves will feel it, and you will feel it hopelessly. Ah, then, take pity on your souls! You will one day wish that you had done it. One of the courtiers of Francis the First of France, when he was dying, said: "Oh! how many reams of paper have I written in the service of my monarch! Oh! that I had only spent one quarter of an hour in the service of my soul!" A quarter of an hour! And you have days and weeks. Oh, then, once more I beg you to take pity on your souls! If you have never before seriously taken to heart your eternal interest, at least do so now. Improve the time of this mission. It is the time of grace. It may be to you the last call, the last opportunity. Make, then, a good use of this time. Set aside the thought of other things, and give yourself to this alone. Now you have an opportunity of making your peace with God, and saving your soul. Think, now the hour has come, foreseen by God from all eternity, when, answering to the call of grace, I shall regain His favor, which, alas! I have lost too long. What shall keep me back? See what is the difficulty, and weigh it in the scales with your immortal soul. Is confession difficult? A confession before the whole universe will be more so. Is it hard to lose a little gain? It will be more so to lose your soul. Is it hard to break a tie of long standing? It will be hard to break every tie, and to live in eternal desolation. Is it hard to bear the remarks of companions? But how will you bear the taunts and jeers of the devil and his angels? And those very companions who have led you to hell will taunt you for your base compliance to them. Let nothing, then, keep you back.
* * *
(Peroration. according to the circumstances.)

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Sermon II.
Mortal Sin.
(Mission Sermon.)

"Know thou, and see,
that it is an evil and a bitter thing for thee,
to have left the Lord thy God."
—Jer. II. 19.

In the book of the prophet Ezechiel it is related that God showed to the prophet in a vision the city of Jerusalem. It was all stretched out before him in its greatness and in its beauty. The magnificent temple was there, with its stones and spires glittering in the sun; its streets were full of people, prosperous and happy; a people who were in possession of the true religion, who had been adopted by God as His children, and over whom He had exercised a special protection. It was a beautiful sight; beautiful to the eye, and well fitted to excite the most religious emotions in the mind. But there was something that checked these feelings of pleasure and delight. God permitted the prophet to see the interior of that city. He unfolded before him the secret abominations that were practised there. He showed him the idolatries and impurities to which his chosen people the Jews had delivered themselves up, and then in wrath and indignation God complained of the people and said: "The iniquity of the house of Israel and of Juda is exceeding great; and the land is filled with blood; and the city is filled with perverseness, for they have said: The Lord hath forsaken the earth, and the Lord seeth not." [Footnote 16] Then the joy of the prophet was turned in to sorrow.

[Footnote 16: Ezechiel ix. 9.]

To-night, my brethren, a vision meets my eye hardly less beautiful than that which met the eye of the prophet. How beautiful a sight is this church and this congregation! This church is raised to the honor of the true God. Its walls are salvation and its gates praise. And this congregation, beautiful as it is in the assemblage of a multitude of living, intelligent beings—where I see the old man with his crown of silver hair, the young man and the young woman in the freshness of their bloom and youth—is much more so regarded as a Catholic congregation, as professing the true faith. But tell me—for I cannot look into your hearts as the prophet did—tell me, does God see, beneath this beautiful, outward appearance, the abominations of iniquity? Does God this night see in this church some heart that is in mortal sin? Some Catholic who has renounced, if not his faith, at least the practice of his faith? Some child of passion who has swerved from the path of justice, lost his conscience and the sense of sin, and given himself to the service of the devil? Are there any here to-night in mortal sin? There may be. I will confess, and you will not think me uncharitable in doing so, I believe there are some. I know not how many, but from what I know of the world, I believe there are some here, in this congregation, whose consciences tell them they are in mortal sin. Oh! then, let me tell them what they have done. Let me show them what mortal sin is. Let me prove to them that it is an evil and a bitter thing for them to have left the Lord their God. This is my subject to-night. I will show you the dreadfulness of mortal sin: first, from its nature; secondly, from its effects on the soul; and thirdly, from its eternal consequences.

You know, my dear brethren, that we were created to love and serve God in this life, and to be happy forever with Him in heaven. God has given us this world, and our own nature, all that we have or are; and He is willing that we should enjoy the world and act out our nature. It is true, there are certain restrictions which He has given us. These restrictions are contained in His law, embodied in the ten commandments. In these commandments God has circumscribed our liberty, has put limits to what we may do; but I need not say that these limits have been so fixed, not in order to abridge our happiness, but really to increase it. So the case stands on God's part. But now, on our part, we have an inclination to disregard the limits God has put on our use of the world, and to place our happiness in the creature. The world smiles before us, and we think this or that enjoyment would make us happy. It may often happen that the very enjoyment and comfort is one which God has forbidden; but no matter, we are strongly inclined to seize it, nevertheless, and to gratify our desire in spite of the prohibition. This inclination is what is called concupiscence, and is sometimes exceedingly strong, so that it is very difficult to resist it. God has, however, always given us reason and faith, free will and grace, to enable us to overcome it. This, then, being so, you see that man stands between two claimants: the world on the one hand, inviting him to follow his own corrupt inclinations; on the other, God requiring him to restrain his passions by the rules of virtue and religion. Now, what takes place under such circumstances? Alas, my brethren, I will tell you what too often takes place. I will tell you what takes place so commonly that men take it for granted that it must be so—so commonly that the majority of men cease to wonder at it—what happens every day, every hour, every minute. It happens that men listen to the voice of passion, renounce virtue and reason, stifle grace, and turn away from God, to satisfy their desire for the creature. This is what happens daily, hourly, momentarily; and this is mortal sin, which is in its nature the greatest of all evils, considered in its relation both to God and man, as I am about to show you in this first part of my discourse.

Understand me, my brethren: the sin I am going to speak of is mortal sin. I do not say that every transgression of the law of God is mortal. You know that it is not so. You know that there some actions which men commit, which are forbidden, but by which a man does not mean really to give up the friendship of God—some sins which are not committed with full deliberation, some sins in which the matter is very small, some sins which come more from ignorance or frailty than from malice; and which God, who sees things just as they are, does not regard as grievous. He is displeased with them, but not mortally offended. He punishes them, but not with the utter withdrawal of His favor. If He did, who of us could be saved? But every sin in which the soul sees clearly that she must choose between the friendship of God and the gratification of unlawful passion—in which, with full deliberation, in full defiance of any grave precept of God or the Holy Church, she obeys the call of corrupt nature, every such sin is mortal, that, is, grievously offends God and cuts off the soul from His grace. Do you want to know what a mortal sin is? It is an insult offered to God—Almighty God. One trembles to say it, but so it is. Yes! if you have committed one mortal sin, you have insulted Almighty God. And there is every thing in the act to make the insult deep and deadly. The greatness of an insult is measured by the comparative importance of the persons between whom the offence passes. If one should come into the church and strike the bishop on his throne, would you not feel more indignant than if a common man in the street were the object of the insult? You have heard how Pius the Sixth was insulted; dragged about from place to place, until he died; and did you not feel indignant that such outrages were committed on the person of God's vicegerent? Now, when you committed a mortal sin you insulted, not the vicegerent of God, but God himself. You contemned His authority and despised His greatness. Would you know Who it is Whom you have offended? Look at that mountain trembling with earthquakes, and breathing forth smoke and flame, hear the thunder roll around its head, and see the lightning flash! Mark the people, how they fall back affrighted and terrified! What is the cause of these convulsions of nature, and this terror of the people? God is speaking. He spake in Mount Sinai and the earth trembled before Him; and it is His words then spoken that you have defied, O sinner! Are you not afraid of His vengeance Whom you have offended? Open the heavens and see the angels, thousands of thousands and ten thousand times ten thousand, prostrate before Him. See all the saints adoring Him—the Blessed Virgin Mary herself trembling before His greatness. And you insult Him! What are you? A creature, a dependant, a slave. What would a master do if his slave should strike him? And you, a servant, a slave, a mere nothing, have not hesitated to raise your hand against Almighty God!

And for what have you done all this? For the pleasure of sin. You have preferred a vile, temporary gratification, to the favor of Almighty God. When you sinned, there was on one side the beauty of God, the beauty of perfection, the splendor of grace, the joy of saints, peace of conscience, heaven; on the other there was the false pleasure of sin. You weighed them in the balance one with another, and, oh folly! in your estimation a moment's sin outweighed God and heaven and eternity. This is what the Almighty complains of in Holy Scripture: "They violated me among my people for a handful of barley and a piece of bread to kill souls which should not die." [Footnote 17]

[Footnote 17: Ezech. xiii. 19.]

Oh! for how small a thing it is that you have been content to lose God—a few dollars of unjust gain, human respect, the gratification of revenge, a night's debauch, a half-hour's indulgence of sinful thoughts, a forbidden word, an intoxicating glass: for this you have thrown to the winds God and heaven. What has He not done for you? He takes care of you and gives you all you have. It is He who warms you by the sun, refreshes you by the air, gladdens and nourishes you by the green field. It is He who brought you through the dangerous time of childhood, Who led you up through manhood, Who redeemed you by His blood, made you a Catholic, and gave you your parents, friends, every blessing, and the hope of heaven beyond this life, and you have grieved and hated Him. See Jesus Christ before the Jews. He has spent His life in doing them good. He has labored for them and is about to die for them. And now they spit on Him, they buffet Him, they crown Him with thorns and bow the knee in mockery before Him. Nay, O sinner! thou art the Jew who did this. Thou by thy mortal sin hast made him an object of scorn. Thou hast spit upon Him, thou hast stabbed Him to the heart. Would you excuse a son from the guilt of parricide who should strike a knife to his father's heart, and should miss his aim? So, the sinner is no less guilty of the crime against the life of God because God cannot die. If God could die or cease to be, mortal sin is that which would kill Him. You have aimed a blow at the life of your best benefactor, of your God. And this is what passes in the world for a light thing. This is what men laugh at and boast of over their cups. This is what the world excuses, and takes for a matter of course; yes, this is what even boys and girls, as they grow up, desire not to be ignorant of—that they may know how to offend God. This is sin, so easily committed and so often committed, so quickly committed and so soon forgotten. Such it is in the sight of God and the holy angels. O sinner! when you smile, often when you are rejoicing over your wicked pleasure, the heavens are black overhead, and God is angry, and the angel of vengeance stands at your side with a glittering spear, that he may plunge it in your heart. While you are careless, heaven and earth are groaning over your guilt. "Wonder, O ye heavens, and be in amazement," says God by the prophet. "My people have done two evils. They have left me, the fountain of living water, and have digged out cisterns, broken cisterns, that can hold no water." "Hear, O heavens, and give ear, O earth, for the Lord hath spoken. I have brought up children and exalted them, but they have despised me. The ox knoweth his owner and the ass his master's crib, but Israel hath not known me, and my people hath not understood. Woe to the sinful nation, a people laden with iniquity, a wicked seed, ungracious children: they have forsaken the Lord, they have blasphemed the Holy one of Israel, they have gone away backward." [Footnote 18]

[Footnote 18: Isai. i. 2, 3, 4.]

But in the second place, mortal sin is the greatest of all evils as regards the sinner himself. Let us consider what are its effects. Ah, my brethren, some of these effects are obvious enough. We have not to go far to seek them. We know them ourselves. What is the cause of much of the sickness that affects our race? What but sin? What is it that has ruined so many reputations, that once were fair and unblemished? What is it that has destroyed the peace of so many families? It is sin. What is it that makes so many young persons prematurely old, which steals the bloom from the cheek and the lustre from the eye, and gladness from the heart, and strength from the voice, and elasticity from the gait? Ah! it is sin. Yes! the effects of sin are visible and obvious to all around us, and these external effects of sin are dreadful enough, but they are not so dreadful as the internal effects, on which I purpose particularly to dwell. Well, my brethren, I just said that the nature of a mortal sin is to turn away from God to the creature. Now, its effect is to kill the soul. There is a twofold life of the soul. One is a natural life, and this it can never lose, not even in hell, since it can never cease to be; and the other is the life of grace. You know, my brethren, that in the heart of a good Christian there dwells a wonderful quality, the gift of the Holy Ghost, which we call grace. It is given first in baptism, and resides habitually in the soul unless it is lost by mortal sin. This it is which makes the soul acceptable to God, and capable of pleasing Him, and of meriting heaven. This grace was purchased for us by the blood of Jesus Christ, and is the most precious gift of God. It ennobles, beautifies, elevates, strengthens, and enlightens the soul in which it dwells: in a word, it is the life of the soul. This grace abides in the soul of every faithful Christian, the little child, the virtuous young man and young woman, the old man and the matron, the rich and the poor. Everyone who is in the state of friendship with God is possessed of this grace. He may be poor, sick, weak in body, disgusting as Lazarus was, but if he is the friend of God, his soul is endowed with the gift of grace. Now, the moment that one commits a mortal sin, the moment that a baptized Christian turns away from God to the creature, that moment his soul is stripped of this divine grace. The moment that a mortal sin is committed, in an instant, in the twinkling of an eye, that robe of grace falls off from the soul and leaves it in its deformity and weakness. It cannot be otherwise. "Can two walk together," says Holy Scripture, "and not be agreed?" Can God remain united to the soul which has cast Him off by an act of complete and formal rebellion? Oh, no! God bears much with us, He retains His friendship for us as long as He can, He restrains His displeasure when we are weak and irresolute and tired in His service; yes, when we a little turn our heads and hearts toward that world which we have renounced, when we do things that, although wrong, are not altogether so grievous as to amount to a renunciation of His friendship: but once make a full choice between God and the creature, and God's friendship is lost. You cannot reject it and retain it at the same time. God sees things exactly as they are: as you act toward Him, He will act toward you. By mortal sin you renounce Him, and therefore He must renounce you. How can I describe to you the change that takes place in that moment? It has more resemblance to the degradation of a priest than any thing else. If a priest commits certain great crimes, the Church prescribes that he be solemnly degraded from the priesthood; and nothing is more dreadful than the ceremonial. He stands before the bishop, clad in his sacred vestments, with alb and cincture, and maniple and stole, and with the chalice in which he has been wont to consecrate the blood of the Lord in his hands. Then when the sentence of degradation has been pronounced, the chalice is taken out of his hands—he shall offer the sacrifice of the Lord's body no more; the golden chasuble is taken off his back, no more shall he bear the glory of the priesthood; the stole is seized from off his neck—he has lost the stole of immortality; the white alb is torn from him— he has lost the beauty of innocence; and last of all, his hands, on which at his ordination the holy oil was poured, are scraped—he has lost the unction of the Holy Ghost. So it is in the moment that one commits a mortal sin. The Holy Scripture calls every Christian a king and a priest, because in his soul he is noble and united to God; and the soul of the meanest Christian is far more beautiful in God's sight than the grandest monarch, dressed in his richest robes, is to our sight. Well, now, as soon as a mortal sin is committed, and God departs, then the degradation of the soul takes place. The devil tears away the garment of justice, the splendor of beauty, the whiteness of innocence, the robe of immortality, which make the soul worthy of the companionship of angels, and the friendship of God. All, all are gone. Oh, how abject and wretched is such a soul! Oh I how quickly will this awful change go on, and even the poor soul herself thinks not of it! And do not think this horrible history is of rare occurrence. No! it takes place in every case of mortal sin. Look at that young man. See, his air and bearing show you that he knows something of the world, and that life has no secrets for him. Still there was once a time when that young man was innocent. He was a good Catholic child, his soul glistened with the brightness of baptismal grace. God looked down from heaven and smiled with pleasure; his guardian angel followed him in watchfulness indeed, but with joy and hope. He had his little trials, but what was it all—what was poverty or sickness or disappointment? Was he not a Christian? Was he not a friend of God, was not his soul beautiful in God's sight? Such he was; but a day came, a dark and dreadful day, when a voice, a seducing voice, spoke in the paradise of that heart: "Rejoice, therefore, O young man, in thy youth, and let thy heart cheer thee in the days of thy youth, and walk in the ways of thy heart, and in the sight of thine eyes." [Footnote 19]

[Footnote 19: Eccles. xi. 9.]

He listened to that voice and he fell: he was a changed being, he had committed his first mortal sin. Oh! if he could have seen the angry frown of God, the sad and downcast look of his guardian angel. Oh! if he could have heard the shriek of triumph that came up from the devils in hell. "Thou art also wounded as well as we, thou art become like unto us. Thy pride is brought down to hell. Thy carcass is fallen down. [Footnote 20]

[Footnote 20: Isai. xiv. 10, 11.]

But he hears nothing, he sees nothing, his brain is on fire, his heart is burned by passion. The world opens to him her brilliant pleasures, and he is perverted. His tastes and thoughts are all corrupted. He does not like the sacraments any more, or Mass or prayer; his delight is in haunts of dissipation, in drinking and debauchery. He commits every mortal sin, and each deepens the stains of his soul and increases his misery. Perhaps here and there, for a while, he comes to confession, but he falls back. He neglects his church, begins to curse and blaspheme holy things, and then he is a wretched being, astray from God, with God's curse upon him, the slave of the devil, the heir of hell, fair indeed without; but look within—full of rottenness and uncleanness. Oh, weep for him—"Weep not for the dead," says Holy Scripture, "lament for him that goeth away, for he shall not return again." [Footnote 21]

[Footnote 21: Jer. xxii. 10.]

Weep for that young man who has wandered away from his God. Weep for that young woman who has stained her soul with mortal sin. Weep for that old man who has let years go by in sin, and whose sins are counted by the thousand. Weep not for your child who leaves you to go to a distant land, but weep for him who is on his way to the land of eternal night, where everlasting horror inhabiteth. Weep for him who is on his way to hell. Is it not a story to make one weep? The ruin of a soul! "How is the gold become dim, the fairest color is changed, the noble sons of Sion, and they that were clothed with the best of gold, how are they esteemed as earthen vessels, and the iniquity of the daughter of my people is made greater than the sin of Sodom." [Footnote 22]

[Footnote 22: Lam. iv. 1, 2, 6.]

Once you were innocent, now you are guilty. Once you had a fair chance of heaven, now heaven is closed to you. Once, perhaps, you had rich merits laid up for heaven, you had gone through many trials, you had borne many sufferings, had achieved many labors of piety, and for each of them the good God, who never allows any good work to go unrewarded, had added many a jewel to your crown; but, alas! that crown is broken, those jewels scattered and crushed, those merits lost. And what has done this. That mortal sin! that rebellion against God, that sinful gratification, that turning away from God and loss of grace which it brought with it. Ah! my brethren, when I think of these things, when I think that Christians are falling into sin, and, for a very trifle and a nothing, losing the favor of God, I feel as if I wished all preachers should go out to the whole world and cry out: "Know thou and see that it is an evil and a bitter thing for thee to have left the Lord thy God." I am not surprised that St. Ignatius said he would be willing to do all he did for the prevention of one mortal sin.

But, my brethren I have not as yet described the full effects of mortal sin. It immediately makes us liable to the eternal punishment of hell. That is what hell is made for. It is the prison for mortal sin. Apostates from the faith, drunkards, murderers, adulterers, the impure, the dishonest, the profane, the impious, calumniators, and all sinners "shall have their portion in the pool burning with fire and brimstone, which is the second death." The sentence of damnation is in the next life, but damnation itself begins in this. Each one of us is a candidate for heaven or hell, at this present moment. Hell is not something which is assigned to us arbitrarily. We dig our own hell for ourselves. When we first commit a mortal sin we open hell under our feet, and every time we commit a fresh mortal sin we deepen that hell. It may happen even that the sentence is passed in the same instant that we sin. Many men die in the very act of sin. The fallen angels, themselves, sank into hell the very instant they committed mortal sin, and the instant they committed the first mortal sin. You know, my brethren, that the angels were created very beautiful and powerful. There were myriads and myriads of them. They were as beautiful as Gabriel or Michael or Raphael; and yet, as soon as they committed one mortal sin, notwithstanding their glory, their beauty, their number, their splendid intellects, their power, they were hurled from the thrones of heaven; not only defaced, degraded, and dishonored by the loss of sanctifying grace, but condemned to hell, chained in everlasting darkness, waiting for the judgment of the great day. If God dealt so with the angels, surely there is nothing unjust in cutting off the days of a sinner in the very moment of sin. Oh! my brethren, I will tell you what happens when one sins: the devils come and claim this soul as their own: this poor soul becomes the slave of the devil, the heir of hell and of damnation. It is not for nothing, then, that conscience makes such a terrible alarm in the soul when we commit a mortal sin. Tell me, did you not at the moment you sinned hear a stern voice speaking in the depths of your heart? Tell me, O my brethren, did you not, when you were deeply plunged in sinful enjoyment, feel a dreadful pang at your heart? Tell me, now that you stand in God's holy presence, tell me now, is there not something within you that tells you, you are ruined? What is that? Ah! that is the beginning of the remorse of the damned. That is the sting of the worm that shall never die. That is the shadow of thine eternal doom in thy soul. It tells thee that thou art the child of the devil; it tells thee that thou hast lost God, and that thou art not fit for heaven, but art an heir of hell. And it tells thee truly. If this moment thou wert to die, like Dives, thou wouldst be buried in hell. And why? For a momentary gratification of appetite? Is that what you will be punished for? No; but because, for a momentary gratification of appetite, thou hast forsaken the Lord thy God, broken His law, lost His grace. Thou hast made thy choice. Thou hast chosen sin and not God, and death overtakes thee before thou hast returned to God by penance, and thou art lost; lost on account of thy sin, lost forever on account of thy sin. Go down to the chambers of hell, ask Dives, ask Judas, ask the fallen angels, ask each one who in that dark abode drags out a long eternity; ask them what it is that brought them there, and they will tell you, mortal sin. It is mortal sin that kindles that flame, that feeds that fire, that makes them burn unceasingly, and forever. Oh then, tell me! if you will not listen to reason, to God, to the angels; will you not listen to your companions lost? Hearken to them as from their dark prison they cry out, "It is an evil and a bitter thing to have left the Lord thy God."

Such, my brethren, is mortal sin. Such is one mortal sin. It does not require many mortal sins to lose God's grace or incur damnation. One is enough—one final deliberate rebellion against God and his holy law.
* * *
(Peroration, according to the circumstances.)

---

Sermon III.
The Particular Judgment.
(Mission Sermon.)

"It is a dreadful thing
to fall into the hands of the living God."
—Heb. x. 31.

There is a moment, my brethren, in the history of each immortal soul, which, of all others that precede or follow it, is the fullest of experience: the moment after death. The moment of death is indeed the decisive moment of our history. Then the question is settled, once for all, whether we are to be happy or miserable for all eternity; but, for the most part, we do not know that decision. Many men die insensible. By far the larges part of those I have seen die, have died insensible. And even when the power of the mind remains to the last, it is extremely difficult to form any true conception of that state of things into which the soul is about to be ushered. It is difficult to conceive aright beforehand of any thing to which we are unaccustomed. Did it ever happen to you to visit a strange country, and to form anticipations of what it would seem like, and did not the reality falsify all your anticipations? Well, how much more difficult to realize those things which the soul sees immediately after death, and which are so much farther removed from our former experience! According to Catholic theology, immediately after death, the soul appears in the presence of Jesus Christ to be judged—to receive an unalterable sentence to heaven or to hell. If to hell, no prayers can benefit it; if to heaven, it goes there immediately or not, according to the degree of its goodness. But it is judged unalterably to heaven or hell, the moment after death. And Catholic theologians teach that this judgment takes place in the very chamber of death itself. There, in that room, while they are dressing the body for the grave, closing the eyes, bandaging the mouth, arranging the limbs in order, that soul has already learned the secrets of the eternal world. Naked and alone, it had stood before its Judge, and heard its doom pronounced. To everyone, no doubt, even to the most pious, to those who have meditated on the truths of faith, there will be something alarming in this moment; but, oh! what will it be to the sinful Catholic? What will be the thoughts and feelings of that large class of Catholics, now careless about their salvation, who are obeying every impulse of passion, and breaking every commandment of God? This, indeed, is a difficult question to answer. There is but little in this world that can help us to portray the emotions of the lost Catholic, the moment after death; but I will not on this account desist from attempting to describe it. I will consider your advantage rather than my own satisfaction, and though I feel deeply that I shall not be able to describe the scene I undertake in anything like the colors of truth, I will undertake to do what I can.

First, then, following the soul beyond the limits of this world, I see her overwhelmed with a conviction of the reality and truth of the objects of her faith. Now, in saying that this soul obtains a conviction of the truths of faith, I do not mean to suppose the case of one who has been a sceptic in this world. The truth is, faith is so strong a principle in the heart of a Catholic, that it is exceedingly difficult to put it out or shake it. And although it sometimes happens that a Catholic; from reading bad books, or frequenting the society of those who blaspheme his religion, or from becoming acquainted suddenly with some of the difficulties which science seems to present to faith, and not knowing the answer to them, or from the petty pride of seeming wiser than his neighbors, and making objections which unlearned Catholics cannot answer, may use the language of a sceptic; yet such cases are very rare, and the scepticism is not very deep. A little guidance from one who knows better, and a little humility on the part of such an objector, will set all right. But there is a kind of infidelity not so easily cured, and far more common among Catholics—a practical infidelity, an insensibility and indifference to the truths of faith. The truths of faith—I mean, heaven and hell, God and the soul—are not seen by the eye—it requires reflection to realize them; but the world, and the objects which it presents, are visible and tangible. The former are lost sight of, while the latter absorb all our thoughts. The body clamors for necessities and pleasures, and the soul, and things of eternity, are simply forgotten. It is almost the same to many men as if there were no God, no eternity, no heaven, or no hell. Really, one hardly sees in what the lives of many Catholics would differ from what they are now if there were no God, no heaven or hell. I do not mean to say that they have no faith at all, for even the heathens have some faith; or that they never think of God, for then they would be brutes; but that these things have no real hold on their minds or influence over their hearts. They never reflect. They stay away from the sacraments. They do not listen to sermons. They have no correct idea at all of the advantage they enjoy in being Catholics; in a word, they break the commandments of God on the slightest temptation, are children of this world and immersed in its cares and enjoyments. Now, one of these men meets with a sudden death. He goes out in the morning—perhaps he is a mechanic—and he falls from a height. He is taken up and put in a litter hastily made, and carried home. It is apparent that life is ebbing fast. In a few minutes he becomes speechless. He has lost his sight. Ah! does he breathe at all? It is hard to say. The doctor comes in great haste. He feels his pulse, looks at him, and says, "It is all over. He has received an injury in a vital part. He is dead." Yes, he is dead. This morning he was alive and well, he was making his plans, he was talking of the weather—now he is dead. All his old thoughts and experience are all rolled back by a new set of things that are forcing themselves on his vision. He is dead. He died suddenly; but not without warning. Others have died in his home before—he is not young. He has seen wife and children die. It made him weep for a while; but he forgot it, and now his turn is come—he is dead. I will not stop to notice the grief of the friends he leaves behind. No; I will follow his soul, as it enters eternity. The voice of his friends dies on his ear—he begins to hear other voices. As he ceases to see the people in his room he begins to see other objects. Who is that, that is standing at the foot of his bed? A neighbor was standing there but just now; but this is another form, a form beautiful, indeed, but majestic and terrible. No; it is not anyone he has ever seen before, and yet, he ought to know that face. He has seen it before; it is the face his mother looked on as she was dying-the face he had often seen in Catholic churches. Yes, it is Jesus Christ. He knows it; it is the same, and yet, how different! When he saw that face in pictures, it was crowned with thorns; now it is crowned with a diadem of matchless glory. When he saw that form in the church, it was naked, and hanging on the Cross; now it is clothed with garments of regal magnificence. Yes, it is Jesus Christ! and He is looking upon him with eyes of fire. He turns to escape those eyes, and he sees there are other figures in the scene. There are two figures—one at the right hand, and one at the left. Who are they? He ought to know them, for they know more of him than anyone else—they have been his companions for life. One is very beautiful—a being with golden locks and cloud-like wings—that is his angel guardian; he looks sad now, for he has nothing good to say. And the other is the black and hideous demon of hell, that crouches at his side, full of hate and malice, and triumph, too, for he has dogged the steps of this poor sinner from youth to age, and now the time has come for him to seize his prey. And now, as the sinner looks from one to another, the meaning of it an breaks upon him. Conviction flashes upon his mind. He may not have been an infidel before; but putting his past feelings by the side of his present experience, it seems almost as if he had been. Did it ever happen to you to be talking quite unconcernedly, and all at once to find that others were listening, before whom for worlds you would not have used such unreserve. Well, to compare small things with great, something like this will be the feeling of the sinner when the curtain of time draws up, and shows him the realities of eternity. The whole tide of his past thoughts and feelings will be arrested, and, with a great check, rolled back before the new set of experiences and sights that rush in on him. Oh! he will say, what is this that I see and hear? Has Jesus Christ always been so near me? Have my guardian angel and the demon that has tempted me been always in this very room? Ah, yes! it is even so. I have been living in a dream all my life, and pursuing shadows. It is true, as I learned in the catechism, and as the Church taught me, I was not made for the world or for sin, but for God. I had a soul, and the end of my being was to love and serve my Maker. He has been watching me all my days, and I have thought little of Him. I heard of judgment, but I did not give heed to it, or I placed it far off in the future; but now it is here at the door. There is my Saviour, there my angel guardian, there the demon. Once I heard of these things, now I see them with my eyes. Yes, it is all true. The world did not seem to believe it, the world forgot it; but the world was wrong. The poor and the simple were right, after all, and the wise ones taken in their own craftiness. Yes, Christianity is true, Catholicity is true; I cannot doubt it, if I would, for there it stares me in the face! O, overwhelming conviction! You have heard of the answer of a self-denying old monk to a wild, licentious youth, who reproached him with his folly in living so severe a life for the sake of a hereafter he had never seen. "Father," said the youth, "how much wiser I am than you, if there be no hereafter!" "Yes, my son," replied the aged man, "but how much more foolish, if there be!" O fearful discovery, to come on one for the first time, with a strong and deep impression, at the very threshold of eternity! O miserable man! why did you not think of these things before? Why did you rush into the presence of your Maker without forethought? Now, for the first time, to think seriously, when there is no longer freedom in thought, or merit in faith. O, the folly and the misery!

But I must pass on, for these are but the beginning of sorrows. The conviction, then, that the soul acquires in the first moment of her experience in the other world is accompanied by a mortal terror. Why is Jesus Christ there? Why are the angel and the demon there? Ah! he knows well. It is to try him. Yes, he is to be tried, and to be tried by an unerring judge—by Jesus Christ. To be tried; and that is something he is not used to. He never tried himself. He never examined his conscience. He was afraid to do it, and if sometimes the thought of a hereafter intruded itself into his mind, he banished it, and thought he would escape somehow or other. Perhaps he built on the very name of Catholic, or on the sacraments, as if they possessed a magical power, and would change him at once, in the hour of death, from a sinner to a saint. Perhaps he thought that God would strike a balance between the good and the evil that was in him, and pardon him for being as wicked as he was because he was no worse. Perhaps he built simply on the mercy of God. So far as he thought at all, he built his hopes on some such foundation as this. He did not know how, but he thought somehow he would get off. It is the old story. Almighty God said to Eve: "In the day thou eatest thereof thou shalt surely die." And Eve said to the serpent: "We may not eat it, lest we die." And the serpent said: "Ye shall not surely die." So it is; man's self-love reasons, and the devil denies. But the time has come when the deceits of sin and the devil are discovered. The sinner is to be tried. He stands as a culprit to be judged. And by what law is he to be tried? By the ten commandments, of which he has heard so often, and which he has neglected so completely. God says: "Thou shalt not break My commandments, and in the day thou breakest them thou shalt surely die." God had said: "Thou shalt not commit adultery." He had committed it. God had said: "Thou shalt not steal;" and he had stolen. God had said: "Thou shalt keep holy the Sabbath day." He had broken the Sunday and neglected the Sunday's Mass. God had said: "Thou shalt do no murder;" and he had murdered his own soul by drunkenness. He had grown bold in sin, and thought that God had hidden away his face, and would never see it. And now he is brought to trial. There is no hope that his transgressions against the commandments can be hidden. The demon is there as his accuser.

"I claim this soul as mine. Look at it; see if it does not belong to me? Does it not look like me? Wilt thou take a soul like that and place it in thy paradise?" At these words the sinner looks down upon himself and sees his own soul. He has never seen it before. Oh, what a sight! As a man is horror-struck the first time he sees his blotched and bloated face after an attack of small-pox, so is he horror-struck at the sight of his own soul. Oh, how horribly ugly and defiled it is! What are those stains upon his soul Ah! they are the stains of sin. Each one has left its separate mark; and to look at that soul you might see its history. There is the gangrene of lust, and the spot of anger, and the tumor of pride, and the scale of avarice. Ah! how hideous it is, and how horrible to think how it is changed, for it was once like that beautiful angel that stands by its side, all radiant with light and beauty. It has no resemblance now. The words of the demon are true; it resembles him. But the accuser goes on: "I claim this body as mine." He turns to the body, as it lies in the bed: "I claim those eyes as mine, by the title of all the lascivious looks they have given. I claim those hands as mine, by the title of all the robberies and acts of violence they have committed. I claim those feet as mine, because they were swift to carry him to the place of forbidden pleasures, and slow to go to the house of God. I claim these ears as mine, by the title of all the detraction they have drunk in so greedily. I claim this mouth as mine, by the title of all the blasphemies and impurities it has uttered. See," says he, "this body is mine; it bears my mark;" and as he speaks he points to a scar in the forehead, the remnant of a wound received in a drunken affray in a house of ill-fame. Surely he has said enough; but he is not accustomed to be believed. He has now spoken the truth indeed, because truth serves his purpose better than falsehood would have done. But he knows he is a liar, and therefore needs confirmation; so he goes on: "I have witnesses, if you want them. Shall I bring them up?" Jesus Christ gives his permission. And now see, at his word, a band of lost spirits come up from hell. Oh! how pale and haggard they look, and how they glare on the sinner as they fix on him a look of recognition. Who is that who speaks to him first, and holds out her long withered fingers to him, and says, with a horrid laugh: "I think you know me." Oh! that is the poor girl he seduced. She says: "I followed thee to ruin; it is fitting thou shouldst follow me to hell." But there is another woman. Who is that? That is his poor wife; his poor wife, who had to put up with all the cruelties and violence he practised in his beastly drunkenness; who was led by want to steal, and by despair to drunkenness. She looks upon him with a blood-shot eye. "My husband," she says: "thou wert my tormentor in time; I will be thy tormentor in eternity." But who are those young people, that young man and young woman? Oh, they are his eldest children, his boy and girl, of whom he took no care; who, finding nothing but a hell at home, went out—the one to the tavern and the gaming-room, the other to the ball and the dance and the lonely place of assignation, and, after a short career of dissipation, were both cut off in their sin. They meet him, and now they say: "Father, thou didst pave the way of perdition for us, and now we will cling to thee, and drag thee deeper, who art at once the author of our life and of our destruction." Ah! has not the demon made out his case? Can there be hope for one like that? Are you not ready to condemn him yourselves to hell? But wait—perhaps he did good penance. And the Judge, turning to the angel guardian says: "My good and faithful servant, what has thou to say in behalf of this soul, which was committed to thy especial care?" The angel looks down upon the ground and sighs, and answers, "Most just and holy Sovereign, alas! I have nothing to say that can set aside the accusation Thou hast beard. All I can do is to vindicate Thy justice and my fidelity. I have given to the man all the graces Thou hast prepared for him. He was a Catholic. He had the sacraments. He had warnings. He had faith. He had many special graces. He had the mission; and I myself often spoke to him in his heart, calling him to do penance, but he never did do penance. He was careless in attendance at Mass. He was seldom at the confessional, and when he did come he made his confession without a sincere purpose of amendment, and soon relapsed into his former sins, and at last he died without penance. Therefore there is nothing left for me but to resign my charge and to return the crown"—here the angel takes up a beautiful crown—"to return the crown which Thou hadst made for him, that Thou mayst place it on another brow." "Dost Thou not hear," the demon once more cries out impatiently—"Dost thou not hear what the angel says? Yes, this man is mine, has always been mine. I did not create him, and yet he always served me. Thou didst create him, and yet he has refused to obey Thee. I never died for him, yet he has been my willing slave. Thou didst die for him, and yet he has "blasphemed Thy name, broken Thy laws and despised Thy promises. Thou didst allure him by kindness, but wert not able to win his affection. I led him to hell, and found him willing to follow. O Jesus, thou Son of the living God, if Thou dost not give me this soul, there is neither truth in Thy word nor justice in Thy awards." The demon speaks boldly, but Jesus Christ suffers him to speak so, because he speaks truly; and oh, with what terror does the poor sinner hear that truth! But terror is not the only feeling that is to fill his heart. Despair is to come in, to make his misery complete. He begins to cry for mercy. "O God, mercy! have mercy, O Jesus Christ! Do not let me perish whom Thou hast redeemed. I have had the faith; oh, do not let me come to perdition! Only one quarter of an hour to do penance!" Can Jesus Christ resist such an appeal? No, my brethren, if there were a real disposition to do penance in the heart. I will undertake to say that if the devils of hell were willing to do penance, God would forgive them. But there is no penance in the other world. There is only the desire to escape punishment, not the desire to escape sin; and being out of the order of the present providence of God, which leaves the will free, there is no real conversion there. Therefore Jesus Christ answers: "O wicked man, thy deeds condemn thee. Thou callest for mercy, but it is too late. The time for mercy is over! Mercy! thou hast shown no mercy to thyself, to thy wife or children. Mercy! I have shown thee mercy all the days of thy life. I sent thee my preachers, and thou didst refuse to listen. There is no mercy now but justice—and therefore I pronounce the everlasting sentence. I consign this man's soul to hell, and his body to the resurrection of damnation." Did you hear that howl? That was the devil's howl of triumph. Jesus Christ is gone. The angel is gone; and the devil goes to the body. They have not done washing it. He begins to wash too. What is he doing. He is washing the forehead; for on that forehead, the mark of Christ, the holy cross, was placed in baptism, and he is washing it out, and with a brand from hell he places there his own signet—the signet of perdition. And now the soul, feeling the full extent of her misery, cries out: "I am damned. I am damned! no hope more; not even Purgatory. Oh, I never thought it would come to this; I did but do as the others. I was no worse than my companions, and now I am lost. I that was a Catholic, I that had always a good name, and was liked by my friends. And oh, are the judgments of God so strict? What will become of my companions whom I left on the earth, wild and reckless like my self? Will they too follow me to this place of torment! Oh, why did not the priest speak of this? Alas! he did, but I would not hear. Alas, alas, it is too late now! Shall I never see Jesus Christ again? Must I forever despair?" And a voice rises from the walls of eternity with ten thousand reverberations: "Despair." Can there be any thing more dreadful still? Yes, the sinner's cup has one more ingredient of bitterness—remorse. You know what a comfort it is to be able to say, "It was not my fault, I did what I could." But the sinner will not have that comfort. On the contrary, he will say, "I might have been saved. It is all true which the angel said. I was a Catholic, and had the means of salvation. I might have been saved, saved easily, more easily than I was lost. I was never happy; sin never made me happy. I sinned, and gained for myself misery even in the other world. Fool that I was, I might have done penance, and been happier after it, in time and in eternity. How little God asked of me! I had the mission, if I had but made it well. Oh, what trouble I took to be damned, and how little was required of me to be saved! Yesterday, God was ready; the sacraments were at hand, the church door open, the priest was awaiting me; but now all is closed. Oh, if I had them now!" But his complaints are silenced. An iron grasp is on his throat. The demon has his black hand on his throat and chokes him; then he puts his horrid arms around him, and hugs him as the anaconda hugs her victims. He carries him swiftly through the air: down, down they go—until at last they reach the gates of hell. They creak upon their hinges, they open, the demon enters with his prey, and casts it on the bed of flames prepared for it. Then a yell is heard throughout those dismal regions: "One more Catholic vocation thrown away, one more soul lost, one more devil in hell."

Come, let us go back to that room where the corpse is laid out. They have just finished preparing it for the grave, and all that we have described has been taking place in that very room too, and they have not known it. They have smoothed the body and laid a white cloth over it; and they say, how natural it looks. It wears the smile they remember it used to wear in youth, and that poor soul they are talking of is damned. Jesus Christ has been there, and adjudged it to hell. And this is going on every day. Wherever death takes a man, there judgment meets him. Jesus Christ meets men in all kinds of places. You know how death met Baltassar. He was a drunkard, an adulterer, a sacrilegious robber; and one night, when he was drunk, and held a grand feast, surrounded by his concubines, and with the vessels of God's house on his table, a hand appeared on the wall and wrote this sentence: "Mene, Mene, Thecel, Phares;" and that night he died. Yes! in the midst of their sin; in the place where they go, Jesus Christ meets the soul, and condemns it to hell. He meets it in the grogshop, where wild companions are gathered together, and one of them falls to the ground, under the blow of a companion, and dies. There upon that spot, with those bad companions standing around, with the sound of blasphemy in his ear, Jesus Christ, unseen, meets that soul and condemns it to hell. Another is shot in the street, on his way to keep an assignation, and then and there, in the street, Jesus Christ meets him and condemns him to hell. One dies in the low hovel, where squalid vice and misery have done all they could to brutalise the inmates, and then and there Jesus Christ, in that hovel, meets the soul and condemns it to hell. Another dies in a bed covered with silken tapestry, and as he dies he sees the face of Jesus Christ looking in through the silken curtains to pronounce the sentence against him, who had made a god of this world. Another dies in prison, and there in that cell where human justice placed him, divine justice meets him, and in that prison Jesus Christ meets him and condemns him to hell. Yes, wherever death meets you, O sinner, there Jesus Christ will meet you, and there he will condemn you. It may be tomorrow. It may be in the very act of the commission of sin. It may be without any opportunity of preparation, you will stand before an inflexible and unerring Judge. Oh, then, do not delay now to propitiate Him while you can. In that tribunal after death, there is no mercy for the sinner; but there is another tribunal, which He has established, where there is mercy—the tribunal of penance. There the accuser is not the demon, but the sinner himself; and he is not only his own accuser, but his own witness against himself. There the angel guardian waits with joy, not with sorrow. There Jesus Christ is present, but not in wrath. There the sentence is, "I absolve thee from thy sin," not "I condemn thee for thy sin." Oh, then, appeal from one tribunal to the other. Appeal from Jesus Christ to Jesus Christ. Appeal from Jesus Christ at the day of judgment to Jesus Christ in the confessional. And if thou wouldst not be condemned by Him when thou seest Him after death, be sure thou gettest a favorable sentence from Him now in the Sacrament of Penance. "Make an agreement with thy adversary quickly, whilst thou art in the way with him: lest perhaps the adversary deliver thee to the judge, and the judge deliver thee to the officer, and thou be cast into prison. Amen. I say to thee, thou shalt not go out from thence till thou pay the last farthing." [Footnote 23]

[Footnote 23: St. Matt. v. 25.]

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Sermon IV.
Heaven.
(Mission Sermon.)

"Rejoice and be exceeding glad,
because your reward is very great in heaven."
—St: Matt. v. 12.

Some of you may remember the joy with which, after a sea voyage, you arrived at home. The voyage had been very long and wearisome. You had suffered, perhaps had been in danger. At last you heard the sailors cry "Land;" and after a while, your less practised eye began to discern the blue hills of your native country. Oh, how that sight revived you! How your sufferings and dangers were all forgotten in the thought of the welcome that awaited you at home! Well, life is a voyage on the ocean of time; often a tempestuous, always a dangerous voyage; and in order to animate our courage, to cheer and console us, God has allowed us from time to time to catch a glimpse by faith of our distant home of heaven. Let us lift up our thoughts now to that happy land, the land that is very far off, the land that is wide and quiet; the celestial paradise, the home of the blessed, the city of God. I know that we cannot gain any sufficient idea of it. I know that eye hath not seen its beauty, ear hath not heard the story of it, neither hath the heart of man conceived its image; but we must do as men do with some costly jewel: turn it first on one side, then on another, to catch its brilliancy; and if at the last we fall down, blinded and dazzled by the splendors which meet us, we shall in this way at least conceive something of the greatness of those things which God has provided for those who love Him.

The Holy Scripture represents the pleasures of heaven in three different lights: first, as Rest; second, as Joy; third, as Glory. Let us, then, meditate upon them for a while, under each one of these three aspects.

First, then, heaven is a place of rest, by which I understand the absence of all those things which disturb us here. True, there is happiness even in this life, but how unsatisfactory, how fleeting! Here we are never far off from wretchedness, and never long without trouble. You go into a great city: how rich and gay every thing looks; what crowds of well-dressed people pass you! Ah! in the next street there is the dismal hovel where poverty hides its head, and the children cry for bread, and there is no one to break it to them. You are strong and healthy, and it is a strange, fierce joy for you on a cold day to struggle with the buffetings of the wintry blast; but see, the rude wind that kindles a glow on your cheek steals away the bloom from yonder sick man, whose feeble step and sharpened features tell of suffering and disease. You have a happy family, and when you go home your children clamber up on your knees, and your wife meets you with a smile of affection. Alas! next door, the widow weeps the night long, and there is none to comfort her, for the young man, the only son of his mother, has been carried to his long home. And as if this were not enough, as if sickness and poverty and death did not cause misery enough in the world, men's passions, hate and envy, lust, avarice, and pride, unite to make many a moment wretched that might else have been happy. But in heaven these things shall be no more. In heaven. there shall be complete and perfect rest. The poor man will no more be forced to toil hardly and anxiously to put bread in his children's mouths—to rise up early, and late take rest; for there they shall not hunger nor thirst any more. The sick man then shall leap as a hart; he shall run and not be weary; he shall walk and not faint. The widow's tears shall be dried, for husband and son shall be again restored to her. Oh, what a day shall that be, when dear friends shall meet together, never to part again, and God shall wipe all tears from their eyes, and sorrow and sighing shall flee away; when the bodies of the saints, glorious and immortal, no longer subject to decay or fatigue or death, clothed in light, shall enter the gates of the celestial city, and shall have a right to the tree of life! And there shall be no sin there, no gust of passion, no reproach of conscience, no sting of temptation. In this life, says St. Augustine, we have the liberty of being able not to sin, but in heaven we shall have the higher liberty of not being able to sin. Brother shall not rise up against brother, neither shall there be war any more, for the former things are passed away. There shall be no strife or hatred or envy; no wrong or oppression; no unkindness or coldness; no falsehood or insincerity; but within a perfect peace, and without an unalterable friendship between all the inhabitants of this happy land, each rejoicing in the other's happiness and glory. And there is no end to these joys of heaven. Here our best pleasures are alloyed by their transitoriness; but there, there is no fear for the future. No wave disturbs the deep, clear sea of crystal that lies before the throne of God. The angel has sworn that time shall be no longer, and the great day of eternity has begun. O heavenly Jerusalem! O city of God! which has no need of sun or moon to enlighten it, for there is no night there! welcome haven of rest to the poor exiles of earth! Blessed are they that shall enter thy gates of pearl and tread thy streets of gold, for thou art the perfection of beauty and the joy of the whole earth. In thy secure recesses the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest. "Blessed are they that die in the Lord, for they rest from their labors. They shall not hurt or destroy in all my holy mountain, saith the Lord. My people shall be all just; they shall inherit the land forever, the branch of my planting, the work of my hands, to glorify me."

But though it is easier to describe heaven as a place of rest, that is not the whole description of it. Heaven is also a place of joy, and of joy the most complete, the most pure, the most satisfying that the human heart can possess. Joy in seeing and loving God, or, as it is called, in the Beatific Vision. This it is in which consists essentially the Christian idea of heaven. I say the Christian idea, for our faith teaches us to look forward to a happiness very different from what we could have expected by nature. Of course natural reason teaches us to look forward to a future life, but it promises no other knowledge of God but such as is possible to our own natural powers when fully developed. But Christianity promises us a knowledge of God to which our natural powers, however enlarged, could never aspire. It teaches us that we shall see Him as He is—not only think about Him and commune with Him and adore Him, but actually look upon His unveiled Divinity, gaze upon Him face to face. It is not of our Lord's glorified humanity that I speak. That, too, we shall see, and that will be a sight of unspeakable beauty and joy; but we shall see more: we shall look upon and into the Divine Essence. Now to our natural powers this is impossible. A blind man can know a great deal about the sun. He may hear it described, he may reason about it, he may feel its effects, but he cannot lift up his eyes to heaven and see it. So, naturally speaking, we have not the faculty whereby to see God. "No man hath seen God at any time," says St. John. "Whom no man hath seen, or can see, who inhabiteth the light inaccessible," says St. Paul. [Footnote 24]

[Footnote 24: St. John i. 18; I. Tim. vi. 16.]

Clearly there must be some great change in us, something given to us that does not belong to us as men, in order to enable us to see God, and the Holy Scripture tells us what that change shall be: "We shall be like to Him, for we shall see Him as He is," says St. John. [Footnote 25]

[Footnote 25: I. Ep. St. John iii. 2.]

We ourselves shall become divine and godlike. The human intellect shall be marvellously strengthened by a gift which the Church calls the light of glory, which shall enable us to look upon God and live. We are told in Scripture that God walked in the garden of Eden and talked with Adam and Eve in the cool of the day. This high companionship was broken by the fall. Man was reduced to the rank that essentially belonged to him, and was deprived of that which had been accorded to him of grace. But by baptism he acquires once more a right to that familiar intercourse with God, and in heaven he enters upon its enjoyment. For this reason heaven is called our fatherland. It is our lost inheritance recovered. There we ourselves shall be the sons of God, and God will be our Father. Think what is the relation of an affectionate son to a good and wise father. What submission with equality—what complete sympathy and community of interest—what intimate communication of thought and feeling! So, O Christian soul! shall it be between you and God. God will be your God, and you will be His child. Thou shalt dwell in His home, and all that He hath shall be thine. "All things are yours, the world, or life, or death, or things present, or things to come; for all are yours, and you are Christ's, and Christ is God's." [Footnote 26]

[Footnote 26: 1 Cor. iii 23.]

Yes, God himself shall be yours. You shall look around you and see His towering altitudes, and count them as your own. You shall look deep down into the depths of His wisdom and be wise as God is. You shall find yourself upborne by His power and goodness, enveloped by His glory, and adorned with His beauty. Oh! my brethren, is not this joy? Tell me, tell me, young men, tell me, children, tell me truly, one and all, what have been the happiest moments of your life? Was it the moments you have spent in sin? Was it the hour of some earthly success or triumph? Or was it not rather at some hour when God was near to you, and you felt the music of His voice and the perfume of His breath—some time when you were praying, or when you had made a good confession or communion, or when you were listening to a sermon? I know it was. I know there are times when every man has felt the words of the Psalmist: "What have I in heaven? and besides Thee what do I desire upon earth? Thou art the God of my heart, and the God that is my portion forever." [Footnote 27]

[Footnote 27: Ps. lxxxii. 26.]

What are all the attainments of learned men to Him who is all-wise? What are all the conceptions of genius to Him who is all-beautiful, or the moral excellencies of good men to Him who is all-holy? Yes, the thought of God is the source of the purest and highest pleasure on earth. That thought has ravished the saints with ecstasy, and made the martyrs laugh at their torments. And if merely to think about God in this life can make us so happy, what must it be to see Him in the life to come? To know God and to love Him, to know Him as we are known by Him, to love Him with our whole souls, to possess Him without the fear of losing Him, to take part in His counsels, to enter into His will, and to share in His blessedness—this is a joy, perfect and supreme; and this is the joy of heaven. This is the joy offered to you. This is all-satisfying. The soul can desire nothing more. This is permanent, for heaven is eternal. This is always new, for God is riches and beauty inexhaustible and infinite. Oh, my brethren, do not envy those who were near our Lord's person when He was upon earth. I know it is natural to do so. I know it is natural to say, "If I could but have seen His face, or heard the sound of His voice;" but no! yours is a still happier lot. Do not envy Magdalene, who kissed His feet, nor St. John, on whose breast He leaned, nor the Blessed Virgin, who bore Him in her arms. Is it not permitted to the poorest and the weakest of you to see Him, not in His humility, but in his glory—to converse with Him and dwell with Him in the land of the living? Oh! blessed are they that dwell in Thy house! The world passeth away, and the lust thereof, but he that doeth the will of God abideth forever. Blessed are they that hear the Word of God and do it! Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God! One would have thought that this was enough. To be free from all the trials and sufferings of this present life, and to enjoy the fullest happiness a human soul is capable of—one would think that were heaven enough, and that no more could be added. But the bounty of God has added another element to the happiness of heaven. Heaven is a place of glory—not of rest only, but of glory also. "Glory, honor and peace," says the apostle, "to every man that doeth well." Heaven is the place of God's glory, and it is also the place of the glory of the saints. Even here the good are honored —the really good. True, for a while they may be despised and persecuted, but, in the long run, nothing is honored so much as virtue. During the lifetime of Nero and St. Paul, Nero was a powerful emperor, praised and flattered by his courtiers, and St. Paul a friendless and despised prisoner; now, Nero is abhorred as the wicked tyrant, and St. Paul honored by all men as the saint and hero. But this is not enough. In heaven the honor of the saints will be magnificent. God himself will honor them. This is one reason for the last judgement, that God may publicly give honor to the good. "Whosoever shall glorify me, him will I glorify," says the Almighty; [Footnote 28] and they who are saved will be admitted to heaven with respect and solemnity, as those whom the King delights to honor.

[Footnote 28: 1 Ki. ii. 30.]

This is represented to us in the description of the last judgment: "Then shall He turn to them on the right hand and say: 'Come, ye blessed of my Father, possess the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world.'" See how He praises them. See how He honors them and makes kings out of them. They are astonished: it seems too much. They know not how they have deserved it. But He insists upon it as their right. He repeats the good actions they have done. "I was hungry and ye gave me meat, I was thirsty and ye gave me to drink. I was naked and ye clothed me." Do you hear this, my brethren? So will it be with you when you stand before God to be judged. He will hold in His hand a beautiful diadem of gold, and he will say: "This is for thee." And thou shalt be amazed and shalt say: "No, Lord, this is not for me. I am nothing but a laboring man. I am but a poor boy. I am only a servant-girl. I am not the child of the rich and great. No one ever made way for me in the street, or rose up when I came into their company." But Christ shall say: "Nay! a prince thou art, for thou hast done the deeds of a prince." Then He will begin to mention them one by one—your kindness to your old mother and father—your humble confession that it was so difficult to make, and which you made so well—the time you overcame that great temptation, and resolved, once for all, to be virtuous—the occasion of sin you renounced—the prayers you said in humility and sincerity—the sacrifices you made for your faith—the true faith you kept with your husband or wife—the patience you practised in pain or vexation. Then He will show you your throne in heaven, so bright you will think it an apostle's, or the Blessed Virgin Mary's, or that it belongs to God himself; and then the tears of joy and surprise will drop from your eyes, and your heart will be nigh bursting with confusion; but He will smile upon you, and take you by the hand, and say: "Yes, thou hast been faithful over a few things, I will make thee ruler over many things." Then He will give thee a certain jurisdiction, a certain power of intercession; make thee an assessor in His high court of heaven, and make thee to sit on a throne with Him, judging the twelve tribes of Israel. And others shall honor thee. The saints shall honor thee. The Blessed Virgin shall honor thee. Now thou honorest her, so much at a distance from thee, and callest her Lady; but then it shall be as it was when St. John and the Blessed Virgin dwelt together in one home. Thou shalt still honor her as the Mother of Jesus, and she shall honor thee as His disciple. St. Peter and St. John and St. James and St. Andrew shall honor thee. Now thou makest thy litanies to them; but then it will be as it was when Peter and Thomas and Nathanael and the sons of Zebedee were together, and Jesus came in the midst and dined with them. The saints shall be one family with thee. They will walk with thee, and sit with thee, and call thee by name, and tell thee the secrets of Paradise. And the angels shall honor thee. Now thou addressest thy angel guardian on bended knee; but then he will say to thee: "See thou do it not; I am thy fellow-servant, and of thy brethren, who have the testimony of Jesus." And the Church on earth shall praise thee. As long as time shall last, she shall make mention of thee as one of those who rejoice with Christ in His glorious kingdom, and, clothed in white, follow the Lamb whithersoever He goeth. Yes, and the wicked and the devils shall honor thee. Now they may affect to despise you—now they may persecute you and trouble you; but then they will be forced to do you honor, and, groaning within themselves for anguish of spirit, and amazed at the suddenness of your unexpected salvation, shall say: These are they whom we had sometime in derision, and for a parable if reproach. We fools esteemed their life madness and their end without honor. Behold how they are numbered among the children of God, and their lot is among the saints." [Footnote 29]

[Footnote 29: Wisd. v. 3, 4, 5.]

Such, my brethren, are the joys of heaven, or, rather, such is the faintest and poorest idea of the joys of heaven. Men seek for wealth as the means of defending themselves from the ills of life, but there is perfect rest only in heaven. Men seek for pleasure, but earthly joys are short and unsatisfactory; the pleasures at God's right hand are for ever sure. Men seek for honor, but the real honor comes from God alone. And these are within the reach of each one of you. When Father Thomas of Jesus, was dying in captivity, his friends came around his bedside, and expressed their regret that he should die, away from his home, and their hope that the King of Spain would even yet ransom him; but the holy man replied: "I have a better country than Spain, and the ransom has long been paid. That country is heaven, that ransom is the blood of Christ." The Holy Church says: "When thou hadst overcome the sharpness of death, thou didst open the kingdom of heaven to all believers." Yes! by the blood of Christ, by the sacrament of baptism, the gates of heaven are opened before us. The path is straight and plain. If by sin we have strayed from it, by penance we have been recalled to it, and now there is nothing to do but to advance and persevere, and heaven is ours. Will you draw back, Christian? Will you, by mortal sin, throw away that immortal crown? No drunkard or adulterer, nothing that is defiled, can enter there. There is only one road that leads to heaven—the road of Christian obedience. Will you renounce your birthright? Will you, by sin, take the course that leads you away from your heavenly home? "Oh!" I hear you say, "I will choose heaven." But, remember, heaven is to be won. "Heaven," says St. Philip Neri, "is not for the slothful and cowardly." Strive then, henceforth, for the rewards that are at God's right hand. Strive to attain abundant merits for eternity. Remember that he that soweth sparingly shall reap sparingly, and he that soweth plentifully shall reap plentifully. God is not unmindful of your works and labor that proceedeth from love. Things so small as not to be taken notice of, things that happen every day, add a new glory to our mansions in heaven. With this aim, then, let us henceforth work. "Oh, happy I," says St. Augustine, "and thrice happy, if, after the dissolution of the body, I shall merit to hear the songs that are sung in praise of the Eternal King, by the inhabitants of the celestial city!" Happy I, if I myself shall merit to sing those strains, and to stand before my Lord and King, and to see Him in His glory, as he promised! "He that loveth me shall be loved by my Father, and I will love him, and will manifest myself to him." "How amiable are thy tabernacles, Thou Lord of Hosts! My soul hath a desire and a longing to enter into the courts of the Lord." Grant me this, O Lord. Give and withhold what Thou wilt. I do not ask length of days. I do not ask for earthly honor and prosperity. I do not ask to be free from care, or labor, or suffering. But this I do ask, O Lord: when this life is over, shut not up my soul in hell, but let me look on Thy face in the land of the living. Make me so to pass through things temporal that I lose not the things eternal. Hail, Heavenly Queen! our life, our sweetness, and our hope! to Thee do we cry, poor, exiled children of Eve. Oh, then, from Thy throne in heaven, lift upon us, who are struggling in this world, those merciful eyes of Thine! and when this our exile is over, show us the blessed fruit of Thy womb, JESUS!

Note.—This was the last Sunday-Sermon which F. Baker preached, two weeks before he was seized with his last illness.

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Sermon V.
The Duty Of Growing In Christian Knowledge.
(First Sunday in Advent.)

"The first man knew not wisdom perfectly,
no more shall the last find her out.
For her thoughts are vaster than the sea,
and her counsels deeper than the great ocean."
—Eccles. XXIV. 38, 39.

I think we Catholics, when we lay claim to the possession of the whole truth—the entire revelation imparted to the world from Christ through the apostles—sometimes forget how small a share of that truth each one of us possesses in particular. It is the Church that the Holy Ghost leads into all truth, not individuals. Each Catholic, who is sufficiently instructed, knows some truth; he knows what is necessary to salvation; but there are many things which he is totally ignorant of, many things concerning which his conceptions are inadequate or distorted. Now if this be so, it cannot but be useful to remember it, and I will, therefore, this morning, show you how it must be so, and some of the consequences which flow from it.

Each one's knowledge of truth must be more or less partial and incomplete, because it varies with each one's capacity for receiving truth. When God gave man reason, He conferred on him the faculty of receiving truth; but the degree in which this or that man is capable of receiving truth, depends upon the strength and cultivation of his particular reason. The eye is the organ of sight, but one man's eye is stronger and truer than another's. Slight variations of color or form, wholly indistinguishable by one man, are detected in a moment by another. So, one man's reason is stronger than another's. What makes the difference, is, of course, in part the diversity in natural endowments, but it is not altogether due to this cause; it is due in great measure also to cultivation. Moral dispositions, too, have a great deal to do with it; and in the case of Christian truth, the grace of God also exerts a special influence. The degrees in which these various elements are found in particular cases, are so different, that there is an almost infinite gradation in the measure in which men are capable of receiving truth. No two men can receive it in exactly the same degree. In all this congregation, where we recite the same Creed and use the same prayers, there are, perhaps, no two of us who mean by them precisely the same thing. The intelligence of each one, his past history, his moral dispositions, will determine how far the faith that is in him corresponds to the faith that is without him—the faith as it is in itself, the object of faith as it is in God. I can make what I mean plain to you by an illustration. Let us suppose a beautiful picture of the crucifixion, for instance, [is] put up in a public gallery. Men of every kind enter and pass before it. There comes a man who has never heard of Christ; he is ignorant and uneducated. He looks up and sees the representation of extremest human agony, mingled with superhuman dignity and patience. Some ray enters his mind; he pauses, is startled then passes on. Now there comes another, who is an anatomist, and he is arrested by the skill with which the body is proportioned, and the play of the muscles and nerves is exhibited. Every line is a study to him, and he stops a good deal longer than the first. Then there comes an artist, and he sees in the picture something greater even. He takes in the genius of the conception, the fitness of attitude and expression, the light and shade, the tints of color, the difficulties overcome by art; and he comes and sits before it, day after day, for hours, absorbed in the study of its beauties. And another comes who is a poet, and to him it brings back the scene of Calvary. In a moment he is far away, and the sun is darkened, and the earth quakes, and there are thunderings and lightnings, and once more the Holy City pours forth its multitude to witness the death of Jesus. And then there comes a sinner. Ah! that story of love and suffering! which tells how God so loved the world, and gave His only-begotten Son, that all who believe in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life. To him, that picture speaks of the horrors of sin, of mercy, of heaven and hell, and thoughts are awakened by it which lead him back to God. There hangs the picture, unaltered. It is just what the artist made it, neither more nor less, yet see how different it has been to different beholders.

Now, just so it is with the preaching of the truth. As we recite the Creed, as we preach to you, Sunday after Sunday, the Creed itself is indeed unchangeable, but it is a different thing to each one of us who preach, and to each one of you who hear, according to your intelligence, your past history, and your present dispositions. How can it be otherwise? Does not the very word, God, mean something different to us from what it does to a saint? Do not the words Presence of God, mean something different to you and me from what they did to St. Teresa, to whom the soul of man appeared as a castle with seven chambers, each one more sacred than the others, as you advanced into the interior, until the innermost shrine was reached, where God and the soul were joined together in a manner which human language knows not how to utter? Do you not see that the doctrine of the Incarnation is something very different to us from what it was to St. Athanasius, who spent his whole life in conflict for it, who endured years of exile and calumny, the estrangement of friends, the suspicion even of good men, rather than falter the least in fidelity to that verity on which his soul had fed? Or the Real Presence—is that not a different thing to the crowd who come to church and kneel from custom, but hardly remember why, from what it was to St. Thomas, who composed in honor of it the wonderful hymns Pange Lingua and Lauda Sion, or to St. Francis Xavier, who spent nights in prayer, prostrate upon the platform of the altar? Why, St. Thomas, who has so written of the Christian faith that the Church has named him the angelical doctor, threw down his pen in hopelessness of being able to express the high knowledge of divine things which filled his soul. And St. Paul confesses, in writing to the Hebrews, that even in that primitive community, taught by apostles and living in a perpetual call to martyrdom, there were some points of Christian truth which he found himself unable to utter, "because you are become weak to hear." [Footnote 30]

[Footnote 30: Heb. v. 11.]

I know that you are Catholics, that you have the Apostles' Creed by heart, that you believe in one God in Three Persons, in the Incarnation and Death of the Second Person of the Blessed Trinity, and in the two eternities before us; but neither you nor I know what all this implies. Our knowledge is very imperfect: we are but babes in Christ, lisping and stammering the Divine alphabet—children, wetting our feet in the waves which dash on the shore of the boundless ocean of truth.

It is good for us, as I have already said, to remember this, for it gives us at once the true method of forming an estimate of Christianity. A tree is known by its fruit, but it is by its best fruit. If you have a tree in your garden bearing only a small quantity of very delicious fruit, you prize it highly and take great care of it, though many of the blossoms fall off, and a great deal of the fruit never ripens. So you must judge of the Catholic Church, by its best and most perfect fruit, that is, by the men of great wisdom and great virtue whom it produces, and not by its imperfect members. Who is likely to be the best exponent and the truest specimen of his religion, a man of prayer and study, deeply versed in the Holy Scriptures and sacred learning, or one of small capacity, little learning, and little prayer? Evidently, the former; and yet how often do men take the contrary way of judging of the teaching and spirit of the Church. They visit some Catholic country, they see some instance of popular error, ignorance, or disorder, and they say: "This is Catholicity." Or, at home, they see or hear a Catholic do or say something which gives them offence, and they exclaim: "That is your doctrine!" "That is your religion!" Now, supposing the offence they take to be justly taken, which is not always the case, what does it prove? It may prove that the rulers of the Church have not done their duty; but it may prove just the contrary, that they have done their duty-that in spite of the obstacles of ignorance and rudeness, they have succeeded in imparting to some darkened souls enough knowledge to lead them to God, though it be the very least that is sufficient for that purpose. But it does not show what the doctrine of the Church really is as intelligently understood. To find out this, you must look at men who are in the most favorable circumstances for understanding it, and they are the saints of God: St. Basil, St. Augustine, St. Francis of Sales, St. Teresa. St. Vincent of Paul.

O my brethren! how can men turn away from Catholicity? I understand how they can turn away from it as you and I express it; how we can fail to remove their difficulties, or even put new perplexity in their way. But how can they turn away from Catholicity as it is expressed by the great saints of the Church? {268 } What a divine religion! What majesty, what sweetness, what wisdom, what power! How it commands the homage of the world! What a universal testimony it has in its favor, after all! Do you know, my brethren, I believe men are far more in favor of Catholicity than we suspect. I believe half the difficulties they find in our religion are not in our religion at all, but in us; in our ignorance, in our prejudices, in our short-sightedness and narrow-heartedness. What renders the world without excuse is the line of saints, the true witnesses to the genius and spirit of the Catholic religion. And yet, even the saints themselves are not the perfect exponents of the faith, for even the saints were not altogether free from ignorance and error. To understand fully the nobleness of the Christian faith, we should need the help of inspiration itself. Did it never occur to you, my brethren, that the expressions of the prophets and apostles in reference to the light and grace brought by Jesus Christ into the world, were extravagant? "Behold, I will lay thy stones in order, and will lay thy foundations with sapphires, and I will make thy bulwarks of jasper: and thy gates of graven stones, and all thy borders if desirable stones. All thy children shall be taught of the Lord: and great shall be the peace of thy children." "Thou shalt no more have the sun for thy light by day, neither shall the brightness of the moon enlighten thee: but the Lord shall be unto thee for an everlasting light, and thy God for thy glory." [Footnote 31]

[Footnote 31: Isaiah liv. 11-13; lx. 19.]

Does the Catholic Church, as you understand it, come up to these descriptions? Is Catholic truth, as you appropriate it, so high and glorious a thing as this? No! And the reason is, that you are straitened in yourselves. Your conceptions are so low, your knowledge of the truth is so partial and limited that you do not recognize the description when the Holy Ghost presents that truth as it is in itself, as it is seen and known by God.

This thought leads us naturally to another; namely, that it is the duty of each one of us to extend his knowledge of Christian truth as far as possible. There is a story told of a foreign gentleman visiting Rome, who went one day to St. Peter's Church, and, after entering the vestibule, admired its noble proportions, and returned home fully satisfied that he had seen the church itself, which he had not even entered. So it is with many persons who never pass beyond the vestibule of Christian knowledge. They never enter the inner temple, or catch even a glimpse of its vast heights and its dim distances, its receding aisles, its intricate archings, its glory, its richness, and its mystery. O misery of ignorance! which has ever been the heaviest curse of our race. O Morning Star, harbinger of eternal truth, and Sun of Justice, when wilt thou come to enlighten those that sit in darkness and in the shadow of death! Alas! this is our grief, that the true Light is come into the world, but our eyes are holden that we cannot see it. Truths, the thought of which rapt the apostles into ecstasy, truths which the angels desire to look into, are published in our hearing, and awaken no aspiration, no stirring in our hearts. We go away, to eat and drink, and work, and play. O brethren! burst for yourselves these bonds of ignorance. Do not say, I am not learned, I am not acute or profound, I cannot hope to understand much. Remember that there were some servants to whom one talent was given, who were called to account as well as those who had ten. Do what you can. A pure heart, a blameless life, and prayer, are great enlighteners. Read, listen, meditate, obey. Ask of God to enlarge your knowledge, and to teach you what it means to say you believe in Him. Ask of Jesus Christ to teach you what it means to say that He was made man and died for us on the cross; what it is to receive His body and blood; what is the meaning of heaven and hell. Awake thou that sleepest, and Christ shall give thee light! He will make you understand more and more what it is to be a Christian. Often have I seen the fulfilment of this promise. I have been at the bedside of poor people, who would be called rude and illiterate, but to whose pure hearts and earnest prayers God had imparted so clear a knowledge of the faith, that I have felt in their humble rooms like Jacob when he awoke from sleep and said: "Indeed the Lord is in this place." [Footnote 32]

[Footnote 32: Gen. xxviii. 16.]

Men are talking about a Church of the future. They say the old Church is decrepid, her theology is obsolete, she stimulates thought no more. But we know better. The Church of the future is the Church of the past. That Church is ever ancient and ever new. Her truth is not exhausted. Men know not the half nor the hundredth part of her hidden wisdom. O the victory! when men shall understand this—when they shall come confessing to the Holy Church, as the Queen of Saba did to Solomon: "The report is true, which I heard in my own country, concerning thy words and concerning thy wisdom. And I did not believe them that told me, till I came myself and saw with my own eyes, and have found that the half hath not been told me; thy wisdom and thy works exceed the fame which I heard. Blessed are thy men, and blessed are thy servants who stand before thee always, and hear thy wisdom." [Footnote 33]

[Footnote 33: III. Ki. x. 6-8.]

Yes! the history of the Church is not accomplished, her triumphs are not yet all written. Why does she, Advent after Advent, publish again the glowing predictions of the evangelical prophet, but because she knows that they await a still more magnificent fulfilment? Take courage—the cloud that rests on the people shall be lifted off, and the burden taken away. The Ancient Church "shall no more be called forsaken, nor her land desolate." [Footnote 34]

[Footnote 34: Is. lxii. 4.]

"Arise, be enlightened, O Jerusalem: for thy light is come, and the glory of the Lord is risen upon thee. And the Gentiles shall walk in thy light, and kings in the brightness of thy rising. Then shalt thou see and abound, and thy heart shall wonder and be enlarged. And the children of them that afflict thee shall come bowing down to thee, and all that slandered thee shall worship the steps of thy feet, and shall call thee the city of the Lord, the Sion of the Holy One of Israel." [Footnote 35]

[Footnote 35: Isai. lx. 1-14.]

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Sermon VI.
The Mission Of St. John the Baptist.
(Second Sunday In Advent.)

"This is he of whom it is written:
Behold I send My messenger before Thy face,
who shall prepare Thy way before Thee."
—St. Matt. xi. 10.

The Scriptures of the Old Testament had foretold that a special messenger should immediately precede the coming of the Messias, whose duty would be to prepare men's hearts for His reception. Now, our Lord in the text tells us that St. John the Baptist was this messenger. It is for this reason that the Gospels read in the Church for the season of Advent are so full of the sayings and doings of this saint. In Advent the Church desires to prepare us for the twofold coming of Christ—at His Nativity and at the Last Judgment; and it is natural that she should avail herself of the labors of one who was divinely appointed for the same purpose. Accordingly, from Sunday to Sunday, during this season, she bring St. John the Baptist from his cell in the desert, clad in his rough garment, to preach to us Christians the same lessons he preached to the Jewish people centuries ago. It has seemed to me, then, that I could not better subserve the intentions of the Church, than by considering this morning in what the mission of St. John the Baptist as a preparation for Christ's coming specially consisted, and what practical lessons it suggests to us.

St. John the Baptist was of the priestly race, yet he never exercised the office of a priest. He was not a prophet, at least in the sense of one who foretells future events. He worked no miracles. He had no ecclesiastical position. What was he then? What was his office? How did he prepare men for the coming of Christ? The Scriptures tell us what he was. He was a "Voice" and a "Cry"—the cry of conscience, the voice of man's immortal destiny. His mission was simple, elementary, and universal. It went deeper than ecclesiastical or ritual duties. It touched human probation to the very quick. He dealt with the great question of salvation, protested vehemently against sin, and published aloud that law of sanctity which is written on every man's heart by the finger of God.

We have some remains of his sermons, from which we can learn his style. "Begin not to say," so he speaks to the Jews, "we have Abraham to our father, for God is able to raise up of these stones children to Abraham." [Footnote 36]

[Footnote 36: St. Luke iii. 8.]

See, how he sweeps away external privileges, and goes straight to every man's conscience. "The axe is laid now to the root of the trees, and every tree that bringeth not forth good fruit shall be cut down and cast into the fire." Nothing but what is internal, nothing but what is sound at the core, can bear the scrutiny. He descends to the particulars of each man's state and condition of life. The people came to him and asked him, "What shall we do?" And he said: "He that hath two coats, let him impart to him that hath none; and he that hath meat let him do likewise." That was a short and pithy sermon! Then the officers of the custom came and asked: "What shall we do? And he answered: "Take nothing more than that which is appointed you." Do not rob or swindle. Do not use bribery or extortion. And the soldiers asked him, saying: "And what shall we do?" And he said: "Do violence to no man: neither calumniate any man; and be content with your pay."

Such was the preaching of St. John the Baptist, pointed, direct, homely, practical: an echo of that trumpet-blast which once shook the earth, when God gave the Ten Commandments out of the Mount. And it did its work. Our Lord himself has testified to the success of St. John's mission. It prepared men to believe in Christ. It was the school which trained disciples for Christianity. They that believed in St. John believed afterwards in Christ. On one occasion the evangelist gives it as the explanation why some believed and some rejected the words of Jesus, that they had first believed or rejected the words of the Baptist. "All the people," such is the language I refer to, "justified God, being baptized with, the baptism of John, but the Pharisees and the lawyers despised the counsel of God against themselves, being not baptized of him." [Footnote 37]

[Footnote 37: St. Luke vii. 29, 30.]

Nor is it difficult to explain how his preaching effected this result. Christ came to save sinners. In point of fact, we know that this is the reason why He has come into the world. He has come to seek and save that which was lost. He has come to heal the broken-hearted. He has come to give us a new law, higher and holier than the old, yet easier by the brightness of His example, and the graces He imparts. Now, unless a man feels the evil of sin, unless he wants to keep the law, unless he feels an interest, and a deep interest, in the question of his destiny, he does not care for Christ. True, our Lord has given to the understanding proofs of His divine mission, so that belief in Him may be a reasonable act; but until the conscience is stirred up, the understanding has no motive for considering these proofs. To the carnal and careless Jews, the announcement of Christ's coming was, I suppose, simply uninteresting. In some points of view, indeed, they might have welcomed Him. As a temporal prince and deliverer, His advent would have been hailed by them, but salvation from sin was a matter in which they felt no great concern. What did they want with Christ? Why does He come at all to consciences which do not crave rest, and wills that need no strength? What need of a Saviour, if there is no sin to be shunned, no hell to be feared, no heaven to be won, no great struggle between good and evil, no eternity in peril?

But once let all this be fully understood. Let a man's conscience be fully awakened. Let him realize his destiny, above and beyond this world; let him appreciate the evil of sin that defeats his destiny; let him, if the case be so, perceive how far out of the way he has gone by his sins; and then how full of interest, how full of meaning, becomes the exclamation of St. John, as he points to Christ and says: "Behold the Lamb of God, that taketh away the sins of the world!" Let a man's spiritual nature be stirred within him; let him aspire to what is pure and high; aim at regulating his passions; struggle, amid inordinate desires and the importunities of creatures which encompass him like a flood, toward the highest good and the most perfect beauty; and, oh! with what music do these words of Christ fall on his soul: "Come unto Me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will refresh you. Take my yoke upon you and learn of Me, and you shall find rest to your souls. For My yoke is sweet, and My burden is light." [Footnote 38]

[Footnote 38: St. Matt. xi. 29, 30.]

It seems too good to be true. He listens, and asks, "May I believe this?" "Is there really a way through this world to heaven? a sure, clear, easy way?" He finds that his understanding not only allows, but compels him to believe in Christ: he is happy; he believes; his faith is a conviction into which his whole nature enters; it entwines itself with every fibre of his soul.

The connection, then, between the preaching of the Baptist and the coming of Christ was not a temporary one. It is essential and necessary. St. John is still the forerunner of Christ. The preaching of the commandments is ever the preparation for faith. The awakening of a man's conscience is the measure of his appreciation of Christ. Our Lord gives many graces to men without their own co-operation. Many of the gifts of Providence, and the first gifts in the order of grace, are so bestowed. But an enlightened appreciation of Christianity, a personal conviction of its truth, a real and deep attachment to it, will be always in proportion to the thoroughness with which a man has sounded the depths of his own heart, to the sincerity with which sin is hated and feared, and holiness aspired after. Christ is never firmly seated in the soul of man till he is enthroned on the conscience. "Unto you that fear My name, shall the Sun of Justice arise, and health in his wings." [Footnote 39]

[Footnote 39: St. Matt. iv. 2.]

And, here, my brethren, in this law or fact which I stated, we have the key to several practical questions of great importance.

Here we have, in great part at least, an explanation why conversions to the Catholic Church are not more frequent than they are. Surely the Catholic Church is prominent enough in the eyes of men. From her church towers she cries aloud. In the streets, at the opening of her gates, she utters her word, saying: "O children of men, how long will you love folly, and the unwise hate knowledge? Turn ye at my reproof." Her antiquity, her unity, her universality, the sanctity of so many of her children, are enough to arrest the attention of every thoughtful man. But how few heed her voice! True, here and there, there are souls who recognise in her the true teacher sent by Christ, the guide of their souls, and submit themselves to her safe and holy keeping. Altogether, they make a goodly company; but how small in proportion to those who are left behind! It reminds us of the words of the prophet: "I will take one of a city, and two of a family and bring you into Sion." [Footnote 40]

[Footnote 40: Jer. iii. 14.]

They come by ones and twos, and the mass remains behind. And what does that mass think of the Catholic Church? Some are entirely ignorant of her, almost as though she did not exist. Some have wrong ideas about her, and hate her. Some know a good deal about her doctrines, and are conversant with the proofs of them, and argue about them, and criticise them. Some are favorably inclined to her. Some patronise her. It was just so with Christ. To some He was simply unknown, though He was in their midst. To some He was an impostor and a blasphemer. To many He was an occasion of dispute, some affirming Him to be a "good man," others saying, "Nay, He deceiveth the people." To some He was an innovator on the established religion, the religion of the respectable and educated. To others, His mysteries were an offence, and the severity of His doctrine a stumbling-block. Why is this? Why is it always thus? Why are men so slow to be wise, and to be happy? I do not wish, my brethren, to give too sweeping an answer. I know there is such a thing as inculpable ignorance. I believe there are many on their way to the Church who are not suspected of it, and who, perhaps, do not suspect it themselves. I know that God has His seasons of grace and providence. I know that each human mind is different from every other, and has its own law of working, its own way of arriving at conviction. But after all such deductions, are there not very many of whom it is a plain matter of fact to say that they will not give their attention to this subject? They may even have conscious doubts on their minds, and live and die with these unattended to, unresolved. It is a want of religious earnestness. Men do not ask: "What shall I do to be saved?" Or at least, they do not give to that question their supreme attention. They do not grapple with their destiny. They are indifferent to it, or hopeless about its solution. They let themselves float on, leaving the questions of the future to decide themselves as they may, and live in the pleasures and interests of the present.

Oh, fatal supineness! unworthy a rational being, defeating the end of our creation, and entailing countless miseries here and hereafter. Nothing can be hoped for from the world, till it awakes from its lethargy of indifference. Men must be men before you can make them Christians—serious, thoughtful earnest men, before you have any reason for expecting them to become Catholics. There is more hope of a conscientious bigot, than for a man indifferent to his salvation. He, at least, is in earnest. If his mind should become enlightened, if he should recognise the Catholic Church as the divinely-appointed guide to that heaven which he is seeking, there is reason to hope that he will avail himself of her blessings. He will not make frivolous objections; he will not stumble at the Sacrament of Confession, or catch at every scandalous story of immorality on the part of a Catholic, or quarrel with every minute ritual arrangement; but in a better, higher, nobler spirit, in that spirit of obedience which so well becomes a man, in that spirit of faith, in which man's reason asserts most clearly its high character, by uniting itself to and embracing the Reason of God, when he finds that the Church is the guide to his immortal destiny, he "will come bending to her, and will worship the steps of her feet, and will call her the City of the Lord, the Sion of the Holy One of Israel."

And now, to turn our eyes within the Church, we can in the same way account for those dreadful apostasies from the Catholic faith which are here and there recorded in history. Mahometanism, which in numbers is a rival to Catholicity, possesses some of the fairest lands once owned by Christ. In modern times, one of the most refined and enlightened nations of Christendom, in a moment of frenzy, threw off the faith with which her history had been so adorned, and professed Atheism. Now, how did these things happen? Not of a sudden, or all at once. Men are not changed from Christians into Turks or Infidels in an hour. There must have been some secret moral history, which accounts for this wonderful change. And so there was. Men became lax in their conduct. The Catholicity they practised was not the Catholicity of Christ and the Apostles. Public morals were conformed to the standard of heathenism rather than that of the gospel—nay, sometimes outraged as much the decencies of heathenism as the precepts of Christ. It was the old story. St. John the Baptist imprisoned by an adulterous king; St. John the Baptist, conspired against and murdered by an ambitious queen; the head of St. John the Baptist, eloquent and reproachful even in death, brought in to point the jest and stimulate the revelry of a lascivious feast—this is but a figure of the treatment which conscience has received in Christian courts, and at the hands of Christian princes. Morality and decency grew out of date, and were cast aside like old-fashioned garments, and the restraints of the Law of God were as feeble as cobwebs before the power of passion. Now, what else could be the result of all this, but a disesteem of Christianity itself? True, it might retain some hold upon men's minds for a time. The fact that it was the religion of their ancestors, the fact that they were baptized in it, the beauty of its ceremonies and architecture, the soothing influence of its ordinances, the services it has rendered to civilisation, might keep it standing in its place for a time; but these considerations are not strong enough to withstand the power of hell, when it is exerted in the way of persecution, or a general apostasy. "Every plant that my Heavenly Father hath not planted, shall be rooted up," said Christ. [Footnote 41] It must be a supernatural motive that binds us to our faith. Christ and the Law cannot long remain divorced. A people without conscience will soon be a people without faith; and a nation of triflers only waits the occasion, to become a nation of apostates.

[Footnote 41: St. Matt. xv. 13.]

It is not, then, without a special providence of God, that in these later days the missionary orders of the Church have been multiplied. In the sixteenth century the intellectual defence of the faith was the Church's greatest need, and that was most successfully accomplished. But there is needed something more to uphold the falling fabric of modern society. Men need to be reminded of the first principles of morality. And, therefore, a St. Alphonsus appears in Naples, a St. Vincent of Paul in France; missionary orders in every land go about teaching the people, before it is too late, the very first and fundamental truths—the doctrine of repentance and good works. Here, in every age, and every country, is the real danger to faith. We speak often of the dangers to faith in this country; and unquestionably we have our special trials here. Some of our children are lost by neglect. Some grow cold in the unfriendly atmosphere that surrounds them. But the real danger to be dreaded is, that the love of the Church herself should grow cold; that a wide-spread demoralisation should take place among ourselves; that we should forget the keeping of the Ten Commandments. This, indeed, would be the prelude to our destruction. Practical morality makes a strong Church; but let morality be forgotten, and the Church, while it has a name to live, is dead. And as a corpse long decomposed sometimes retains the human form until it is exposed to the air, when it crumbles into dust; so a dead Church will be blown to atoms and swept away, the first strong blast that hell breathes against it.

And, in fine, by the light of the thought which I have been endeavoring to present to you this morning, we see the means by which we ought to make sure our personal union with Christ. Christ is coming. He is coming at Christmas to unite Himself with those whom He shall find prepared. He is coming again, and the mountains shall melt before Him; for He is coming to judge the world. "Who shall stand to see Him? For He shall be as a Refining Fire, and shall try the Sons of Levi as gold and silver." [Footnote 42]

[Footnote 42: St. Matt. iii. 2, 3.]

How shall we abide His coming, my brethren I how shall we prepare to meet Him? I know no other way than that which St. John the Baptist recommended to the Jews—a true and solid conversion. Whether a man has committed mortal sin or not, whether he is born a Catholic or not, there comes upon him, if he is a true Christian, some time in his life, a change which Catholic writers call conversion. It may not be sudden. It may be all but imperceptible. It may be more than once. But at least once, there comes a time when religion becomes a matter of personal conviction with him. He is different from what he was before. A change has passed over him. He has awakened to his moral accountability. His manhood is developed. His conscience is aroused. And until that happens, you cannot count on him. He may seem innocent and pious, but you cannot tell whether it will not be "like the dew that passeth away in the morning." You cannot say how he will act in temptation. You cannot reckon on what he will be next year. Perhaps then he will draw sin "as with a cart-rope." The trouble with such men is not that they sin sometimes. Alas! such is human frailty that a single fall would not dishearten us; but the real misery is, that they have no principle of not sinning. They are not preparing for Christ's judgement. Their contrition, such as it is, is intended to prepare them for confession, not for eternity. See, then, what we want!

And this is what I understand by the penance which St. John the Baptist preached. He practised it himself. It is thought that in St. John's case the use of reason was granted before birth; and when as a babe he leaped in his mother's womb, it was for conscious joy at the presence of his Lord and Saviour. And since the Blessed Virgin and St. Elizabeth were cousins, doubtless St. John and our Blessed Saviour knew each other as children. It is more than probable that they used to play together when they were boys, as the painters loved to represent them. And oh! what an effect did the knowledge of Christ have on St. John! It took the color out of earthly beauty, and the music out of earthly joy. There was with him afterward one overpowering desire—the desire of sanctity. He had seen a vision of heaven. Not because he despised the world, but because a higher beauty was opened to his soul, he went into the desert, and his meat was locusts and wild honey. One aim he had: to purify his heart. One thought: to prepare for heaven, and to help others also to prepare.

Oh, let us heed his words and example. Let us follow him, if not in the rigor of his fastings, at least in the sincerity of his penance. Be converted, and turn to the Lord your God. There is no other way of preparing for judgment. Remember what the Church says to you at the Font: "If thou wilt enter into life, keep the commandments." Listen to what God Himself counsels, when prophesying the terrors of the last day: "Remember the law of Moses, My servant, which I commanded him in Horeb for all Israel, the precepts and judgments." [Footnote 43]

[Footnote 43: St. Matt. iv. 4.]

The law commanded in Horeb—that eternal law of right, and justice, and purity, and truth—examine yourself by this standard; forsake every evil way and live a Christian life. Happy are they who do so! Happy and secure shall they be in the evil time. When the earth and heaven shall be shaken, and sea and land give up their dead, and the Son of Man appear in the heavens, and the Throne shall be set for judgment, then look up and lift up your head, for your redemption draweth nigh. You have been true to your conscience; you have believed in Christ; you have kept His law; now to you belongs the promise, "Then they that feared the Lord spoke every man with his neighbor, and the Lord gave ear, and heard it: and a book of remembrance was written before the Lord for them that fear the Lord, and think on His Name. And they shall be My special possession, saith the Lord of Hosts, in the day that I do judgment: and I will spare them as a man spareth his own son that serveth him." [Footnote 44]

[Footnote 44: St. Matt. iii. 16, 17.]

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Sermon VII.
God's Desire To Be Loved.
(Christmas Day.)

"Thou art beautiful above the sons of men:
grace is poured abroad in Thy lips;
therefore hath God blessed Thee forever.
Gird Thy sword upon Thy thigh, O Thou most mighty.
With Thy comeliness and Thy beauty,
set out, proceed prosperously and reign."
—Ps. xliv. 3-5.

The Church calls on us to-day to rejoice and be glad for the Incarnation of the Son of God. With a celebration peculiar to this Feast, she breaks the dead silence of the night with her first Mass of joy. She repeats it again as the east reddens with the dawn. And still again, when the sun is shining in full day, she offers anew a Mass of thanksgiving for a blessing which can never be sufficiently praised and magnified. I have thought that I could not better attune your hearts to all this gladness and gratitude than by reminding you of one of the motives of the Incarnation. Why did our Lord become man? and why did He become Man in the way He did? I answer, out of His desire to be loved by us. There is a love of benevolence, which is content simply with doing good without asking a return. God has this love for us. Nature and reason tell us so. "He maketh His sun to rise on the good and the bad, and raineth upon the just and the unjust." [Footnote 45]

[Footnote 45: St. Matt. v. 45.]

And there is another love, the love of friendship, which seeks to be united to the object of its love. And the Incarnation shows us that God has this kind of love for man. His love makes us lovable in His eyes, and this again makes Him vehemently desire our love. This will be my subject this morning—the Incarnation, an evidence of God's desire to be loved by us.

And, first, observe, that there is no other reason given for the Incarnation which sufficiently accounts for it in all its circumstances. There are several reasons for the Incarnation. It is the doctrine of many Catholic theologians that God would have become man even if man had never sinned; that it was part of His original plan in forming the creature thus to unite it to Himself. Again, it is said that our Lord became Man in order to make satisfaction for sin. And a third reason alleged for His becoming man, is, that He might give us a perfect example. Now all these reasons are true: but neither of them alone, nor all of them together, entirely account for the Incarnation with all its circumstances. Not the first, for even if God had predetermined that His Son should become Man, irrespective of man's transgression, certainly in that case He would not have come poor and sorrowful, as He did. The necessity of a satisfaction for sin accounts indeed for our Lord's sufferings in part, but not altogether; for He suffered far more than was necessary. Besides, it was not necessary for a Divine Person to have suffered for us unless it had pleased God to require a perfect satisfaction, which He was free to demand or dispense with. The desire to give a good example may be suggested as the explanation of our Lord's humiliation; but when we consider a moment, we will see that though a good man really does give a good example, he does very few, if any of his actions, for the mere sake of giving it. There are many things, then, in our Lord's becoming Man, and His life as Man, that need some further reason. What is that reason? It is His great desire to be loved by us. Suppose this, and every thing is clear. I do not mean to say that this account of our Lord's Incarnation makes it any less wonderful—it makes it more so—but it gives a motive for it all. Suppose Him influenced by an intense desire to gain our love, and then we see why He stooped so low, why He did so much more than was necessary, why he was so lavish in condescension—in a word, this is the explanation of what would otherwise seem to be the excess of His love.

Then, again, let us consider how our Lord's Incarnation is adapted to win our love. When we see means perfectly adapted to an end, we are apt to conclude that they were chosen in view of that end. Now, our Lord's humiliation is in all its parts wonderfully calculated to attract love.

His taking our nature is especially so. There is a wonderful power in blood. To be of kin is a tie that survives all changes and all times. Now, here our Lord makes Himself of kin to us, of the same blood. He is no stranger, before whom we need feel at a great distance, but our relation, of our flesh and blood.

And then as Man, He has clothed Himself with every thing that can make Him attractive in the eyes of man. He makes His first appearance in the world as an Infant, a beautiful Babe. How attractive is a beautiful child! Men even of rugged natures are softened by looking at it. A little child brings a flood of grace and light into a house. Now, to-day, the Son of God is a Babe at Bethlehem. He has the beauty of infancy, but there is also a superadded beauty, a light playing on His features that is not of earth, the light of Infinite Wisdom and Eternal Love. See, He looks around and smiles, and stretches out His hands, as if inviting us to caress Him.

In many children this beauty of infancy is evanescent, but in our Lord it was the earnest of a grace and loveliness that followed Him through life. It is evident that there was something most attractive about our Lord to those who approached Him. As He grew in stature He increased in favor, not only with God but with men. When He had attained to manhood, He was such a one that children willingly gathered around Him in the streets, and people stopped to look at Him as He passed, and men's minds were strangely stirred in them as He spoke, and the thought came into women's hearts, "How happy to be the mother of such a Son!" Who but He knew how perfectly to mingle dignity with familiarity, zeal with serenity, and austerity with compassion? Even at the distance of time that we are from His earthly life, His words reach us like the sweetest music. What other preacher can say the same words again and again, and never make us weary? Whose tones are there that linger in our ears like His, and come like a spell to our hearts in times of temptation and sorrow? Why, even scoffers have acknowledged this. The beauty and excellence of our Saviour's character have wrung a eulogium from a celebrated opponent of Christianity, and at least a momentary confession that its author was Divine.

Then, to the attractions of His character, our Lord has added the destitution of His circumstances, in order to gain our love. It is natural for us to love any thing that is dependent on us. The sick child that needs to be nursed, the helpless and depressed, the poor that appeal to us, even the bird and the dog that look to us for their food, come to have a place in our hearts. Now, our Lord, at least even in this way to win us, has placed Himself in a state of complete dependence on us. From the cradle to the grave, and even beyond the grave, He appeals to man for the supply of every want.

Think what it might have been. Think of the twelve legions of angels that are impatient to come and minister to Him. But no! He restrains them. For his swathing-bands, He will be a debtor to Mary's care. For a habitation, He will put up with the stall of the ox and the ass. The manger from which the cattle are fed shall be His cradle. St. Joseph shall bear the expenses of his early years; and when St. Joseph is gone, and He has begun His ministry of preaching, Joanna and the other holy women shall minister to Him of their substance. And at last, Magdalene shall anoint His body for burial, and Joseph of Arimathea shall give Him a winding-sheet and a grave.

I said He carried His poverty beyond the grave. And so He does. For His churches, for the glory of His altars, for His priests, for His sacraments, even for the bread and wine which shall serve as veils for His presence, He depends on us, that out of love we may minister to Him, and by ministering may love Him better.

And, further: while on the one hand our Lord thus appeals to our affections by the poverty of His condition, on the other He compels our love by the greatness of His sacrifices for us. In His Sermon on the Mount, He bids us, "If any man force us to go with him a mile, to go with him other two;" [Footnote 46] and certainly it has been by this rule that He has acted toward us.

[Footnote 46: St. Matt. v. 41.]

I have already said our Lord has done far more than was necessary to redeem us. Why, in strictness of justice, He had ransomed us before He was born. The very first act of love He made to His Father, after His conception, was enough to redeem countless worlds. But He did not then go back to His Father. He staid on earth to do more for us. He would not leave any thing undone that could be done. He would not leave a single member of His body, a single power of His soul, that was not turned into a sacrifice for us.

No doubt, if, at the birth of any child, we could foresee all it would have to suffer during its life, there would be enough to mingle sadness with our joy. But this child was preeminently a child of sorrow; and Simeon, when he took Him up in his arms, foresaw that the sad future would break His mother's heart. Yes, that little Child is the willing victim of our sins. On that little head the crown of thorns shall be placed. Those tiny hands shall be pierced with nails. Those eyes shall weep. Those ears shall be filled with reproach and blasphemy. That smooth cheek be spit upon. That mouth be filled with vinegar and gall. And why was all this? He Himself has told us: "And I, if I be lifted up from the earth, will draw all things to Myself:" [Footnote 47] That was the hope that urged Him on. That was the key to His whole life. It was all an effort, a struggle, to gain our love.

[Footnote 47: St. John xii. 32.]

And, once more: the effect of the Incarnation has been love. We read God's purposes in their fulfilment. We see what our Lord intended in His humiliation, by looking at what it has produced. There is no doubt that the love of God has been far more general among men, and far more tender, since the Incarnation. Only compare St. Antony of Padua, fondling the Infant Jesus, with Elias, covering his face with his mantle before the Lord in the cave at Horeb. Compare the book of Job with the epistles of St. Paul or St. John. God is in both books; but the Prophet sees Him through a glass darkly: the Apostles "have seen and handled the Word of Life." One of the most beautiful passages in the Old Testament, and one which approaches the nearest to the New, is the history of the martyrdom of the seven sons with their Mother in the time of Judas Machabæus. But how this story pales before the Acts of the Christian Martyrs! In these Jewish heroes we see, indeed, faith in God, and remembrance of His promises, and hope in the Resurrection; but how different is this from the glowing language of an Ignatius, who claimed to carry Christ within him; or of an Agnes, who claimed to be the Spouse of Christ, whom He had betrothed with a ring, and adorned with bridal jewels!

Nor is it only in highly spiritual people, or highly gifted people of any kind, that we see this Christian, personal love of God. The poor, the dull, the ignorant cannot understand the abstract arguments about God, but they can understand a crucifix, they know the meaning of Bethlehem and Calvary. And many an old woman, who knows little more, has learned enough to make her happy, in the thought that "God so loved the world as to give His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him may not perish, but may have life everlasting." [Footnote 48]

[Footnote 48: St. John iii. 16.]

Then there are children; some people complain that they find it very hard to interest them in religion. I will tell you how to succeed. Tell them the story of Joseph and Mary, and the Babe lying in a manger. Tell them about the shepherds that were watching their flocks by night, and the angels that came and talked to them. Tell them about the garden in which Jesus was betrayed, and the cross on which he died, and you will see their little eyes open wide with interest. I knew a boy who, when he read the story of Peter's denial of our Lord, got up from his seat, and, with tears in his eyes, exclaimed, "Oh, mother, what made Peter do that!" And I have heard of a little boy who, when he was dying, called his mother to his side, and told her that he had kept all the money she had given him, in a little box, and when he was dead he wanted her to take it and buy a coat for the Infant Jesus. I know it was a strange, childish conceit; but it showed that our Saviour had found His way to that little boy's heart; and sure I am that when, in Paradise, he stood before the bright throne of Christ, and heard from those divine lips the praise of his short life, that legacy was not forgotten.

Yes; our Lord has found out the way to win hearts. He has succeeded. The issue proves the wisdom of his plan. As heaven fills up with saints flaming with love, He says, "Whence are these? and who hath begotten them?" Then He remembers that they are the fruit of the travail of His soul, that they were born to Him at Bethlehem and Calvary, and He "is satisfied."

The truth is, we are not so sensible of this effect of the Incarnation, because we are so familiar with it. We hardly realize how meagre men's notions about God naturally are. Of course, we know by reason the existence of God, and many of His attributes; but without revelation, these are very indistinct. We know that He is great and good and beautiful; but still there is a gulf between us and Him. Partly, no doubt, this arises from our sense of guilt. We fear God, because we have offended Him. But there is a dread of God, and a sense of distance from Him, that does not come from guilt. The most innocent feel it the keenest. I know not why, but we dread Him because He is so spiritual. He is so strange and mysterious. We cannot think what He is like. We lose ourselves when we try to think of Him. There are so many things in the world that frighten us. We do not know how God feels toward us. We have a diffidence in approaching Him which we cannot shake off. Now, all the while, God is full of the most wonderful love to man. Heaven is not enough for Him. Even with the angels, it is a wilderness because man is absent. At last He resolves what He will do. He will lay aside altogether that majesty which affrights man so much. "The distance is too great," He says, "between Me and My creatures. I Myself will become a creature. Man flies from Me. I will become Man. Every thing loves its kind. I will make Myself like him. 'I will draw him with the cords of Adam, with the bands of love.' [Footnote 49]

[Footnote 49: Osee xi. 4.]

I will tell him how the case stands—that I love him and desire his love. I will tell him to love Me, not for his sake, but Mine; and when I have made him understand this—when I have gained his love; when I have healed his wound and made him happy—then I will come back, and call on all the angels of heaven, and say, 'Rejoice with Me, for I have found the sheep that I had lost.'"

Such is the enterprise that our Lord enters on to-day. He comes to tell you how He loves you, and how He desires your love. "Behold, I bring to you glad tidings of great joy, and this shall be the sign to you: you shall find the Infant wrapped in swaddling-clothes, and laid in a manger." It is a sign of Humanity. It is a sign of Beauty. It is a sign of Humility. It is a sign of Love. He speaks to you, not in words, but in actions. The cold wind whistles in His cavern, but He will not have it otherwise. David said: "I will not enter into the tabernacle of my home: I will not go up into my bed. I will not give sleep to my eyes, or slumber to my eyelids, or rest to my temples, until I find out a place for the Lord, a tabernacle for the God of Jacob." [Footnote 50]

[Footnote 50: Isai. cxxxi. 3-5.]

So the new-born Saviour will not take any comfort till He has got your love. He is waiting in the manger, and until you come and take Him home, He will accept no other. The palaces of the world, and all the jewels and the gold are His, but He will have none of them. He wants to abide in your lowly house, and in your poor heart. His head is full of dew, and His locks of the drops of the night, and He knocks for you to open to Him. Oh, to-day, I do not envy those who will not receive Him. I do not envy those who are wandering about in error, and know not the true Bethlehem, the House of Bread, the Holy Church of God. I do not envy the disobedient Christian. I do not envy the indifferent man, for whom Christ is born in vain. But I praise those who make it their first care to keep themselves united to Jesus Christ. And most of all, I praise those who strive to maintain a holy familiarity with Jesus Christ; who by prayer, by communion, by self-denial, by generous obedience, return their Saviour love for love.

O my brethren, why do we grovel on earth, when we might have our conversation in heaven? Why do we set our hearts on creatures, when we might have the Creator for our friend? Why do we follow the Evil One, when He that is beautiful above the sons of men is our Master and our Lord? Why are we so weak in temptation, so despairing in trial, when we might have the peace and joy of the children of God? What more can we want? God has given us the Only-begotten Son, the Mighty God, the Wonderful Counsellor, the Prince of Peace; and how shall He not with Him freely give us all things? All we want is to recognize our happiness. When Jacob woke from sleep, he said: "The Lord is in this place, and I knew it not." So we do not realize how near God is to us. What is the sound that reaches us to-day? It is the voice of the Beloved, calling to us: "My love, My spouse, My undefiled!" Yes, my Lord, I answer to Thy call. I enter to-day into the school of Thy Holy Love. I make now the resolution that "henceforth neither life nor death, nor height nor depth, nor any other creature shall be able to separate me from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord." [Footnote 51]

[Footnote 51: Romans viii. 39.]

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Sermon VIII.
The Failure And Success Of The Gospel.
(Sexagesima.)

"Saying these things he cried out:
He that hath ears to hear, let him hear."
St. Luke VIII. 8.

There is one measure by which, if our Lord's work were tried, it might be pronounced a failure; and that is by the measure of great immediate, visible results. The thought might come into our mind, that it is strange our Lord was not more successful than He was. He was the Son of God, no one ever spake as He did. He conversed with a great number of men—in Jerusalem, in Judea, in Galilee. He was always going about from place to place. He died in the sight of a whole city. Yet what was the result of all? On the Day of Pentecost, His disciples were gathered together in the upper chamber, and they numbered, all told, one hundred and twenty. So it is, likewise, with the Church. After all, what has she done? Put her numbers at the highest. Say she has two hundred millions of souls in her communion. What are they to the eight hundred millions that inhabit the globe. [Footnote 52]

[Footnote 52: Recent estimates of the population of the globe vary from 840,000,000, to 1,300,000,000, and of the number of Catholics from 160,000,000 to 208,000,000. Other Christians are about 130,000,000.]

And how many of her members are there who can be called Catholics or Christians, only in a broad, external sense! Has Christianity, then, accomplished the results that might have been looked for? Is it not a failure?

I will attempt this morning to give some reasons showing that Christianity is not a failure, although it has accomplished only partial results. And the first remark I make is this: that partial results belong to every thing human. Although Christianity is a divine religion, by coming into the world it became subject in many respects to the laws that govern human things. To specify one, Christianity demands attention. "He that hath ears to hear, let him hear." Without attention, Christianity will never produce its impression on our conduct. Now, attention is a thing hard to get from men. It is one of the greatest wants in the world, the want of attention. "With desolation is all the land made desolate," says the Holy Scripture, "because there is none that considereth in the heart." [Footnote 53]

[Footnote 53: Jer. xii. 11.]

We see examples of this on every side. Take the instance of young men at college. After passing several years there, at a considerable expense to their parents, professedly for the sake of acquiring an education, a certain number of them know nothing but the names of the things they have been studying. This is the entire result of all they have heard or read, an acquisition of some of the terms made use of in science. Others have gained some confused and partial knowledge, which for practical purposes is all but useless; while those who have acquired precise, accurate, useful information, that is, who have gained any real science, are few indeed. It is the same in business. Every trade and profession is crowded with bunglers who do not know their own business, because they have been too lazy to learn it, and who grumble at the success of others who have not spared the pains necessary to become masters.

So also it is in politics. We hear a great deal about the general diffusion of intelligence in this country, and are told how the sovereign people watch the actions of public men and call them to account. Now, I suppose there is more wide-spread information on public matters in this country than in any other in the world, but what does it amount to after all? A great many read the newspapers without passing any independent judgment on their statements, while those who really shape political opinions and action are but a small clique in each locality.

This being so, it ought not to surprise us that men give but little attention to religion. If learning, business, politics, things that touch our present interests so closely, can only to a superficial extent engage the thoughts of men, will religion, which relates chiefly to man's future welfare, be more successful? In one sense, Christianity is as old as the world; for there has been a continuous testimony to the truth from the first, but it has never yet had a full hearing. How do men act about religion? Some listen to its teaching only with their ears, as a busy man in his office listens to a jew's-harp or a band-organ on the street. So Gallio listened, who "cared for none of these things." Some listen with their hearts, that is, with attention enough to awaken a passing emotion or sentiment. So Felix listened, when he trembled at St. Paul's preaching, and promised to hear him again at a more convenient season. Only a few listen with attentive ears and hearts and hands, the only true way of listening, the way St. Paul listened, when he said, "Lord, what wilt Thou have me to do?" [Footnote 54]

[Footnote 54: Acts ix. 6.]

When you say, then, that Christianity has produced but partial results, you are but saying that men are frivolous and thoughtless, that there are many who do not listen to religion, or do not listen to it with earnestness and lay to heart its practical lessons. "Wisdom preacheth abroad; she uttereth her voice in the streets; at the head of multitudes she crieth out;" but it is of no avail to the greater number, "because they have hated instruction, and received not the fear if the Lord." [Footnote 55]

[Footnote 55: Proverbs i. 20, 21, 29]

Moreover, our Lord foresaw that the success of His gospel would be but partial. We see this in the very passage from which the text is taken. There is something melancholy in the way the evangelist introduces the parable of the sower: "And when a very great multitude was gathered together and hastened out of the cities to Him, He spoke by a similitude: A sower went out to sow his seed," etc. This was the thought which the sight of a very great multitude pressing around Him awoke in the mind of our Lord: how small a part would really give heed to His words, or really appreciate them: how in some hearts the word would be trodden down, in others be choked or wither away; and this is the secret of the energy with which He cried out at the end of the parable, "He that hath ears to hear, let him hear." The same thought comes out in the conversation which he had afterward with His disciples, when they asked an explanation of the parable: "The heart of this people is grown gross; and with their ears they have been dull of hearing, and their eyes they have shut: lest at any time they should see with their eyes, and hear with their ears, and understand with their heart, and should be converted, and I should heal them. But blessed are your eyes because they see, and your ears because they hear." [Footnote 56]

[Footnote 56: St. Matt. xiii. 15, 16.]

Our Lord was as far as possible, then, from expecting that the course of things would stand still, and all men comply instantly with his preaching. Nor were His predictions respecting His Church such as to warrant more sanguine expectations of her success. In His charge to His disciples, He let them know what they were to expect: "When you come into a house salute it, saying: Peace be to this house. And if that house be worthy, your peace shall come upon it; but if it be not worthy, your peace shall return to you. And when they shall persecute you in this city, flee into another." [Footnote 57]

[Footnote 57: St. Matt. x. 12, 13, 23.]

Nor were their trials to be altogether external. "And then shall many be scandalised, and shall betray one another, and shall hate one another. And because iniquity hath abounded, the charity of many shall wax cold." [Footnote 58]

[Footnote 58: Ib. xxiv. 10, 12.]

When, then, you say, See! in that country the Church has all but died out; in that country faith is weak, and the most active minds in it are estranged from religion; in that country scandals abound; in that country there was a great apostasy; that other was fruitful in heresies:—I reply, you are only verifying our Lord's predictions; you are only saying what He said before the event. If religion has not accomplished all that could be desired, it has at least done what it promised.

Nor is this all. Not only did our Lord foresee that many would reject His grace, but He acquiesced in it. His work is not a failure, because He does not account it so. What though many refuse to listen? They that will be saved, those of good will and honest hearts, they will be saved, and that is enough. He saw of the travail of His soul, and was satisfied. Our Lord shed His blood for all men; He willed seriously the salvation of all men; but since all will not be saved, He is content to give it for those who will. He "is the Saviour of all men, especially of the faithful." [Footnote 59]

[Footnote 59: 1 Tim. iv. 10.]

When He came to Jerusalem to die, looking at the city, He wept to think how many were there who knew not the time of their visitation; but that did not deter Him from marching on to Mount Calvary. When He foretold to St. Peter, before His passion, all He was about to suffer, St. Peter, with mistaken affection, begged Him to spare Himself. "Far be this from Thee." How much more would he have dissuaded our Lord, if he could have foreseen in how many cases these labors and sufferings would have been fruitless. Would he not have said to Him, "O Lord! do not suffer so much, turn away thy face from the smiter, and thy mouth from gall. Do not crush Thy heart with cruel grief, or bathe Thy body in a sweat of agony. The very men for whom Thou diest will disbelieve Thee, or, believing, will disobey Thee.

Can we doubt to what effect our Saviour would have answered? "If I be lifted up I will draw all men to Me, and all will not resist Me. I shall see of the travail of My soul, and shall be satisfied."

Or I can imagine that at the Last Supper, as our Lord was about to institute the Blessed Sacrament of His body and blood, the same warm-hearted disciple laying his hand on his Master's arm, might have said, "Do not do it! Thou thinkest they cannot withstand this proof of love. But, alas! they will pass by unheeding. Thou wilt remain on the altars of Thy churches night and day, but the multitude will not know Thee, or ask after Thee, and they that do know Thee will insult Thee in Thy very gifts, will treat Thee with disrespect, and receive Thee with dishonor." But our Lord gently disregards his remonstrance, and having loved His own who were in the world, loves them to the end, and for them is contented to make Himself a perpetual prisoner of love. Oh, my brethren, our statistics and our arithmetic are sadly at fault when we are dealing with divine things. When Abraham went to plead with Almighty God to spare Sodom, he began by asking as a great matter that the city might be spared if fifty just men were found in it, and the answer was prompt and free, "I will not do it for fifty's sake." Somewhat emboldened, he came down by degrees to ten, and received the same answer, but stopped there, thinking that he could make no further demand on the mercy of God. It is a thing we will never understand, how much God has the heart of a father. When news was brought to the patriarch Jacob, that Joseph, his son, was yet living, all his woes and hardships were forgotten in a moment, and he said: It is enough. Joseph, my son, is yet alive." So, all the unkindness, disobedience, unbelief of men, are compensated to the heart of Christ by the fervor of His true children, His servants whom He hath chosen, His elect in whom His soul delighteth. Weary on the cross, His fainting eye sees their fidelity and their love, and His heart revives, and He says: "It is enough." Christ accounts the fruits of His redemption great, and they are great. This is our temptation, to undervalue the good that is in the world. Evil is so obtrusive, that we are but too apt to attribute to it a larger share in the world than it really holds. How much of good, then, has been and is in the world? The Blessed Virgin, the Queen of Heaven, the perfect fruit of Christ's redemption, once walked the earth, engaged in lowly, every-day duties, like any maid or mother among us. Moses and Elias and St. John the Baptist once lived our life here on the earth; and the hundred and forty-four thousand who sing a new song before the throne of God, and the great multitude that no man can number out of all people and kindreds and tribes and tongues, clothed in white and with palms in their hands. You talk of failure! Why has not the sound of the gospel gone into all lands, and its words to the end of the world? Have not empires owned its sway, and kings come bending to seek its blessings? Have not millions of martyrs loved it better than their lives? Has not the solitary place been made glad by the hymns of its anchorites, and the desert blossomed like a rose under their toil? Is there a profession, or trade, or court, or country which has not been sanctified by moral heroes who drew in their holy inspirations from its lessons? And who can tell us the amount of goodness in every-day life, to some extent necessarily hidden, but of which we catch such unearthly glimpses, and which is the practical fruit of its principles? The virtuous families, the upright transactions, the glorious sacrifices, the noble charities, the restraint of passion, the interior purity, the patient perseverance! Listen to the description which God Himself gives of the results of the gospel:

"Who are these, that fly as clouds, and as doves to their windows? For the islands wait for me, and the ships of the sea in the beginning; that I may bring thy sons from afar; their silver and their gold with them, to the name of the Lord thy God, and to the Holy One of Israel, because He hath glorified thee. Iniquity shall no more be heard in thy land, wasting nor destruction in thy borders; and salvation shall possess thy walls, and praise thy gates. Thy sun shall go down no more, and thy moon shall not decrease: for the Lord shall be unto thee for an everlasting light, and the days of thy mourning shall be ended. And thy people shall be all just; they shall inherit the land forever, the branch of my planting, the work if my hand, to glorify me. The least shall become a thousand, and a little one a most strong nation. I, the Lord, will suddenly do this thing in its time." [Footnote 60]

[Footnote 60: Isai. lx. 8, 9, 18, 20, 21. 22.]

Now, this is the Catholic Church, as God saw it in the future, and as He sees it now. These beautiful words are true in their measure, of every diocese, of every parish, in our day. To-day, as the Holy Church throughout the world flings open her doors and rings her bells, and the crowd press in, in cities, in villages, in country places, God recognizes thousands of his true worshippers, who worship Him in spirit and in truth. We see and know some of them, but only His all-seeing eye sees them all, and only His omniscience, which foreknows the number of those who shall be His by faith and good works, can measure the greatness of the harvest of souls which He will reap at the end of the world. The Lord cometh with ten thousand of His saints. The Last Judgment is the victory of Christ. Then again, surrounded by the fruit of His passion, He may repeat the words which He spoke at the close of His earthly ministry: "I have glorified thee upon the earth. I have finished the work which thou gavest me to do. Those whom thou gavest Me I have kept, and none of them hath perished except the son of perdition." [Footnote 61]

[Footnote 61: St. John xvii. 4, 12.]

These thoughts point the way to two practical lessons, one relating to our duty to others, the other relating to our duty to ourselves.

We see here the spirit in which we ought to labor for the conversion of others. There is certainly a great deal of good to be done around us. How many in this country are out of the Ark of safety, the Catholic Church of Christ! How many in her fold need our efforts and labors to make them better! Why are we not more active in laboring for them? We say it is of no use; we have tried and failed. Those whose conversion we had most at heart seem farther off from the truth than ever. It is no use hoping for the conversion of those who are not Catholics; they are too set in their ways. Many of those Catholics, too, who were doing well as we hoped, have fallen off again, and we are weary of laboring with so little success. Oh! what a mean spirit this is; how unlike the spirit of Christ! How unlike the spirit of that apostle who made himself all things to all men that he might save some. You will put up with no failures. Christ and St. Paul were content to meet with many failures for the sake of some success. How unlike the spirit of St. Francis of Sales, who labored so hard during so many discouraging years, for the conversion of his misguided Swiss. Christ was rejected and crucified by those whom He came to teach. The apostles were despised and their names cast out as evil. And you will not labor because you cannot have immediate and full success. But some success you will meet with. You may not convert the one you desire to convert, but you will convert another. You may not succeed in the way or at the time you look for, but you will succeed in some other way and at some other time. There is nothing well done and charitably done for the truth that falls to the ground. God's word does not return to Him void, but accomplishes the thing whereunto He sent it. We labor, and other men enter into our labors. But the good work is done, and the fruits are garnered in heaven. Be of great hopes, then. You, my brethren of the priesthood, dare to undertake great things for the honor of our Lord and the extension of His kingdom. Use every means that prudence and charity can suggest to gain souls to Christ. In the morning sow your seed, and in the evening withhold not your hand. Labor in season and out of season. For Sion's sake hold not your hand, and for Jerusalem's sake do not rest, until her justice come forth as a brightness, and her salvation be lighted as a lamp! And you, my brethren of the laity, labor each in your place, as far as may be given you, in the same work. Blessing must come from labor, and reward from Him who has promised that "they that instruct many to justice shall shine as stars for all eternity." [Footnote 62]

[Footnote 62: Dan. xii. 3.]

The other lesson we learn is one which teaches us how to guide ourselves in a world of sin and scandal. It is no uncommon thing for men to draw injury to their own souls from the disorders around them, by making them a pretext for neglecting their own salvation, or taking a low standard of duty. One says, there is a man who does not attend to his religious duties, and makes out of this an excuse for his own neglect. "What is that to thee? Follow thou Me," is the answer of Christ. There is another who does go to the sacraments, but whose life is disedifying. He is profane, quarrelsome, untruthful, and artful. Perhaps he is guilty of worse sins than these. "What is that to thee?" is again the answer: "Follow thou Me. My love, My life, my teaching is to be the rule of thy conduct, not the doctrines of others." Oh! how this cuts the way open to a solution of that question with which we sometimes vex ourselves. Are there few or many that will be saved? There are few if few, many if many. Few if few hear and obey, many if many hear and obey. Wisdom crieth aloud, she uttereth her voice in the streets; he that hath ears to hear, let him hear. One hears, lays up and ponders in his heart, like Mary, what he hears, and becomes a saint. Another hears as one who looks in a glass and immediately forgets what he saw reflected in it. Here is the distinction which produces election and reprobation, salvation and damnation. This is the practical question for each one of us: To which of these classes do I belong? This is the prayer which ought to be our daily petition: Give me, O Lord, an understanding heart, to know the things that belong to my peace, before they are forever hid from my eyes. How great the misery of passing through life slothful, careless, inattentive, and so losing the heavenly wisdom we might learn! How great the happiness of keeping the word in a good heart, and bringing forth fruit with patience! Those who do this not only secure their salvation, but they console Christ for all His cruel sufferings, for they constitute the fruit of His Passion, the success of His Gospel, the crown of Glory which He receives from the hand of His Father, the Royal Diadem which He will wear for all eternity.

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Sermon IX.
The Work Of Life.
(Septuagesima)

"Why stand ye here all the day idle."
—St. Matt. xx. 6.

The parable in to-day's Gospel is intended to describe the invitations which God has given, from time to time in the history of the world, to various races and peoples, to enter the true Church and be saved. But it may be applied by analogy to His dealings with each individual soul, and our Lord's question in the text may be understood by each one of us as addressed directly to himself. Taken in this sense, it affords instruction and admonition, useful at all times, but more especially suitable on this day, when the Church first strikes the keynote of those stirring lessons of personal duty and accountability which are to be the burden of her teachings through the coming season of Lent.

And, first, it reminds us of that solemn truth, that we have an appointed work to do on earth. It is difficult for us not to be sceptical sometimes on this point. Life is so short and uncertain, man is so frail and erring, that it seems strange the few years spent here on earth should exert any great influence on our eternity. Some such feeling as this was at the bottom of the old idea of heathen philosophy that God does not concern Himself with the affairs of men, that we and our doings are of too little consequence to occupy His attention. The book of Wisdom well expresses this creed: "For we are born, say they" (that is, the unbelieving), "of nothing, and after this we shall be as if we had not been; and our life shall pass away as the trace of a cloud, and shall be dispersed as a mist, which is driven away by the beams of the sun, and overpowered by the heat thereof. And our name in time shall be forgotten: and no man shall have any remembrance of our works." [Footnote 63]

[Footnote 63: Wisdom ii. 2-4.]

But such a view of life does not agree either with reason or revelation. God, being Infinite Wisdom, must have an end in every thing which He created. If it was not beneath Him to create, it cannot be beneath Him to govern His creatures; and reason and free will must have been given to His rational creatures to guide them to their end. It is absurd to suppose a moral and intellectual being without a law and a destiny. And revelation confirms this decision of reason. It seems as if the Bible were written, in great part, to dispel the notion that God is a mere abstraction, and to exhibit Him to us as a personal God, interfering in His creation, giving to each created thing its place, and taking note of its operation. In the pages of Scripture the world is not a chance world, where every thing is doubt and confusion; but an orderly world, where every thing has its place. It is a vineyard, into which laborers are sent to gather the harvest. It is a house, in which each part has its order and use. It is a body, in which each member shares the common life, and contributes to it. It is a school, in which each scholar is learning a special lesson. It is a kingdom, in which citizen is bound to the other in relations of duty or authority. Yes, God has left a wide field for the free exercise of human choice and will. The pursuits of men, their studies, their pleasures, may be infinitely varied at their will; but not to have a mission from Heaven, not to have a work to do on earth, not to be created by God with a special vocation—this is not possible for man. He is too honorable and great. The image of God, which is traced on his soul, is too deep and enduring; his relation to God is too direct and immediate. No man can live unto himself, and no man can die unto himself. Each man that comes into the world is but an agent sent by God on a special embassy. And each man that dies, but goes back to give an account of its performance.

Do not accuse me of saddening and depressing you by thus covering man's life, from the cradle to the grave, with the pall of accountability. If God were a tyrant, if He reaped where He did not sow, if He exacted what was beyond our strength, if His service did not make us happy, if in His judgment of our actions He did not take into account the circumstances of each one, his opportunities, his ignorances, and even his frailties, then, indeed, the thought of our accountability would be a dreadful and depressing one. But while our Master and Judge is a God whose compassion is as great as His power, whose service is our highest satisfaction, who knows whereof we are made, and who in His judgment remembers mercy, the thought that each one of us has an appointed work to do is not only an incentive to duty, but the secret of happiness. There is nothing pleasant in a life without responsibility. Rest, indeed, is pleasant, but rest implies labor that has gone before, and it is the labor that makes the rest sweet. "The sleep of a laboring man is sweet," says the Holy Scripture. But a life all rest, with nothing special to do, without aim, without obligation, is a life without honor and without peace. They who spend their time in rushing from one amusement to another are commonly listless and wretched at heart, and seek only to forget in excitement the weariness and disappointment within. God has made the law, "In the sweat of thy face thou shalt eat bread," medicinal as well as vindicative. When, then, you tell me that this world is not my all; that I have an immortal destiny, that life is a preparation for it; that the infinite truth is mine to know, the infinite beauty mine to possess; that I have a mission to fulfil; sin to conquer; duties to perform; merits to acquire; an account to render; you tell me that which indeed makes my conscience thrill with awe, but which, at the same time, takes all the meanness, the emptiness, the littleness out of life, covers it with glory, blends it with heaven, expands the soul, and fills it with hope and joy.

O truth too little known! Religion is not meant to be only a solace in affliction, a help in temptation, a refuge when the world fails us. All these it is, but much more. It is the business and employment of life. It is the task for which we were born. It is the work for which our life is prolonged from day to day. It is the consecration of my whole being to God. It is to realize that wherever I am, whatever I do, I am the child of God, doing His will, and extending His kingdom on earth. This is the secret of life. This is the meaning of the world. This is God's way of looking at the world. As He looks down from heaven, all other distinctions among men vanish, distinctions of nationality, differences of education, differences of station, and wealth, and influence, and only one distinction remains—the distinction between the righteous and the wicked, between him that serveth God and him that serveth Him not. When we look at the world, it dazzles us by its greatness, and overpowers us by its multiplicity. It is so eager and restless. It is so importunate and overbearing. Here is the secret which disenchants us from its spell. The world is not for itself. It is not its own end. It is but the field of human probation. It is but the theatre on which men are exercising each day their highest faculty, the power of free will. It is the scene of the great struggle between good and evil, between heaven and hell, the battle that began when "Michael and his angels fought with the dragon, and the dragon fought and his angels." [Footnote 64]

[Footnote 64: Apoc. xii. 7]

Into this arena each generation has entered, one after another, to show their valor. Once the saints of whom we read in the Bible and the history of the Church were upon the earth, and it was their turn, and heaven and earth were watching them. They did their work well. So penetrated were they with the great thought of eternity that some of them, like Abraham, left home and kindred, and went out not knowing whither they went; and others, like the martyrs, gave their hearts' blood for a sacrifice. And there were others who were not saints, for they were not called to deeds of heroism, but they were good men, who in simplicity of heart fulfilled each duty, and served God with clean hands and pure hearts. And penitents have come in their turn. Once they were unwise, and the world deceived them, and they followed their own will, but afterward they turned to God, and redeemed their former sins by a true penance, and died in the number of those who overcame the Wicked One. And now it is our turn. There are many adversaries. All things are ready. The herald has called our name. And as the primitive martyrs, condemned to the wild beasts in the amphitheatre, nerved themselves for the encounter by the thought of the thousand spectators ranged around, so to animate our courage let us give heed to the sympathizing witnesses who watch our strife, and who cry to us from heaven and from earth: Be valiant! Do battle for the right! Acquit you like men! Be strong!

And again, as our Lord's words in the text remind us that we have an appointed work to do, they remind us also that we have an allotted time to do it in. All men acknowledge that religion is a thing to be attended to. But when? Some seem to think that it is enough to attend to religion at Easter and Christmas, and that at other times it may be left alone. Some at still more distant intervals, when the time has been too long, and the number of sins too great, and the burden on the conscience too heavy. Others propose to attend to it in the leisure of old age, or just before they leave this world. And very many imagine that, if a man actually makes his peace with God at any time before he dies, there is not much to be regretted. How different is God's intention in this matter! "Man goeth forth, to his work and to his labor until the evening." Think of a day-laborer. He rises very early in the morning, in the winter, long before it is light, and goes off to his work. He works all day until the evening, pausing only at noon, when he seeks some hollow in the rock, or the shelter of some overhanging shrub, to protect him from the cold or the heat, while he eats his frugal dinner. Now, it is after this pattern that God wishes us to work out our salvation. The Christian should work from the morning till the evening, from the beginning of life to the end of it. There is not a day that God does not claim for his own. There is not an hour over which He has resigned His sovereignty. A man who perfectly fulfils his duty begins to serve God early in the morning. In the morning of life, in early youth, when the dewdrops sparkle in the sunshine, and the birds sing under the leaves, and the flowers are in their fresh bloom and fragrance, and every thing is full of keen enjoyment, there is a low, sweet voice that speaks to the soul of the happy boy: "My son, give me thy heart." And he heeds that voice. It is time for first communion, and he has leave to go. He does not know fully the meaning of the act. It is too great and deep. But he knows that he is making [a] choice of God. He knows that God is very near him, and he is very happy. By and by the time has come for confirmation. The candidates stand before the bishop, and see, that boy is among the number. He is changed from what he was. He has grown to be a youth now. He is more thoughtful and reserved. He knows now what temptation means; he has seen the shadow of sin; he has caught the tones of the world's song of pleasure; but he does not waver; he is bold and resolute for the right, and he is come to fortify himself for the conflict of life by the special grace of the Almighty. And now time goes on, and he passes through the most dangerous part of life: he is a young man, he goes into business, he marries. There are times of fierce temptation, there are times when the objects of faith seem all to fade away from his mind, there are times when it seems as if the only good was the enjoyment of this world, but prayer and vigilance and a fixed will carry him through, and he passes the most critical period of life without any grievous stain on his soul. Thus passes the noonday of his life, and he comes to its decline. It draweth toward evening. The shadows are getting long. The sun and the light and the moon are growing dark, and the clouds return after the rain. He is an old man and feeble, but there he is with the same heart he gave to God in youth; he has never recalled the offering. He has been true to his faith, true to his promises, true to his conscience, and at the hour of death he can sing his Nunc dimittis, and go to the judgment seat of Christ humbly but confidently to claim the reward of a true and faithful servant. Beautiful picture! Life to be envied! A life spent with God, over which the devil has never had any real power. But you tell me this is a mere fancy picture; no one lives such a life. I tell you this is the life God intended you and I should live. There have been men who have lived such lives, though, indeed, they are not many. But the number is not so small of those who approximate to it. Even suppose a man falls into mortal sin, and more than once, all is not lost. Suppose him, in some hour of temptation, to cast off his allegiance to God, and in his discouragement to look upon a life of virtue as a dream; yet, if such a one gathers up his manhood, if in humble acknowledgment of his sin he returns with new courage to take his place in the Christian race, such a man recovers not only the friendship of God, but the merits of his past obedience. There is a process of restoration in grace as well as in nature. Penance has power to heal the wounds and knit over the gaps which sin has made. What does the Holy Scripture say? "I will restore to you the years which the locust, and the canker-worm, and the mildew, and the palmer-worm hath eaten." [Footnote 65]

[Footnote 65: Joel ii. 25.]

Many a man's life, which has not been without sin, has yet a character of continuity and a uniform tending toward God. I believe there are many who have this kind of perfection. They cannot say, "I have not sinned," for they have had bitter experience of their own frailty; but they can say, "I have sinned, but I have not made sin a law to me. I have not allowed myself in sin, or withdrawn myself from Thy obedience. I have not gone backward from Thee. I have fallen, but I have risen again. O Lord, Thou hast been my hope, even from my youth, from my youth until now, until old age and gray hairs."

And now, my brethren, if we try our past lives and our present conduct by the thought of the work we have to do on earth and the persevering attention we ought to pay to it, do we not find matter for alarm? and does not our Lord's question convey to us the keenest reproach? "Why stand ye here all the day idle?" Yes, idle; that is the word. There is all the difference in the world between committing a sin in the time of severe temptation, for which we are afterward heartily sorry, and doing nothing for our salvation. And is not this our crime, that we are idlers and triflers in religion? What have our past lives been? What years spent in neglect, or even in sin? What long periods of utter forgetfulness of God? What loss of time? What excessive anxiety about this world? What devotion to pleasure? And are we now really doing any thing for heaven? Are we really redeeming the past by a true penance? Are we diligent in prayer, watchful against temptation, watchful of the company we keep, watchful of the influence we exert, watchful over our tempers, watchful to fulfil our duties, watchful against habits of sin? Are we living the lives God intended us to live? Can we say, "I am fulfilling the requirements of my conscience, in the standard which I propose to myself?" Ah! is not this our misery, that we have left off striving? that we are doing nothing, or at least nothing serious and worthy of our salvation? "Why stand ye all the day idle?" All the day. Time is going. Time that might have made us holy, time that has sanctified so many others who set Out with us in life, is gone, never to return. The future is uncertain; how much of the day of life is left to us we know not. And graces have been squandered. No doubt, as long as we live we shall have sufficient grace to turn to God, if we will; but we know not what we do, when we squander those special graces which God gives us now and then through life. The tender heart, the generous purpose that we had in youth; the fervor of our first conversion; the kind warnings and admonitions of friends long dead; these have all passed away. Oh, what opportunities have we thrown away! What means of grace misused! "Why stand ye all the day idle?" You cannot say, "No man hath hired us." God has not left you to the light of natural reason alone, to find out your destiny. In baptism He has plainly marked out for you your work. And now in reproachful tones He speaks to your conscience: "Creature of my hand, whom I made to serve and glorify me; purchase of my blood, whom I bought to love me; heir of heaven, for whose fidelity I have prepared an eternal reward, why is it that you resist my will, withstand your own conscience and reason, despise my blood, and throw away your own happiness?"

But the words of Christ are not only a reproach, but an invitation. "Why stand ye here all the day idle?" It is not, then, too late. God does nothing in vain; and when He calls us to His service, He pledges himself that the necessary graces shall not be wanting, nor the promised reward fail. Church history is full of beautiful instances of souls that, after long neglect, recovered themselves by a fervent penance. Some even, who are high in the Church's Calendar of Saints, had the neglect and sin of years upon their consciences when they began. There is only one unpardonable sin, and that is to put off conversion until it is too late. As long as God calls, you can hearken and be saved. To-day, then, once more He calls. To-day, once more the trumpet-blast of penance sounds in your ears. Another Lent is coming, a season of penance and prayer. Prepare yourself for that holy season by examination of your conscience. Refuse no longer to work in the Lord's vineyard. Offer no more excuses; make no more delay. Work while it is called to-day, that when the evening comes, and the Lord gives to the laborers their hire, you may be found a faithful workman, "that needeth not to be ashamed."

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Sermon X.
The Church's Admonition To The Individual Soul.
(Ash Wednesday.)

"Take heed to thyself."
—1 Tim. iv. 16.

The services of the Church to-day are very impressive. The matter of her teaching is not different from usual. The shortness of life, the certainty of judgment, the necessity of faith and repentance, are more or less the topics of her teaching at all times of the year. But this teaching is ordinarily given to the assembled congregation, to crowds, to multitudes. But to-day she speaks to us as individuals. She summons us, one by one, young and old, and, as we kneel before her, she says to us, while she scatters dust on our foreheads, "Dust thou art, and unto dust thou shalt return." It is in this individual and personal character of her warning that I find its special significance and impressiveness. There is no mistaking what she means. "Remember, O man, that thou art dust, and unto dust shalt thou return." She separates each one of us from all others, and gives her message to him in particular. It is an emphatic mode of conveying St. Paul's admonition to St. Timothy: "Take heed to thyself."

If we take only the sound of the words, it might seem that no such admonition was necessary. For, in one sense, men attend to themselves quite enough. But, in fact, there is more than one self in a man. There is the self that is made up of our passions, our failings and disgusts, our comforts and conveniences: this is the self that speaks so loudly in the heart, and obtrudes itself so disagreeably on others. This, when indulged, is what we call selfishness, and this it is which it is one main object of religion to repress. But there is another self in a man, his true and noble self, that self which makes him an individual being, which asserts itself most distinctly in that part of his soul where it comes into closest contact with God, namely, his conscience. And this self it is very possible for men to forget. A man may be a priest and have the care of souls, and be employed in preaching and administering the sacraments, or he may be a bishop, and live an active life in governing his church, and yet he may forget himself in this sense. St. Timothy was a bishop, a sharer in apostolic character and apostolic gifts, and yet St. Paul did not think it unnecessary to give him the warning of the text. How must, then, a man forget himself whose occupation is more secular? Tell me: those eager crowds one meets with in the streets, hurrying hither and thither, do you think each one of these realizes that in some sense there is no other in the world but God and he? Or in a crowded church, on Sunday, when the preacher, in God's name, is enforcing this duty, or denouncing that vice, that woman sitting in the pew, that man standing in the aisle, does he, does she realize that the words are spoken to them individually, that it is a lesson they are to lay to heart—to practise? No! I must say what I think, that there are some who pass through life, from the cradle to the grave, almost without ever once fully awakening to their own self-consciousness; to their own individual existence, apart from the world around them; and their own individual relations to God. A man may even practise his religion, may know a great deal about it, may talk about it, may listen to every word of the sermon in the church, may say his night prayers, may even go through some kind of a confession and communion, without fully awaking to these things. Paradoxical as it may seem, I believe that there are not a few men, who, of all persons in the world of whom they have any knowledge, are on terms of the slightest and most distant acquaintance with themselves.

And I will give you one proof that this is true. You know how troubled many men are in sickness, or on a sleepless night, or in times of great calamity. Some persons are greatly troubled in a storm, when the thunder rolls over their heads, and the lightning flashes in their eyes. Now, of course, nervousness, physical causes, mental laws, and social considerations, may enter more or less into the production of this uneasiness, but is there not very often something deeper than any of these? Is it not something that the man has done yesterday, or last week, or last year, and that he has never set right; some unjust transaction, some evil deed, some act of gross neglect of duty, some miserable passion cherished, some impure words spoken, some cruelty or shrinking from what is right, or falsehood, or mischief-making. It is not a matter of imagination. It is not fancy, but fact. He remembers but too well; he knows when it was done, and all the consequences of it, every thing comes up distinctly. He shuts his eyes, but he cannot shut it out. You know the clock ticks all day long; amid the various cares of the day you do not hear it, but oh, how distinct and loud it is at night when your ear catches it. Did you ever have an aching tooth, which you could just manage to bear during the excitement of the day, but which began to throb and become intolerable when all was still at night, and you had gone to bed? So the uneasiness I have denoted is a real pain of the soul, which we manage to keep down and forget, or deaden, during our seasons of business and enterprise, but in hours of loneliness and danger makes itself felt. And what does this show but that you do not attend to your real self; that there is some dark corner of your heart in which you fear to look. You keep the veil down, because you know there is a skeleton behind it and you are afraid to look at it. And so you go through life, playing a part, something that you are not, with smiles on your lips and honeyed words in your mouth, laughing and jesting, eating and drinking and sleeping, working and trading, going in and out, paying visits and receiving them, seeking admiration and flattering others, while all the while, deep down in your soul, there is that nameless something, that grief like lead in the bottom of your heart, that wound that you are afraid to probe, or to uncover, or even to acknowledge.

And now, it is this deceitful way in which men deal with themselves, this forgetfulness of themselves, that makes death and judgment so terrible. Death brings out the individuality of the soul in the most distinct light. Every thing that hides us from ourselves shall then be removed, every veil and shred torn away, and only ourselves shall remain. A well-known writer has expressed this in a few short words: "I shall die alone;" and the same thought is suggested by the language of the Gospel in reference to the end of the world: "Two men shall be in the field, one shall be taken and the other left. Two women shall be grinding at the mill, one shall be taken and the other left." One shall be taken, and he shall be taken alone—out of all the surroundings which have enveloped him here like an atmosphere, and into which he has been fitted like a long-worn garment. When our first parents heard the voice of the Lord God calling to them in the garden after the fall, they hid themselves, and Adam said: "I was afraid, because I was naked, and I hid myself." So will it be when the soul stands "before God in its nakedness, ashamed because of its guilty self-consciousness. So it was with the rich man in our Lord's parable. He lived like the multitude. He had four brothers, and they were all alike. They had heard the sermons of Moses and the Prophets, but little did they think it all concerned them. But at last one of them died, and then he woke up to himself. His life is all before him. "Thou in thy lifetime receivedst thy good things." That was the story of it. He sees it all now: he sees what a glutton, what a proud, hardhearted, avaricious man he had been; he sees what a creature of sensuality and self-indulgence he is. Very different is his judgment of himself now, from what it was when, in his purple robes, he revelled in his banqueting-hall, the air heavy with perfume, and the table flowing with silver and flowers, and the slaves bringing in the costly dishes, while Lazarus, the beggar, sat at his gates, full of sores, and hungering for the crumbs that fell from his table. And so it will be with us: awakened to a full consciousness that our relations to God are the only reality. Stripped of all the circumstances that deceived and misled and blinded us here; with conscience fully awakened, with all the consequences of sin open before me and all its guilt manifest; I shall be brought face to face with myself, with what I am, with what I have been, with what I have done, with my sins, and my self-will, and my pride. Yes, this is the real terror of death and judgment. We think its fearfulness will be in the frowning Judge, and the throne set amid thunder and lightnings. Oh, no! the Judge does not frown, He is calm and serene. He sits radiant in beauty and grace. "When these things begin to come to pass," says the evangelist, speaking of the signs of the end of the world, "then look up and lift up your heads, for your redemption draweth nigh." No! Christ is not transported with anger. He is always the same; but the way of His coming is different as they to whom He comes are different. The object is unchanged, but the medium through which we view it will be different. There shall be an apparition of terror to the wicked, but it will not be Christ, it will be themselves. The face of Christ shall be a mirror in which each man shall see himself. Young man, after your career of vice and profligacy, you shall see yourself, the moral leper that you are. There the extortioner, the fraudulent merchant, shall see himself as he is, the unconvicted thief and robber; there the unfaithful husband or wife shall see themselves branded with the mark that tells their shame. The proud woman shall see there the deep stains of her soul in all their blackness, and her worldly, guilty heart, all laid bare. O sight of piercing anguish! "O hills and mountains fall on us, and cover us, and hide us from the wrath of God and of the Lamb." But no, it is not from the wrath of God and of the Lamb, that we need to be hidden, it is from ourselves. Which way I fly is hell, myself am hell. A lost destiny, an existence bestowed in vain. A life passed as a dream; capacities for happiness never used; graces refused; time gone; opportunity lost; not merely a law broken, a punishment inflicted; but I, myself, with my supernatural grace and destiny—I, with all my lofty hopes and powers—I, ruined and crushed forever: that is the hopeless, boundless misery. This is the sore affliction of the guilty after death; and it is the dread of this dismay that keeps thee trembling all thy life. But, on the other hand, for a man to face himself, to excite himself to a consciousness of his own individuality, and to a fulfilment of his own personal obligation to God, is the way to a peaceful and happy life. The Scripture uses a notable expression when describing the return of the prodigal: "He came to himself;" and in our ordinary language, when we wish to express the idea of a man's seriously reflecting on his destiny and duty, we say he enters into himself. These expressions are full of significance. They teach us that something is to be done that no one can do for us. Others can help us here, but each one for himself must make his own individual and personal election sure. Each must go down into his own heart, search out all the dark corners, repent of its sins, resist its passions, direct its aims and desires. It is not a work done in a day. It is sometimes a difficult work. There are times in which it pierces to the very quick of our sensitive being, but it is the real and only way to true peace. And oh! it is true and living peace when the soul in its deepest centre is anchored to God; when nothing is covered over, nothing kept from His sight. There may be imperfections, there may be sins and repentances, but there must be, when such a course is habitual, a true and growing peace. Do not look abroad, my brethren, for your happiness. It is to be found in yourselves. Happy he who knows the meaning of that word: "My God and I." This is to walk with God like Abraham. Of this man the Almighty says, as he did of Jacob, "I have known thee by thy name." His relations to God are not merely those general ones that grow out of creation and redemption: to him God is his life, his very being, the soul of his soul.

To-day, my brethren, if I have led your thoughts in the direction I have wished, you see that each one of you has a great work to do, that he must do himself. It will not do for you that you have had a pious mother or a good wife. It is not enough that some one around you, who lives near you, or sits near you in the church, is a good Christian. It is not enough that you are a Catholic, one of the vast body of believers in the world. Religion is a personal, individual thing. All other men in the world may stand or fall: that does not affect you. Each one of us has his own independent position before God. If you are one of a family, if you live in a house with others, or work in a room with many companions, if you are one of a gang of laborers, or a clerk in an office where many others are employed, or a scholar in a school where there are many others of your age, there is a circle around you that separates you from each one of your companions. If you were to die to-night, your sentence would be different from that of every other. It might be contrary to those of all the others. They might be friends of God, and you His only enemy. And the difference would be not from any outward cause, but from yourself. "I shall see God," says the prophet, "whom I myself shall see, and my eyes shall behold and not another." [Footnote 66] And now, if your conscience tells you that there is something unsatisfactory in your character, something sinful in your conduct, it is for you to set it right, and to do it without delay. It is the first duty of Lent. The forty days of grace and penance are given for redeeming our sins and saving our souls. What, then, should be each one's resolution? I will enter into myself, not we will do this, or I will do it if my friend does, but I, myself, I will enter into myself. I will ask myself what this strange, mysterious life of mine in earnest means, and whether I am to-day advancing to my destiny. I will break off my sins, and I will pray. It is in prayer that I shall understand my duty. It is in God that I shall find myself. The solemn words of the Church shall not be uttered in vain for me: "Thou art dust, and unto dust thou shalt return." How many have heard that warning and are now no more. The young have died, the old, the pious, the careless, the rich, and the poor, and each has gone to his own place, the place and portion fitted to his deeds and his character. Perhaps it will not be very long before these words will be verified in me. The Mass shall be said for me, the holy water sprinkled over my lifeless form. What shall it then profit me what others have said in my favor or against me? I shall be simply what I am before God. "What shall it profit a man to gain the whole world and lose his own soul?" "I shall see God, whom I myself shall see, and my eyes shall behold and not another."

[Footnote 66: Job xix. 27.]

NOTE—This appears to be the last sermon which F. Baker wrote. It was preached on the evening of the Ash-Wednesday before his death as the first of the Lenten Course of Sermons.

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Sermon XI.
The Negligent Christian.
(Third Sunday In Lent.)

"He that is not with Me is against Me;
and he that gathereth not with Me, scattereth."
—St. Luke XI. 23.

There are many seeds planted in the ground that never come up. There is a great deal of fruit on the trees that never comes to ripeness. So among Christians there is a great deal of good that always remains incomplete and inadequate. Who of us has not seen such? Who of us does not know such? They have some faith, some religion, but they bring no fruit to perfection. Now, what is the blight that destroys all their goodness? It is sloth, negligence, tepidity, call it what you will. Religion influences them, but does not control them. They do not reject it, but they do not obey it, at least consistently and in principle. They are languid Christians. They are not the worst, but they are not good. They seek with eagerness the pleasures of the world, and make no conscience of avoiding smaller sins, even when wilful and deliberate. They neglect the means of grace, prayer, sermons, and sacraments, with but little scruple, or approach them carelessly. They allow themselves a close familiarity with evil, dally with temptation, and now and then fall into mortal sin. So they go through life, conscious that they are living an unsatisfactory life, but making no vigorous efforts to better it. It is of such men that I would speak this morning; and I propose to show how displeasing this negligence of our salvation is to God, and how dangerous it is to ourselves.

The negligent Christian displeases God because he does not fulfil the end for which he was created. What is the end for which God created us? Certainly it is not for ourselves, for before God created us we were not, and could not have been the end for which He made us. He must have made us for Himself, for His glory. Yes, this is the end for which He does every thing, for Himself. From the very fact that we are created, our end must be to love and serve God. We are bound, then, to love and serve God, and we are bound to do it with perfection and alacrity. What kind of creature is that which renders to God a reluctant and imperfect service? Suppose a king were to appoint a day to receive the homage of his subjects, and while he was holding his court, and one after another was coming forward to kiss his hand or bend the knee, some one, ill-attired, and with slovenly demeanor, should approach and offer a heedless reverence. Would it not be taken as an act of contempt and an offence? Now, God is our King, and He holds a levee every morning and invites the creation to renew its homage. The world puts on its best array. The sun comes forth as a bridegroom out of his chamber, and rejoiceth as a giant to run his course. The mountains and hills clothe themselves in blue, and the trees put on their robes of green. The birds sing, and the waters move and sparkle. Holy and humble men of heart rise from their beds to enter on their daily course of duty and of prayer, while within the veil the spirits of the just and the ten thousand times ten thousand angels bow before the Throne of Him that lives forever. And now in this great Act of Praise, this ceaseless sacrifice that creation is offering to its Maker, there comes in the negligent Christian, cold, distracted, and unprepared to take his part. He does not kneel down to pray. He goes to work without a blessing. He does not think of God. Nay, in His very presence says and does unseemly things. Oh! is he not a blot on the scene? Is not his presence an offence? In the Old Testament, God complains of the Jewish priests because they brought to Him the halt and the blind and the sick for sacrifice. He says: "Offer it now to thy prince, will he be pleased with it, or will he regard thy face?" [Footnote 67]

[Footnote 67: Mal. i. 8.]

So in like manner, negligent Christian, God complains of you. You bring to Him a "lame sacrifice," those feet of thine that stumble so often in the way of justice; a "blind" and "sick sacrifice," that heart of thine, so fond of the world and so weak in the love of God.

Yes, God requires of us all fervor and perfection—of each one of us. It is a great mistake to suppose that perfection is required only of priests or religious; it is required of every one. We are not all required to seek perfection in the same way. The married seek it in one way, the unmarried in another. The man of business seeks it one way, the recluse in another. But everyone is required to seek it in such way as accords with his state in life. "That is a faithful servant," says St. Gregory, "who preserves every day, to the end of his life, an inexhaustible fervor, and who never ceases to add fire to fire, ardor to ardor, desire to desire, and zeal to zeal." Our own hearts tell us this when they are really under the influence of the Spirit of God. Take a man at his first conversion, either to the faith or to a good life, and how fervent he is! It is not enough for him to come to Mass always on a Sunday, he will come now and then on a week-day. It is not enough for him to keep from what is sinful, he will not allow himself all that is innocent. He does not think of bargaining with God. This is his thought—that God is All, and he is a creature, and that God deserves his best, his all. By-and-by, alas! as he becomes unfaithful, another spirit comes over him. He asks: "Is this binding under mortal sin? That duty is irksome; is it a great matter if I omit it now and then?" God tells us what he thinks of such a man in the parable of the Talents. When the Lord came to reckon with his servants, he that had received one talent came and said, "Lord, I know that thou art a hard man, thou reapest where thou hast not sown, and gatherest where thou hast not strewed. And being afraid, I went and hid thy talent in the earth." And his Lord in answer said to him: "Thou wicked and slothful servant! thou knewest that I reap where I sow not and gather where I have not strewed. Thou oughtest therefore to have committed my money to the bankers, and at my coming I should have received my own with usury. Cast ye the unprofitable servant into exterior darkness." [Footnote 68]

[Footnote 68: St. Matt. xxv. 24.]

Again, if fervor in our duties is due to God as our Creator, it is none the less due to Christ as our Redeemer. Oh, how strong are the words of St. Paul: "The love of Christ presseth us; judging this, that if one died for all, then were all dead. And Christ died for all, that they also that live may not now live to themselves but to Him who died for them." [Footnote 69]

[Footnote 69: II. Cor. v. 14.]

You see what his idea was—that the love of Christ was a debt that could never be paid, that it was a claim on us that pressed continually, and was never satisfied. And surely it is so. When we think at all, we must all acknowledge that it is so. Who is Christ? the Son of God, the Splendor of His Father's Glory, and the Image of His Substance. Who are we? lost sinners. And for us "He did not abhor the Virgin's womb." He did not refuse "to bear our infirmities, and carry our sorrows." He gave His body to the smiters, and turned not away from those that rebuked Him and spat upon Him. He gave His blood [as] a ransom for many, and laid down His life for sin. Was there ever love like this? While gratitude lives among men, what shall be the return given to Christ by those whom He has redeemed? Is the return we are actually making such as He deserves? Was it for this that He died, that we should not commit quite so many mortal sins? Was it for this that He hung on the cross, that only now and then we should omit some important duty? Was it for this that He sweat those great drops of blood, that we should live a slothful and irreligous life? O my brethren, when I see how men are living; when I look at some Christians, and see how when Easter comes round it is an even chance whether they go to their duties or not; when I see them on Sunday stay away from Mass so lightly, or listen to the word of God so carelessly; when I see them omit most important duties toward their families; when I see how freely they expose themselves to temptation, and how easily they yield to it; when I see how slow they are to prayer, how cold, sluggish, sensual and worldly they are; above all, when I hear them give for an answer, when they are questioned about these things, so indifferently, "I neglected it," I ask myself, Did these men ever hear of Christ? Do they know in whose name they are baptized? Did they ever look at a crucifix, or read the story of the Passion? Alas! yes, they have seen and heard and read, and have taken their side, if not with Judas in his deceitful kiss, or the soldiers in their mockery, with the crowd of careless men who passed by, regardless and hard-hearted. But let these men know that their Saviour sees and resents their neglect. "Because thou art lukewarm," He says, "and neither cold nor hot, I will begin to vomit thee out of my mouth." [Footnote 70] His soul loathes the slothful and half-hearted. Yes, slothful Christian, far different will be the estimate thou wilt make of thy life when thou comest to die, from what thou makest now. Then that negligence of thine, of which thou makest so little, will seem the crime it really is; and bitter will be the account thou shalt render of it to Christ thy Judge.

[Footnote 70: Apoc. iii. 16.]

But if it be not enough to rouse us from our torpor, to think that we are offending God, let us reflect how great is the danger which we are bringing on our own souls. A negligent Christian is in very great danger of being lost. I said just now that he falls into mortal sins now and then. It is hardly possible it should be otherwise. One will certainly fall into mortal sin if he does not take pains to avoid it. We all have within us concupiscence, or a tendency to love the creature with a disordered love, and this tendency is much increased in most men by actual sins of their past lives. Now, this principle acts as a weight on the will, always dragging it down to the earth. Fervent men make allowance for this. They aim higher than it is necessary to reach. They leave a margin for failures, weakness, and surprise. They build out-works to guard the approaches to the citadel. But with the negligent Christian it is the contrary of all this. Unreflecting, unguarded, unfortified by prayer, in his own weakness, and with his strong bent to evil, he must meet the immediate and direct temptations to mortal sin which befall him in his daily life. Is not his fall certain? Not to speak of very strong temptations which can only be overcome by a special grace, which grace God has not promised to grant except to the faithful soul—even ordinary temptations are too much for such a man. He falls into mortal sin almost without resistance.

And what is also to be taken into the account is, that the difference between mortal and venial sin is often a mere question of more or less. So much is a mortal sin: so much is not. The line is often very difficult, nay, impossible to be drawn, even by a theologian. Now, who can tell us in practice when we have arrived at the limit of venial sin, when we have passed beyond it and are in mortal sin? Will not a careless, thoughtless man, such as I have described, will he not be certain sometimes to go over the fatal line? Yes, my brethren, negligent Christians commit mortal sins. They commit mortal sins almost without knowing it. They commit mortal sins oftener than they imagine. Without opposing religion, without abandoning themselves to a reprobate life, just by neglecting God and their duties, they fall into grievous sins; bad habits multiply upon them apace, their passions grow stronger, grace grows weaker, their good resolutions less frequent and less hopeful, until they are near to spiritual ruin. The wise man gives us in a striking picture the description of such a soul: "I passed by the field of the slothful man and by the vineyard of the foolish man: And behold, it was all filled with nettles, and thorns had covered the face thereof: and the stone wall was broken down, which when I had seen, I laid it up in my heart, and by the example I received instruction. Thou will sleep a little, said I: thou will slumber a little: thou will fold thy hands a little to rest: And poverty shall come upon thee as one that runneth, and want as an armed man." [Footnote 71]

[Footnote 71: Proverbs xxiv. 30.]

And what is to secure you from dying in such a state? Our Lord says, "If the master of the house had known in what hour the thief would come, he would have watched, and would not have suffered his house to be broken open." [Footnote 72]

[Footnote 72: Matt. xxiv. 43.]

But he knew not, and so in the dead of night, when deep sleep falleth on man, the thief came. And so it is with death. It comes like a thief in the night. Death is almost always sudden. Sometimes it comes without any warning at all. A man is sent into eternity in a moment, without time to utter a prayer. Sometimes it comes after sickness, but sickness does not always prepare for death. The sick man says: "Oh, it is nothing; I shall soon be well." His friends say the same. If he gets worse the priest is sent for; he would like to receive the sacraments. But too often he has not yet looked Death in the face, he has not heard the dreadful truths he has to tell, he is much as he was in life, slothful and negligent. And after the priest is gone, when he is alone, at midnight, that comes to pass of which he has thought so little. Death enters the room, and with his icy hand unlocks the prison of the body, whispering to the soul with awful voice, "Arise, and come to judgment." O my brethren, how dreadful, if at that hour you find yourself unready! If like the foolish virgins you are forced to cry: "Our lamps are gone out." "Cursed is he that doeth the work of the Lord negligently," [Footnote 73] saith the Holy Scripture. The work of the Lord is the work of our salvation. That is the work of our life, the work for which we are created, and he, who through negligence leaves this work undone, shall hear at the last that dreadful sentence: "Depart ye cursed."

[Footnote 73: Jer. xlviii. 10.]

We come back, then, to this truth, that the only way to secure our salvation is to be not slothful in that business, but fervent in spirit, serving the Lord. Salvation is a serious work. We are not sufficiently aware of this. We seem somehow to have got in the belief that the way of life is not strait, and the gate not narrow. Certainly we feel very differently about our salvation from what our fathers in the Catholic Church felt. How many have gone out into the desert and denied themselves rest and food, and scourged themselves to blood! How many have devoted themselves to perpetual silence! How many have willingly given up wealth and friends and kindred! How many, even their own lives! Will you tell me they were but seeking a more perfect life? they were but following the counsels of perfection, which a man is free to embrace or decline? I tell you they were seeking their salvation. They were afraid of the judgment to come, and were trying to prepare for it. "Whatever I do," says St. Jerome, "I always hear the dreadful sound of the last trumpet: 'Arise, ye dead, and come to judgment.'" Now, can salvation be a work so serious to them and so trivial for us? Grant that yon are not bound to do precisely what they did, are you at liberty to do nothing? If you are not bound to a perpetual fast, are you at liberty to darken your mind and inflame your passions by immoderate drinking? If yon are not required to walk with downcast eyes and to observe perpetual silence, are you free to gaze on every dangerous object, and to speak words of profanity, falsehood, impurity, or slander? If you are not required to flee from your homes, are you not required to forsake the occasions of sin? If you are not called to forego all innocent pleasures, are you exempt from every sort of self-denial? If no rule obliges you to spend the night in prayer, are you not obliged to pray often? Yes, it was the desire to place their salvation in security that led our fathers into the desert. Surely, we have to work out our salvation with fear and trembling, who remain behind in a world which they left as too dangerous, and have to contend with passions which they felt wellnigh too strong for them. We must be what they were. "The time is short: it remaineth that they who have wives be as those who have not; and they who weep as they who weep not; and they who rejoice as they who rejoice not; and they who buy as they who possess not; and they who use this world as if they used it not; for the figure of this world passeth away." [Footnote 74]

[Footnote 74: I. Cor. vii. 29, 30.]

My brethren, then be earnest in the work of your salvation. While we have time let us do good, and abound in the work of the Lord. Serve the Lord with a perfect heart. He deserves our very best. Our own happiness, too, will be secured by it, for He says: "Take My yoke upon you, and learn of Me, and you shall find rest to your souls." [Footnote 75] And to the fervent: "An entrance shall be ministered abundantly into the everlasting kingdom of Jesus Christ." [Footnote 76]

[Footnote 75: Matt. xi. 29.]

[Footnote 76: II. Pet. i. 11.]

This is my desire for you, to see you fervent Christians. I would like to know that you are anxious to assist at the Holy Mass on week-days as well as on Sundays. I would like to know that you pray morning and evening. I would like to believe that you speak with God often as the day goes on. I would like to know that you are watchful over your lips for fear of giving offence with your tongue; that you are prompt to reject the first temptations to evil; that you are exact in the fulfilment of your duties; that you are careful in confession, and devout at communion—in a word, that you are living a life of watchfulness against the coming of Christ to judgment. This includes all. This is what our Saviour enjoined on us: "Take heed; watch and pray; for you know not when the Lord of the house cometh: at even, or at midnight, or at cock-crowing, or in the morning. Lest coming of a sudden, He find you sleeping." [Footnote 77]

[Footnote 77: St. Mark xiii. 35.]

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Sermon XII.
The Cross, The Measure of Sin.
(Passion Sunday)

"For my thoughts are not as your thoughts;
nor your ways my ways, saith the Lord.
For as the heavens are exalted above the earth,
so are my ways exalted above your ways,
and my thoughts above your thoughts."
—Isa. LV., 8, 9.

To-day, my brethren, is the beginning of Passion-tide, the most solemn part of the season of Lent. The two weeks between now and Easter are set apart especially for the remembrance of the sufferings of Christ. Therefore the Church assumes the most sombre apparel, and speaks in the saddest tone. The actual recital of the Passion, the following of our Blessed Saviour step by step in His career of woe, she reserves for the last three days of this sorrowful fortnight. In this, the earlier part of it, her aim is rather to suggest some thoughts which lead the way to Calvary, and prepare the mind for the great event that happened there. I shall then be saying what is suitable to the season, and at the same time directing your minds to what I regard as one of the most useful reflections connected with this subject, by asking you this morning to consider the sufferings of Christ as a revelation of the evil of sin.

But, it may be asked, does man need a revelation on this point? Is not the natural reason and the natural conscience sufficient to tell us that sin is wrong? Undoubtedly a man naturally knows that sin is an evil, and without this knowledge, indeed, he would be incapable of committing sin, since in any action a man is only guilty of the evil which his conscience apprehends. But this natural perception of sin is more or less confused and indistinct. Our Saviour on the cross prayed for His murderers in these words: "Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do." He did not mean that they were ignorant that they were doing wrong, for then they could have needed no forgiveness, but that they did not realize the full atrocity of the deed. They were acting guiltily indeed, but inadvertently and blindly: And the same may be said of very many sinners. Sin is for the most part a leap in the dark. A man knows he is doing a dangerous thing, but he does not realize the full danger. He does not take in the full scope of his action, nor its complete consequences. St. Paul speaks of the deceitfulness of sin, and the expression describes very well the source of that disappointment and unhappiness which often overtakes the transgressor when he finds himself involved in difficulties from which it is all but impossible to extricate himself and sorrows which he never anticipated. It is the old story. Sin "beginneth pleasantly, but in the end it will bite like a snake and will spread abroad poison like a serpent." [Footnote 78] Oh! how many are there who are finding this true in their own experience every day.

[Footnote 78: Prov. xxiii. 31, 32.]

Tell me, my brethren, do you think that young persons who contract habits of sin that undermine their health know all they are bringing on themselves—the weakness of body, the feebleness of mind, the early decay, the shame, the remorse, the impotence of will, the tyranny of passion, the broken vows and resolutions, the hopelessness, the fear—perhaps the premature disease and death? No, all this was not in their thoughts at first. These are the bitter lessons which the youth has learned in the school of sin. He has not found out what he was doing till it was all but too late. Or that married woman who has stepped aside from the path of virtue, did she realize what she was doing? Did she think of the plighted faith broken; did she think of the horrible guilt of the adulteress, of the agony, the remorse, the deceit, the falsehood, the trembling fear of her whole future life; did she realize the moment when her guilt would be detected, the fury of her wronged husband, her family dishonored, her children torn from her embrace, her name infamous, herself forlorn and ruined? Oh, no! these things she did not realize. There was indeed, on the day when she committed the dreadful crime, a dark and fearful form in her path, that raised its hands in warning, and frowned a frown of dreadful menace. It was the awful form of conscience, but she turned away from the sight, and shut her ear to the words, and heard not half the message. And so the dreadful consequences of her sin have come upon her almost as if there had been no warning. Or that drunkard, when he was a handsome young man, with a bright eye and a light step, and was neatly dressed, and was succeeding in his business; when he first began to tipple, did he realize that he would soon be a diseased, bloated, dirty vagabond; that his children would be half naked, and his wife half starved; or that he would spend the last cent in his pocket, or the last rag on his back, in the vain effort to allay that thirst for drink which is almost as unquenchable as the fire of hell? No, he little foresaw it, and if it had been told him, he would have said with Hasael, the Syrian captain, when Elisha showed him the abominations he was about to commit, "What, am I a dog, that I should do such things?" Or that thief, when he yielded to the glittering temptation, and made himself rich for a while with dishonest riches, did he then see before him the deeper poverty that was to follow; the loss of all that makes a man's heart glow and his life happy; the lies that he must tell, the subterfuges he must resort to, the horrible detection, the loss of situation, the public trial, the imprisonment? No. Of course these were all daily in his thoughts, for they were part of the risk he knew he was running; but so little did he bring them home to himself, and the suffering he was to endure, that when they came it seemed almost hard, as if a wholly unlooked-for calamity had overtaken him. So it is. Wherever we look it is the same thing. Men imagine sin to be a less evil than it really is. It is so easy to commit it, it is so soon done, the temptation so strong, that it does not seem as if such very bad consequences would come of it. So it is done, and the bitter consequences come. It seems as if the lie that Satan told to Eve in the garden, when he tempted her to eat the forbidden fruit, "Thou shalt not surely die," still echoes through the world and bewitches men's ears so that they always underrate the guilt and punishment of sin; and although the lie has been exposed a thousand times, although in their own bitter experience men find its falsehood, yet they do not grow wiser, they still go on thoughtless, insensible to their greatest danger and their greatest evil, and when they stand on the shore of time, and hear God threatening eternal punishment hereafter to the sinner, they still set aside the warning with the same fatal insensibility. If they are not Catholics, they deny or doubt the existence of hell; if they are Catholics, they think somehow they will escape it.

Oh, my brethren, before you allow yourselves to act on this estimate of sin, so prevalent in the world, ask yourselves how it accords with God's estimate of sin. That is the true standard. God is Truth. He sees things as they are, and every thing is just what He considers it. He is our Judge, and it will not save us when we stand on trial at His bar to tell Him that we have rejected His standard and taken our own. What, then, is God's estimate of sin? Look at the Cross, and you have the answer. Let me for a moment carry you back to the scene and time of the Crucifixion. It is the eve of a great festival in the city of Jerusalem. It is the Parasceve, or Preparation of the Passover. On this day the Jews were required, each family by itself, to kill a lamb and eat it with unleavened bread and bitter herbs. They were required to eat it standing, with loins girded, and with staves in their hands, because this feast was in memory of the sudden deliverance of their fathers from the bondage of Egypt, when God smote the first-born of the Egyptians with death, passed over the houses of the Israelites, and conducted them miraculously through the waters of the Red Sea. It was a great feast among the Jews, and always collected together a great multitude of strangers in the holy city. But on this occasion a new excitement was added to the interest of the holy city, for there was a public execution on Mount Calvary, and turbaned priests, and Pharisees with broad fringes on their garments, and scribes and doctors of the law, mingled in the throng of mechanics and laborers, and women and children, who hastened to the spot. The day is dark, but as you draw near the Mount, you see, high up in the air, the bodies of men crucified; and sitting on the ground, or standing in groups, talking and disputing among themselves, or watching in silence with folded arms, are gathered a vast multitude of spectators.

What is there in this execution thus to gather together all classes of the people? The punishment of crucifixion was inflicted only on slaves or malefactors of the worst kind, and two of the three that are hanging there are vulgar and infamous offenders. What is it, then, that gives such interest to this scene? It is He who hangs upon that cross, at whose feet three sorrowing women kneel. Read the title, it will tell you who He is. "This is Jesus, the King of the Jews." Yes, this is Jesus, the merciful and kind; He who went about doing good, healing all manner of sickness, and delivering all that were possessed with the devil; He who spoke words of truth and love. This is Jesus, the King of the Jews, whom a thousand prophecies fulfilled in him and a thousand miracles performed by Him pointed out as the promised Messias: Jesus, whom the Eternal Father, by a voice from heaven, had acknowledged as His own Son. "This is my beloved Son in whom I am well pleased." Why is this? Why is it that the just man perisheth? The apostle tells us: "Christ must needs have suffered." He was the true Paschal Lamb that must die that we might go free. He was the victim of our sins. Pilate and Herod and the Jews were but the instruments by which all the consequences of our sins fell upon Him who came to bear them. "Surely He hath borne our infirmities and carried our sorrows; and we have thought Him, as it were, a leper, and as one struck by God and afflicted. But He was wounded for our iniquities, He was bruised for our sins. The chastisement of our peace was upon Him, and by His bruises we are healed. All we like sheep have gone astray, everyone hath turned aside into his own way, and the Lord hath laid on Him the iniquity of us all." [Footnote 79]

[Footnote 79: Isia. liii. 4, 5, 6.]

Yes, every sin of every kind received its special reparation in the sufferings of Christ. His mouth is filled with vinegar and gall to atone for our luxury. His ear is filled with revilings to expiate the greediness with which we have drunk in poisonous flattery. His eyes languish because ours have been lofty, and His hands and feet are pierced with nails because ours have been the instruments of sin. He suffered death because we deserved it. He was accursed, because we had made ourselves liable to the curse of God, and hell had its hour of triumph over Him, because we had made ourselves its children. Nor was it our Lord's body alone that suffered. It would be a great mistake to suppose that His sacrifice was merely external. The chief part of man is his soul. St. Leo says that our Lord on the cross appeared as a penitent. It was not only that He suffered for the sins of men, but it was as if He had committed them. The horror of them filled His soul; sorrow for the outrage they had done to the Majesty and Holiness of God consumed Him. "My soul is exceedingly sorrowful, even unto death," He said. Afterward the evangelist says He began to be very heavy, and it was sinners that on the cross made Him bow His head and give up the ghost. He was not killed. His enemies did not take His life. The flood of sorrow for sin came into His soul, and overwhelmed Him. It was too much. His heart was broken. Oh, the weight of that sorrow! He bowed His head and gave up the ghost. Then sin was expiated. Then the work of man's atonement was completed. At last man had done adequate penance. At last sorrow for sin had reached its just proportion as an offence against God.

Here, I say, we have a revelation of the evil of sin. God does nothing in vain: His works are as full of wisdom as they are of power. Since, therefore, Christ died for sin, the cross of Christ is the measure of sin. "From the consideration of the remedy," says St. Bernard, "learn, O my soul, the greatness of thy danger. Thou wast in error, and behold the Son of the Virgin is sent, the Son of the Most High God is ordered to be slain, that my wounds may be healed by the precious balsam of His blood. See, O man, how grievous were thy wounds, for which, in the order of Divine wisdom, it was necessary that the lamb Christ should be wounded. If they had not been unto death, and unto eternal death, never would the Son of God have died for them. The cross of Christ is not only an altar of sacrifice, but a pulpit of instruction. From that pulpit, lifted up on high, Jesus Christ preaches a lesson to the whole world." The burden of the lesson is the evil of sin. "The law was given by Moses, but grace and truth came by Jesus Christ." And yet, my brethren, the law was published afresh by Jesus Christ. Mount Calvary but repeats the message of Mount Sinai—nay, repeats it with more power. Here, indeed, God does not speak in thunders and lightnings, as He did there, but He speaks in the still small voice of the suffering Saviour. Oh, what meaning is there in those sad eyes as they bend down upon us! Oh, what power in those gentle words He utters! He does not say, "Thou shalt not commit adultery; thou shalt not steal; thou shalt not bear false witness." No. He cries to a guilty people, a people who have already broken the law, and He says to them: "See what you have done. See My thorn-crowned head. See My hands and feet. Look at Me whom you have pierced. Is it a light thing that could have reduced Me to such a state of woe? Is it a light thing that could have bound Me to this cross? Me, the Creator of all things, to whom you owe all life and liberty? Who by My word and touch have so often healed the sick and released them that were bound to Satan. They say of Me, 'He saved others, Himself He cannot save.' And they say truly. Here must I hang. Not the Jews have nailed Me to this cross, but My love, and thy sins. Yes, see in My sufferings your sin displayed. See in the penalty I pay the punishment you have deserved. See your guilt in My sorrow. Look at Me, and see what sin is in the presence of the All Holy God!"

Can any thing show more than this what a mysterious evil sin is, that it is an offence against God, an assault upon His throne, an attack upon His life, an evil all but infinite? All the other expressions of the evil of sin, the cries of misery which it has wrung from its victims, the warnings which natural reason has uttered against it, the tender lamentations with which the saints have bewailed it, the penalties with which God has threatened to visit it, all pale before the announcement that God sent His Son into the world to die for it. I do not wonder that, as the evangelist tells us, the multitudes who came together at the sight of our Saviour's crucifixion returned smiting their breasts. Oh, what an awakening of stupefied consciences there must have been that day! How many, who came out in the morning careless and thoughtless, went back to the city with anxious hearts, with a secret grief and fear within they had never felt before. I suppose that even the scribes and Pharisees, who had plotted our Saviour's death, felt, for the moment at least, a guilty fear. Why, even Judas, when he saw what he had done, repented, and went and hanged himself saying: "I have sinned in that I have betrayed the innocent blood." And this book of the Passion has been ever since the source from which penitents have drawn their best motives for conversion, and saints their strongest impulses to perfection. Here, on the cross, is the root of that uncompromising and awful doctrine about sin—the doctrine, I mean, that sin is in no case whatever to be allowed, that even the smallest sin for the greatest result can never be permitted; that it is an evil far greater than can be spoken or imagined; that it must never be trifled with, or made light of; that it is to be shunned with the greatest horror, and avoided, if need be, even at the cost of our life—which has always been so essential a part of Christianity.

And now, my brethren, it is because men forget the cross, because their minds no longer move on a Christian basis, that they make light of sin. There is a tendency in our day to do so. Crime—men acknowledge that, an offence against law, an offence against good order. Vice—they acknowledge that, a hurtful and excessive indulgence of passion; but sin, a creature's offence against God, that they think impossible. "What! can I, a frail creature," say they, "ignorant and passionate, can I do an injury to God? I err by excess or defect in my conduct; I bring evil on myself it is true; but what difference can that make to the Supreme Being? Can He be very much displeased at my follies? Will His serene Majesty in heaven be affected because I on this earth am carried too far by passions? Can He care what my religious belief is? or will He separate Himself from me eternally because I have happened to violate some law?" Such language is an echo of heathenism, and heathenism not of the best kind, for some heathens have had a doctrine about sin which approached very near to the Christian doctrine. It is moreover, a degrading doctrine; for, while it leaves a man his intellect and animal nature, it takes away his conscience. What is that conscience within us but a witness that God does concern Himself about us—that my heart is His throne, and that my everlasting destiny is union with Him. "Every one that is born of God," says the apostle, "doth not commit sin, for he cannot sin, because he is born of God." Not that sin is a physical impossibility with him, but it is in contradiction to his regenerate nature. In order, then, to soothe yourself into the belief that sin is not so very bad, that God cannot be very angry with you for it, you have got to tear conscience from your heart, you have got to give up the good gift, and the powers of the world to come, which came upon you at your baptism; and you have to give up all the brightest hopes of Christianity for the life hereafter. Nay, more, you have got to deny the cross, to deny our Lord's divinity, to deny His sufferings for sin, and thus to render yourself without faith as well as without conscience. I conclude with the affectionate exhortation of St. John the Apostle. "My children, these things I write to you that ye sin not." "All unrighteousness is sin." Every breach of the moral law is a failure in that homage, that obedience, that service we owe to God. It is a direct offence against God. It is a thing exceedingly to be feared and dreaded. A wrong word spoken or a wrong action done has consequences which go far and wide. Do not say, you have sinned, but have done harm to no one. You have done harm to God, and you have certainly done harm to yourself. Do not sin. Do not commit mortal or venial sin. Do not make light of sin. Do not abide in sin. If you are in sin now, remember at this holy time to repent and turn back to God: and if your conscience tells you that you are now in the friendship of God, oh, let it be all your care to avoid sin. Fly from the face of sin. Fly from the approach of sin. Avoid the occasions of sin. Watch against sin, and pray continually, not to be led into sin: and when your hour of trial comes, when some strong temptation assails you, then be ready to say, as the prophet Joseph, "What! shall I do this wicked thing, and offend against God?" This is that fear of God which is the beginning of wisdom. This is the happiness of which the Psalmist spoke: "Blessed is the man that hath not walked in the council of the ungodly, nor stood in the way of sinners, nor sat in the chair of pestilence; but his will is in the law of the Lord, and on His law he shall meditate day and night. And he shall be like a tree which is planted near the running waters, which shall bring forth its fruit in due season. And his leaf shall not fall off; and all, whatsoever he shall do, shall prosper." [Footnote 80]

[Footnote 80: Ps. i. 1-3.]

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Sermon XIII.
Divine Calls And Warnings.
(A Sermon For Lent.)

"Seek ye the Lord while He may be found,
call upon Him while He is near."
—Isai. LV. 6.

The Wise Man tells us that "all things have their season, and in their times all things pass under heaven." [Footnote 81] Certainly, it is so in the natural world. There is a time for the birds to migrate. "The kite in the air knows her time, the turtle and the swallow and the stork observe the time of their coming." [Footnote 82]

[Footnote 81: Eccl. iii. 1.]

[Footnote 82: Jer. viii. 7.]

There is a time for seeds and shrubs to grow. Seed-time and harvest do not fail. There is a busy time and a slack time in the world of commerce. There is a time for education, a time when the mind is inquisitive and the memory retentive, and it is easy to acquire knowledge; and another time, when the powers of the mind, like the limbs of the body, seem to grow stiff and rigid, and can be employed only with difficulty. But does this law reach also to the supernatural world? Has the grace of God also its seasons and its times? I believe it has; and it is to this fact, so important in its bearing on our salvation, that I wish now to direct your attention.

But you may ask me what I mean by saying that the grace of God has its special times and seasons. Are not all times alike to God? Is not God always ready to save the sinner, and to bestow the graces necessary to his salvation? Undoubtedly He is. We, Catholics, believe that God gives to every man living sufficient grace, that is, He gives him the grace to pray; and if he prays, God is ready to give him other and higher graces, which will carry him on to salvation; but, ordinarily speaking, men do not use this common grace, unless some special and particular grace is given which excites them to do so. Now, it is of these special graces of which I speak, when I say that they have their times and their seasons. I refer to those Divine Calls and Warnings, those Providences, those sacred inspirations, which stir the heart beneath its surface, and bring it, for a time at least, in conscious contact with the Infinite and Eternal. These, I say, come and go. They have a law of their own. We cannot have them all the time. We cannot appoint a time, and say we will have them to-morrow, or next year. They are like the wind that blows; we hear the sound of it, but we cannot tell whence it comes and whither it goes. They are like the lightning, that shines from the east even unto the west. They come suddenly, and dart a flash of light upon our path, then they are gone. They are like the visit of Christ to the two disciples at Emmaus: as soon as their hearts began to burn within them, and they discovered who it was that talked with them, He vanished out of their sight.

Certainly there are proofs enough that such is the law of God's dealings with the soul. If we look back at our own lives, do we not see that we have had our special times when Christ visited us? our times of grace? red-letter days in the calendar of our life? I know God's grace acts secretly; and oftentimes when we are under the strongest influence of grace, we are least conscious of it. But when the time is past and over, and we look back upon it, we can see that there was a Divine influence upon us, especially if we have corresponded to it. I think each one of us, if he looks back upon the past, will see clearly the times when he has been under the impulse of some unusual movement of the mind, the result of some special grace of God. Perhaps it came in the shape of some great affliction. You had a happy home. The purest of earthly joys was yours—domestic happiness, perfect sympathy in gladness and in sorrow. But death entered your abode, and the loving voice was silenced, and the kindly eye was closed. And in that deep grief, in that darkness and loneliness Christ spoke to your sinking heart, saying, "Fear not;" and you came forth out of that affliction with a new strength, with purer aims, with a quietness and peace of heart which only suffering can give.

Or, perhaps, the crisis in your history was your attendance on a "mission." You had lived in neglect of religion, almost complete. Confession was a bugbear to you. Years of sin and forgetfulness of God had hardened your conscience. But suddenly all was changed. You seemed a new man. Your faith was illuminated with a new brilliancy. Sin had a new horror. The string of your tongue was loosed, and oh, with what ease, with what fidelity and exactness, you made that dreaded confession! What comfort you derived from it! and with what energy and determination did you enter on the duties of a Christian life!

Or, it might have been in less striking ways that grace did its work. It may have been a book, a word, an interior inspiration, some of the seasons of the holy Church, holy communion, some of the lesser changes of life, a fit of sickness, a violent temptation: these may have been the instruments which God made use of, from time to time, to convey special graces to your soul. Sometimes the aim of these graces was to arouse you out of some deeply-seated habit of sin; sometimes to draw your heart away from the world to heaven; sometimes it was a call to prayer; sometimes a warning of danger: in fine, for some purpose bearing on your salvation, there they are, those visits of grace in your past life, as distinct and unmistakable as any other part of your history. When we read the Bible story of such saints as Abraham, Moses, and Elias, what strikes us as most wonderful and most beautiful is the familiarity in which they lived with God, how God drew near to them and spoke to them. Now, such passages have a parallel in the history of each one of us. There are times in our lives, and not a few such times, when God draws near to the soul, when He confronts it, makes special demands upon it, addresses it no longer in general, but particularly and individually; when He says to the soul, Go and do this, Do not do that, as unmistakably as when He said to Abraham: "Go forth out of thy country, and from thy kindred, and out of thy father's house, and come into the land which I shall show thee." [Footnote 83]

[Footnote 83: Gen. xii. 1.]

And if this be so, the mode in which we receive these divine communications must have a great deal to do with our guilt or innocence before God. We read in the Book of Judges, that on a certain occasion an angel of the Lord appeared to Manne and his wife, with a message from on high. He appeared to them in a human shape, and spoke with a human voice, and they did not know that he was an angel. It was not until they saw him ascend to heaven in the flame from the altar that they understood that they had been talking with one of the heavenly host. Then they said: "We shall certainly die because we have seen God!" [Footnote 84]

[Footnote 84: Judges xiii. 22.]

Now, there is a sense in which this exclamation is neither superstitious nor strange, as the expression, that is, of their anxiety lest in their ignorance they might have treated their heavenly visitor in some unseemly way. O my brethren, it is no light thing for God to draw near to a human soul. It is no light thing for Him to speak to us. When He speaks we cannot be as if He had not spoken. "His word shall not return to Him void." The relation between the Creator and the creature is such, that the moment He speaks our position is altered. When He calls we must either follow or refuse to follow; there is no neutrality possible.

Oh, what a thought, that if indeed God has spoken to us often in our past lives, if He has given us special calls and warnings, we must often have resisted Him! There are many of us, I fear, who have altogether too little conscience on this subject. A man comes to confession after an absence of several years. He confesses his more prominent sins against the divine commandments, but perhaps he does not even mention his failure to perform each year his Easter duty. And if the confessor calls his attention to it, he has nothing to say but, "Oh, yes, I neglected that." You see, he does not realize at all that God has been calling him from year to year, has met him again and again, and exhorted him to repent, and he has refused.

Another man hears a sermon which thoroughly awakens his conscience. He sees in the clearest light the danger of his besetting sin. His conscience is stirred, he almost resolves to break off his sin, but he does not quite come to the point, he postpones his conversion, and, after a little, dismisses the subject from his mind. Now here again, you see, is a distinct resistance to grace. The man has not only continued in sin, but has continued in sin in spite of God's warning.

Again, a person, free from the grosser forms of sin, has some radical fault of character; some fault which is apparent to everyone but himself; a deep obstinacy; a dangerous levity; an inveterate slothfulness; an overbearing temper; a domineering spirit—faults which are the source of innumerable difficulties—and he is plainly warned of these faults, but refuses to acknowledge them, strengthens himself in his self-deception, and clings to these faults as if they were a necessary part of his character. What is he doing, but frustrating the designs of God, despising His reproof, and rejecting the grace which was meant to make him so much better, so much happier, so much more useful?

Resisted grace! What is that but to withstand God to His face, and to say: I will not serve? To resist grace, what is that but to despise the precious Blood of Christ. To obtain for us those graces, the Blood of Christ and all His sufferings were given, and without them we should have been left in our sins and miseries; and so to refuse these graces is to make light of Christ's most bitter Death and Passion. To resist grace, what is that but to refuse glory. For each grace of God has a corresponding degree of glory attached to it; and, if we refuse the one, we reject the other. The truth is, we forget too much God's personal agency in our salvation. We are on earth, and God is far away in heaven. He has indeed left us His Law, and He is coming to judge us at the last day, but He is not now a present, watchful, living, speaking God to us. We forget that "He is not far from every one of us." We forget that He is about our path, and about our bed; that He watches us with the eagerness and tenderness of a mother for her child; that He intensely desires our salvation; that He pleads with us, warns us, calls to us, stretches out His Hand to us all the day long. It is nothing that He Himself tells us He stands at the door and knocks; it is nothing that He calls to us from without, saying: "Open to Me, My love, for my head is wet with dew, and My locks with the drops of the night;" we open not; we heed Him not; we hear Him not. Oh! I believe, at the Judgment Day, many a man will be appalled to see how he has treated Christ. In the description which our Lord has given us of that day, He tells us that the wicked shall say, in answer to His reproofs: "When saw we Thee hungry or thirsty, or a stranger, or naked, or sick, or in prison, and did not minister to Thee?" So, I believe, many will say: "O Lord, when did we refuse to hear Thee? When did we shut our hearts to Thy grace?" And He will answer: "When, at the voice of My preacher, you refused to forsake that sin; when, at the invitation of My Church, you refused to repent and amend; when, at the call of My Spirit, you refused to awake from your sloth, and follow after that perfection I demanded of you. In rejecting My agents, you have rejected Me. It was I; I, your God and your Saviour; I, your End and Reward, who walked with you on your way through life, who opened to you the Scriptures, and sought to enter in and tarry with you."

And, again, as resistance to grace is a special sin in itself, and a special matter about which we must render an account to God, so, when persisted in, it is the sure road to final impenitence and reprobation. Let me bring before your mind some of our Lord's emphatic teaching on this point.

Toward the latter part of our Lord's life, in preaching to His disciples on a certain occasion, He used this parable: "A certain man had a fig-tree planted in his vineyard, and he came seeking fruit on it and found none. And he said to the tiller of the vineyard: Behold, these three years I came seeking fruit on this fig-tree, and I find none. Cut it down therefore; why doth it take up the ground? But he answering, said to him: Lord, let it alone this year also, until I dig about it and dung it. And if happily it bear fruit: but if not, then after that thou shalt cut it down." [Footnote 85]

[Footnote 85: St. Luke xiii. 6-9.]

The same lesson which in this parable Christ conveyed to the ear, He addressed, about the same time, by a striking action, to the eye. As He was going from Bethany to Jerusalem, He saw a fig-tree by the wayside. "And he came to it, and found nothing but leaves only, and He said to it: May no fruit grow on thee henceforward forever. And immediately the fig-tree withered away. And the disciples seeing it, wondered, saying: How is it presently withered away?" [Footnote 86]

[Footnote 86: St. Matt. xxi. 19.]

The apostles could not fail to connect this action with the parable quoted above, and to understand them both as referring to the rejection of the Jewish people. For three years He preached to that people, warned them, and instructed them. Then, at last, when they refused to listen to Him, He withdrew from them His presence, grace, and blessing, and left them to the consequences of their unbelief and hardness of heart; left them to "wither away." Listen to His lamentation over that guilty city. It is Palm Sunday. He is coming to the city in triumph. The crowds are shouting hosannas. At last, in His journey He comes to the Mount of Olives, whence the Holy City is full before His view. He looks at it; He thinks of all He has done to warn that people and convert them; He thinks of the ill success He has met with; He knows that he is going there for the last time, and that in a few days they will fill up the measure of their sins by nailing him to the cross; and, as he looked upon it, He wept over it, and said: "If thou hadst known, and that in this thy day, the things that are for thy peace: but now they are hidden from thy eyes. For the days shall come upon thee, and thy enemies shall cast a trench about thee, and compass thee round, and straiten thee on every side, and beat thee flat to the ground, and thy children who are in thee: and they shall not leave in thee a stone upon a stone, because thou hast not known the time of thy visitation." [Footnote 87] Behold the end! a people resisting grace, until at last grace forsakes them, and they are left to their own impenitence and hardness of heart! And behold the fearful image of a soul which has resisted grace, until its final reprobation!

[Footnote 87: St. Luke xix. 41-44.]

Yes, my brethren, this is but the fearful image of what passes in many a soul. What does the Holy Scripture say? "The man that with a stiff neck despiseth him that reproveth him shall suddenly be destroyed; and health shall not follow him." [Footnote 88]

[Footnote 88: Prov. xxix. 1.]

God does not desire the death of the wicked. God never entirely ceases to strive with man. God never leaves a man altogether destitute of grace. But then God is not bound to impart special graces; and when He finds that these graces are uniformly rejected, when he meets only a hardened heart and a will obstinately bent on evil, He withholds them, or gives them less frequently. Meanwhile bad habits increase; sins multiply; the root of sin in the heart becomes deeper and stronger: years pass on in sin, and at last death comes. What kind of a death naturally follows such a life? What kind of death often, in point of fact, follows such a life? I will tell you: an impenitent death; the death of the reprobate and the lost. Perhaps the man dies a sudden death. He may die in his bed, but die a sudden death for all that; for he may die out of his senses, and unable to do any thing whatever toward making his peace with God. Or, he may die in daring rebellion against God. It is possible for men to die so. It is possible for a man who has a deep enmity in his heart to refuse to give it up at the last hour; and it does happen. It is possible for a man who has dishonest wealth in his possession to clutch it even while his fingers are cold and blue in the last agony; and that does happen. It is possible for a man who has lived in shameful sins of unchastity to refuse to dismiss the partner of his guilt, though in five minutes his soul will be in hell; and that too has happened. Or, a man may die in despair. The devil may bring the fearful catalogue of his sins before his mind, in all their blackness and enormity; the remembrance of bad confessions and broken resolutions may paralyze his will; and the dreadful record of communions made in sacrilege may complete the temptation, and the poor soul turn away from the crucifix, turn away from the priest, and die pouring forth the ravings of despair.

Or, on the contrary, he may die in presumption, in self-deceit. He may indeed go through the form of a confession, may receive the sacraments, and cheat himself into thinking it is all right, and be all the time a hypocrite, turning from his sins, not because he hates them, but because he can no longer enjoy them; and may receive the absolution of the priest only to hear it reversed the moment he gets into the presence of the unerring Judge, before whom are open all the secrets of the heart.

Death in some such form is, I say, the natural end of neglect of divine calls and warnings; and such a death is, in point of fact, not unfrequently the actual end of such a course. "For," says the apostle, "the earth that drinketh in the rain, which cometh often upon it, and bringeth forth herbs useful for them by whom it is tilled, receiveth blessing from God. But that which bríngeth forth thorns and briers, is rejected, and very near to a curse, whose end is to be burnt." [Footnote 89]

[Footnote 89: Heb. vi. 7, 8.]

And, O my brethren, if this is so, you who are putting off your conversion, putting off your return to God, to what a risk are you exposing your salvation! You say you will go to your confession at some other time. You are young; you imagine it will be easier in coming years; you think your passions will be weaker, your temptations less. But you are deceiving yourselves. You are counting on that which you do not know will ever be yours. You cannot promise yourself another year. How many who were here a year ago are now numbered with the dead! some of them as young as you are, and who a year ago felt as you do now. You count on special graces, and you have no right to count on them. You are deceiving yourselves, my brethren, you are deceiving yourselves. The freeness and abundance of grace, the cheapness of grace, if I may so express myself, deceives you. God invites, and seems to plead and to beseech you to be saved, and you think it will always be so. You think a time is coming when God will save you in spite of yourselves. You know that you are not now on the road to heaven, you know that you are living in sin, but you think somehow God will interfere and make it right. We are told in the gospel that there was at Jerusalem a pool, around which usually lay a great multitude of sick and afflicted people, waiting for the moving of the water; for an angel came down at certain times and troubled the water, and whoever stepped in first after the troubling of the water was healed. So it is with slothful, negligent, procrastinating Christians. They lie in their sins, waiting for some aid which will raise them to their feet, and make them whole without any effort of their own. Vain hope! They will die in their sins. "You shall seek me," said Christ, "and you shall die in your sins." [Footnote 90]

[Footnote 90: St. John viii. 21.]

These fearful words are addressed to you, O despiser of God's grace; to you, O young man, who deferrest conversion; to you, lover of pleasure, who will not break with your idols; to you, O drunkard, who will not throw away the intoxicating glass; to you, O avaricious man, who are getting rich by fraud or by the blood of souls. "You shall die in your sins." That is the end to which you are tending. As you have despised God, so He will despise you. You shall seek Him, but you shall not find Him. You shall call upon Him, but He will not hearken. At your dying hour, every thing will fail you. Prayer will die on your lips, unused to pray. Your mind, so long accustomed to love sin, will find it hard to turn from it with true contrition. The priest, ah! the priest cannot save you. He can only help you, can only give you the consolations of religion if you are rightly disposed. And how can you dispose yourself at that dreadful hour, when your mind is filled with a fearful looking for of judgment, when all your sins, and all the graces you have rejected, rise up before your guilty conscience? Oh! meet this danger. Do not run this risk. Resist no longer the grace of God. Behold, now once more God calls you to His fear. Behold, the days have come "to do penance, and to redeem your sins." God by His Holy Church makes you another offer. "Turn unto me, and I will turn unto you," saith the Lord. "Let the wicked forsake his way, and the unjust man his thoughts, and let him return to the Lord, and he will have mercy on him." [Footnote 91] "To-day, then, if you will hear His voice, harden not your hearts." Resolve to prepare for your Easter confession. If you came last Easter and have persevered, bless God, and come now. If you have fallen away, see where the error was, and learn a deeper humility, and make a stronger purpose, and come again.

[Footnote 91: Isai. lv. 7.]

And, oh if you have stayed away in former years, and are purposing to stay away this Easter, too—or if you are too negligent to have formed any purpose; if you are just floating on, heedless and careless, then know, that for all these things God will bring you into judgment, that the severest part of your account will be for graces resisted and rejected; and that you are preparing for yourselves the retribution threatened in those dreadful words: "Because I called and you refused: I stretched out My Hand; and there was none that regarded. You have despised all my counsel, and have neglected my reproofs. I also will laugh in your destruction: and will mock, when that shall come upon you which you feared. When sudden calamity shall fall upon you, and destruction as a tempest shall be at hand: when tribulation and distress shall come upon you: Then they shall call upon Me, and I will not hear: they shall rise in the morning, and shall not find Me: Because they hated instruction, and received not the fear of the Lord, nor consented to My counsel, but despised all My reproof. Therefore they shall eat the fruit of their own way, and shall be filled with their own devices." [Footnote 92]

[Footnote 92: Prov. i. 24-31.]

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Sermon XIV.
The Tomb Of Christ,
The School Of Comfort.
(Easter Sunday.)

"Jesus saith to her:
Woman why weepest thou?
Whom seekest thou?"
St. John xx. 15.

How full of tenderness are these words! They were spoken on the first Easter Day. This weeping woman was Mary Magdalene, she that had been a great sinner, and was converted, and loved our Lord so much. She had been at His Cross: she is now at His Tomb, with her spices and ointments to anoint His body. But our Lord's body was not in the grave. The stone is rolled away. The tomb is open, and He is not there. And yet He is not far away. Risen from the dead to a new and mysterious life, He hovers about the garden, and draws near to her as she approaches the sepulchre. At the outburst of her grief on finding the sepulchre empty, He breaks silence. "Woman why weepest thou? Whom seekest thou?" These are the first words our Lord spoke after His Resurrection. They are the same words that were used by the angel a little before. They seem to be the antiphon, the key-note which Heaven has given us to guide our Easter thoughts. No tears on Easter Day. Nay, no tears any more of the bitter, hopeless kind, for Christ is Risen. St. Mary Magdalene at the tomb of Christ represents Humanity sitting in the region and shadow of death. Now to-day Christ comes forward, and speaks comfortable words to the human race. "Why weepest thou? Whom seekest thou?" He challenges us. "I, thy risen Saviour," He seems to say, "am thy consoler. What grief is there that I have not removed?" And is it so? Are all our real sorrows removed or alleviated by the resurrection of Christ? Yes; heavenly messengers have appeared bringing good tidings. Christ is risen. "The stroke of our wound is healed. "To them that sat in the region of the shadow of death, light is sprung up." "The Day-Spring from on high hath visited us." The earth feels herself to be lightened of her darkness, and in every church in Christendom the cry is again and again repeated: "Alleluia: Praise the Lord."

It would be too long to attempt to show how every human sorrow can gather consolation from the Resurrection of Christ. All I can hope to do this morning is to show how the three heaviest troubles of our race—doubt, guilt, and bereavement—find their relief in that event.

I call doubt, guilt, and bereavement the heaviest woes of man. In regard to the first, religious doubt, many of you have had no experience. Brought up in the Catholic Church, with her teaching always sounding in your ears, you have never known what it was to have real doubts about religious truth. But there are others who have known that anguish by experience. The soul of man thirsts for truth. Deep in every man's soul is a desire for God. It may be stifled, it may be silenced for a time by passion, but there it is, that stretching forth to the Fountain of Goodness and Beauty, that longing to know Him and His will. In generous souls, in souls that are conscious of their dignity, the finding of truth is an indispensable necessity. The search for truth is an occupation that must be pursued with whatever pain and trouble, and until it be found life is really insupportable. O my brethren, I do believe that there are souls around us who hunger for truth as a famishing man hungers for food. They labor and toil harder than any day-laborer. They are like men exploring a dark and many-chambered mine. They go with stooping head, and the sweat rolls off their foreheads, and their feet stumble, and with their dim light they can see but a little way before them, and they are in danger of losing their way. No doubt they learn something; for God is everywhere; God is in our hearts, and in Nature, and in men, and in books, and in the past, and we cannot look for Him anywhere without finding His footprints; but we want more than this. We want God to speak to us. We sigh for the lost happiness of Eden, where God walked with our first parents in "the cool of the day." This is what men need. They need God to reveal Himself to them, to give them certainty in religious truth, at least on the most important points. Everywhere men have been seeking this. "Oh that God would rend the heavens and come down!" [Footnote 93]

[Footnote 93: Isaias lxiv. 1.]

This is the cry of humanity, that God would speak to us and make us hear His voice. And they have sought for this voice. They have strained their ears to listen to it. They have sought it of the moon and stars as they moved through the heavens by night; they have sought it in the whispers of the grove; they have sought it at the lips of men of science and pretended religious teachers. But they have met in such sources only with disappointment or deceit. And yet that voice has always been in the world. It spoke at first feebly and low, but louder and louder as time went on, until Jesus Christ came and "spake as never man spake." He claimed to be the Son of God, taught us clearly about God and our destiny, promised His unfailing protection to His Church in transmitting His doctrine to all generations, and confirmed the truth, both of His Teaching and Promises, by rising from the dead according to His Word. To Him, therefore, belongs the glorious title: "The Faithful and True Witness, the First-Begotten of the Dead." [Footnote 94]

[Footnote 94: Apoc. i. 5.]

Eighteen hundred years have passed away, but His Word has lost none of its authority, and now this morning we can say, as to every point of the Catholic creed, with as much certainty as on the morning of the Resurrection the Apostles felt in regard to all the words of Christ—"I believe." O glorious privilege of a Catholic! "Rejoice," says the prophet, "and be glad in the Lord, O children of Sion, because He hath given to you a Teacher of Justice." [Footnote 95]

[Footnote 95: Joel ii. 23.]

Obedient to this inspired injunction, the Church requires the Creed to be sung at her great solemnities. It is not enough to recite it. No; it must be sung, sung in full chorus, accompanied with instruments of music. And fitting it is and right. Worship would be incomplete without it. Litanies and hymns are the means by which the heart does homage to God; but CREDO, "I believe," that is the intellect's cry of joy at its emancipation from the bondage of doubt. Oh, how mistaken are those who imagine that the articles of the Creed are like fetters on the mind. On the contrary, they are to us the evidences of that liberty wherewith Christ has made us free. We reject temptations against faith, as attacks on our happiness. We feel that to doubt the doctrine of faith would be to doubt the Son of God, and to doubt Him would be to discredit our own soul. Be firm, then, my brethren in faith. Remember that faith is part of your birthright and privilege as Christians. The Sepulchre of Christ is the gate to the Palace of Truth. See, the door is open. The stone is rolled away. Oh, enter and be blest. With Thomas look at His wounded side and say, "My Lord and my God!" With Magdalene fall at His feet and call Him "Master." Listen to His words and doubt no more. "Being no more children, tossed to and fro, and carried about with every wind of doctrine, but holding the truth in charity, in all things grow up in Him who is the Head, Christ." [Footnote 96]

[Footnote 96: Eph. iv. 14.]

Again, as doubt is the bondage of the intellect, so guilt is the burden of the conscience. Who can give peace to a soul that has sinned? The prophet Micheas well describes the anxiety of such a soul. "What shall I offer to the Lord that is worthy? Wherewith shall I kneel before the High God? Shall I offer holocausts unto Him, and calves of a year old? Will He be appeased with thousands of rams? Shall I give my first-born for my wickedness, the fruit of my body for the sin of my soul?" [Footnote 97]

[Footnote 97: Mich. vi. 6.]

Now, must we for ever go on in this uncertainty? Shall we never, after we have sinned, have again the assurance that we are pardoned? Must we go trembling all our days, and be terror-stricken at the hour of death? Are we left to our own fancyings and feelings to decide whether we are pardoned or not? Shall we never hear that sweet consoling word: "Go in peace, thy sins are forgiven thee?" Yes, Christ is risen. He is come from the grave "with healing in His wings." He is come as a conqueror, with the trophies of victory. Hear what He says of Himself: "I am He that liveth and was dead, and behold I live forever, and have the keys of Hell and Death." [Footnote 98]

[Footnote 98: Apoc. i. 18.]

He has come back from the grave with the keys of Hell in His hand. While He was yet among men He had promised to give those keys to St. Peter and the Apostles, but it was only after His death, by which He had merited our pardon, and after His Resurrection, by which His Father had attested His acceptance of the Ransom, that He proceeded solemnly to deliver them. "Now when it was late," says St. John, "that same day" (Easter day) "Jesus came and stood in the midst and said to them: Peace be to you. As the Father hath sent Me, I also send you. When He had said this, He breathed on them: and He said to them, Receive the Holy Ghost: Whose sins you shall forgive, they are forgiven them; and whose sins you shall retain, they are retained." [Footnote 99]

[Footnote 99: St. John xx. 19.]

Do you hear this, O sinner? He offers you pardon, and He assures you of it. All He asks of you is a true sorrow; all He asks is a fervent and true purpose to offend Him no more. Come, confessing your sins; come, forsaking them, and He has promised that His priest shall declare to you, in His name: "I absolve thee from thy sins." He has promised to ratify the sentence in heaven. Can you doubt His power? Can you doubt His truth? No: He has risen for our justification. "What shall we say then to these things? If God be for us, who shall be against us? Who shall lay anything to the charge of the elect of God? It is God that justifieth. Who is he that shall condemn? It is Christ that died, yea also Who is risen again." [Footnote 100]

[Footnote 100: Rom. viii. 33.]

Do not look on us, the ministers of His grace, weak and frail as we are. Look at the Saviour. Look at Him dying on the cross, a ransom for our sins. Look at Him, rising from the dead on the third day, having accomplished a complete victory over our spiritual enemies, and bringing to us life and pardon. See Him in His divine power, instituting sacraments by which that life and pardon might be communicated to us. Believe His word, trust His merits, have recourse to His sacraments, and thus, "being justified by faith have once more peace with God, and rejoice again in hope of the Glory of God." [Footnote 101]

[Footnote 101: Rom. v. 1.]

Come, forgiven sinner, lift up your head, for God hath cleansed you. Be happy: be a Christian: be a man once more, for you are clothed again in the garments of innocence and sanctity. It is no incomplete and grudging pardon He has given you. Though your sins "were as scarlet," they are now as "white as snow;" though they were "red like crimson," they are "as white as wool." "He hath cast your sins into the bottom of the sea." They shall never be mentioned to you again. He has even restored to you again the merits you had acquired in days of innocence, and lost again by sin. He has "restored to you the years which the locust and the caterpillar and the mildew and the palmer-worm hath eaten." [Footnote 102] Let, then, gratitude fill your heart, let joy be written on your face, and let holy resolves for the future correspond to the mercy you have received.

[Footnote 102: Joel ii. 25.]

Yes, my brethren, Christ at His Sepulchre satisfies the intellect and heals the conscience—and He also silences another cry of human woe. It is that of which the prophet spoke when he said: "A voice was heard of lamentation, of mourning and weeping, Rachel weeping for her children and refused to be comforted, because they are not." [Footnote 103]

[Footnote 103: Jer. xxxi. 15.]

Oh! it is hard to see one we love die, but is it not harder to our sensitive nature to bury them? That makes us feel what we have lost. Reason tells us that the soul is immortal, but we need something more for our comfort. The heart asks, "What is to become of the body that I loved so much?" Talk of the lifeless and speechless corpse. It is not lifeless and speechless to me. Those cold lips smile the old smile on me, and whisper in my ear a thousand words of kindness. And oh, to part with that! To lose even that sad comfort! To have the body of the dead taken away from us, is not that a grief? Such was Mary Magdalene's sorrow. "They have taken away my Lord out of the Sepulchre, and I know not where they have laid Him." [Footnote 104]

[Footnote 104: St. John xx. 2.]

She could bear any thing but that. She had borne up at our Lord's death. It was a bitter thing, but then she stood at the foot of the cross on which He hung, and she could look up at Him and see Him. She had borne up on Friday evening, for then she was busy preparing her spices and ointments. She had borne up on Saturday, for she was thinking all day of her visit to the grave next morning. But on Sunday, to go and find His body gone—never again to look upon those lips that had spoken peace to her soul; never again to kiss with affection those sacred feet,—oh, this was too much. And Mary stood at the Sepulchre weeping. But lo! what voice is that which speaks: "Woman, why weepest thou?" It is the voice of Jesus himself, of Jesus whom she mourns. Himself, flesh and blood, the very Jesus whom she had known and loved. So, my brethren, as you weep at the graves of your friends, those very friends stand near you and say, "Why weepest thou?" Weep not for me. Weep not for me, childless mother! Weep not for me, my orphan child! Weep not for me, my sorrowing friend! Leave my body awhile in the grave. It is not dead but sleeps. "For I know that my Redeemer liveth, and in the last day I shall arise out of the earth. And I shall be clothed again with my skin and in my flesh I shall see my God: Whom I myself shall see, and my eyes shall behold, and not another's." [Footnote 105]

[Footnote 105: Job xix. 25.]

Touch me not yet: wait awhile, and you shall see my hands and feet, that it is I myself. "For as in Adam all die, so also in Christ all shall be made alive. But every one in his own order; the first fruits Christ, then they that are of Christ, who have believed in His coming." [Footnote 106]

[Footnote 106: I. Cor. xv. 22.]

Strange it is that our comfort and joy should come out of the grave. But so it is. By the resurrection of Christ all our woes are healed. Our new life springs from the sepulchre of Christ. Christ is risen we believe. Christ is risen; we are pardoned. Christ is risen; death loses its power to separate Christians. Mourn then no longer, my brethren, it is Easter. Believe, and rejoice. Forsake your sins, and rejoice. Bury your dead in Christ, and rejoice in hope. The former things are passed away; all things are become new. "The winter is now passed; the rain is over and gone. The flowers have appeared; the time of pruning is come; the voice of the dove is heard in our land." [Footnote 107]

[Footnote 107: Cant. ii. 11, 12.]

It is Easter. This is that day "which the Lord hath made." This is the Lord's Passover. The Red Sea is crossed: we are delivered out of Egypt, and are marching to the promised land. It is Easter. Mary has been at the sepulchre early this morning and has seen the Saviour. Jesus has appeared in the midst of the disciples, saying, "Peace be with you." Some have known Him in breaking of bread. To some He has drawn near as they walked along and discoursed together. Some that were sad He has comforted. How has it been with each of you? Has this day been a day of joy to you? Has it awakened you to new life, new hopes, new aspirations? or does it find you cold, dead to spiritual things, perhaps not even in the grace of God, and in love with your sins! Oh, at least now awake to the hopes and desires of a Christian. "The day is far spent; it draweth toward evening." Let not this glorious feast depart and leave you as you are. While angels and the Son of God are abroad on the earth, scattering grace and consolation, do not you alone remain unblest. Claim your privileges as a Christian, and, risen with Christ in baptism, seek those things that are above, where Christ sitteth at the right hand of God.

And you, faithful souls who have done your duty, who have found in this Feast a joy and comfort that passes understanding, know that the gladness of Easter is but an earnest of another day, the great day of eternity, which will open on the morning of resurrection, and which knows no evening; which has no need of the sun, for God is the light thereof; when God shall wipe away all tears; and death shall be no more; and sorrow and sighing shall flee away.

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Sermon XV.
St. Mary Magdalene at the Sepulchre.
(Easter Sunday.)

[Footnote 108]

[Footnote 108: The substance of this sermon is from St. Thomas of Villanova.]

"But He rising early the first day of the week,
appeared first to Mary Magdalene."
—St. Mark XVI. 9.

St. Mary Magdalene may be called the Saint of the Resurrection. She is intimately associated with that event in the pages of the Scriptures, and in the minds of Christians. Indeed, the Gospel account of the Resurrection embraces an almost continuous record of the actions of this holy woman from the Crucifixion until Easter day; and I have thought that in tracing that record this morning, while I am presenting to you the great mystery of to-day's celebration, I shall at the same time be pointing out to you the means of obtaining those graces which our risen Lord has come to impart. St. Mary Magdalene's history for these three days is a history of love. Every thing she does, every thing she says, is a proof of her love for our Lord. And the distinguishing favors our Lord bestowed on her are a pledge of what we may look for to-day, if we imitate her love.

First, then, we are told, that when our Lord was taken down from the cross, and laid in the new tomb of Joseph of Arimathea, she went "and saw how the body was laid." One might have thought it would have satisfied her to stand by the cross, through those fearful hours, till it was an over, and then to have returned home. No; love will see the last. She will follow on to the grave. It is true the dead bodies of our friends feel not our kindness, but still we want them treated with tenderness and care. So Mary follows the corpse to the burial, and, when it is laid in the sepulchre, she looks in to see how it is laid. Not a superficial look: no, an earnest scrutinizing gaze. She sees how the drooping head lays on its stony pillow, and how the pierced hands and feet are disposed. She makes a picture of it all in her own mind, and "then returns to the city to prepare spices and ointments." Now, there was no need at all of this. Nicodemus had come, as soon as Pilate had given the disciples possession of our Lord's body, and brought "a mixture of myrrh and aloes, a hundred pounds weight." But Mary does not care for that. Others may do what good works they choose, but she will not be cheated of hers. And what she does she will do prodigally, too. It was her way. You remember how, at the house of Simon, she brought her alabaster box of ointment, and broke it, and scattered it over the feet of Jesus, so that the whole house was filled with the perfume; and how Judas found fault with her, saying, "This ointment might have been sold for more than three hundred pence, and given to the poor." Our Lord attempted then to excuse her extravagance, saying, "She hath done this against the day of MY burial." No, she would do it then, and she would do it at His burial, too. Nicodemus and "the holy women" may bring as much as they like, but she will do her part. Precious and costly shall her offering be as she can make it, not because He needs it, but because her heart is straitened to express its love. It is her pleasure to spend and be spent for Him whom she loved; and all she can do is too little.

But while Mary's love was impulsive and generous, it was obedient. "She rested on the Sabbath day, according to the commandment." Here is a test of true love. We want to do something very much; we think the motive is good; but there comes a providential obstacle in the way. We cannot do it just now. We cannot do it just in the way we want. And too often our love is not pure enough for this test. We murmur and complain, and commit a thousand disobediences, and show how much self-love had to do with our undertakings. It was not so with this holy woman. She waited all the Sabbath day. It was God's command. The seventh day was kept by the Jews with a ceremonial strictness that forbade all work; and she would keep the commandment to the letter. So not a step would she take on the Sabbath, not even to the Saviour's grave. I am sure that Sabbath was a long one to her. Never was time's foot so heavy. Never did the hours go so slow. Never were the sacred services so tedious. A thousand times she goes to the window to see if the shadows were getting long, and each time it seems to her that the sun is standing still. O loving heart! loving in what she did not do, as well as in what she did. She will not take liberties with her conscience. She will not be officious or intrusive. She will not please herself on pretence of doing something for God. And so, though her heart is at the sepulchre all day, though she yearns to go thither, not a foot will she stir, not a hand will she lift, till she knows that the fitting time is come. Her love was that orderly charity of which the Holy Scripture speaks. [Footnote 109]

[Footnote 109: Cant. ii. 4.]

But the longest day has an end, and the end of that Sabbath at last arrived. The sun sinks beneath the horizon. The evening sacrifice is over. Darkness falls upon the temple aisles, and the last worshipper departs. By degrees the streets of Jerusalem become silent and deserted. It is night, a glorious night; for the full paschal moon pours down its floods of light upon the holy city. And now the good woman, laden with her ointments and spices, sets out for the sepulchre. Alone, or only with a feeble woman like herself, she goes out late at night, and whither? To a garden outside the city, where a band of soldiers keep watch over a grave, closed with a great stone, and sealed with the seal of state. Is she not afraid? Docs she not run a thousand risks? Even supposing she reaches the place in safety, will she be permitted to approach the grave? Who will roll the stone from the door? Who will dare to break the seal? O holy boldness of love! which, when a duty is to be done, asks no questions, and knows no difficulties. O love! stronger than death, despising torments and casting out fear! Here is the wisdom of the saints. Here is the secret of all the great things that have been done for God. There is a higher wisdom and a higher prudence than the wisdom and the prudence of this world. There is a trust in God which is ever regarded as daring and enthusiastic, but which God justifies, and men themselves are forced at last to applaud.

Such were the sentiments with which St. Mary Magdalene went to the sepulchre. But here a new circumstance demands our attention. She set out, we are told, "while it was yet dark." It was night, the dead of night, when she left her house, and she did not reach the sepulchre till "the sun was risen." How did this happen? The place in which our Lord was crucified was, as the evangelist tell us, "near the city." And, one reason why Pilate suffered the disciples to lay our Lord's body in Joseph's tomb was, because it was close to the place of crucifixion, and the body could be laid there before the Passover began. What, then, delayed St. Mary Magdalene so long? What is the meaning of this? so prompt and eager in setting out, so tardy in arriving? Love, again, my brethren, is the explanation. She had to pass through the city. Her road was what is called the "Way of Sorrows," which Jesus took when He was led to Calvary, and along which she had followed Him on Good Friday. How could she go fast? Every step brought its own memories. There was the house of Caiaphas. There the judgment-hall of Pilate. There the balcony at which Jesus had been presented to the crowd, clad in a purple robe and crowned with thorns. There stood the pillar at which He had been scourged, and there was the spot at which he had fallen under the weight of His cross, and it was given to Simon of Cyrene to carry. No, her course was a pilgrimage. Each step was a holy station, at which she stopped awhile to pray and call to mind the events of that dreadful morning. And when she came to Calvary, where the cross was still standing, and threw herself on the ground to kiss the sod still wet with the Saviour's Blood, the hours pass by unheeded, for Jesus hangs there again, and Mary, His mother, is by her side, and each tender word, each look of sorrow is again repeated. Love meditates. Love lingers in the footsteps of its beloved, and the shortest, sweetest hours it finds on earth are hours of prayer. What wonder, then, that Mary kneels, embracing the foot of the cross, in perfect forgetfulness of all else besides, until, as she raises her eyes to cast an adoring glance, she sees that the cross is gilded by the red gleam of the coming Easter sun—that it is already day. Thus recalled to herself, she kisses that sacred tree for the last time, tears herself from it, and hurries off to fulfil the work she had in hand.

And she arrived at the sepulchre just in time, or rather God was there to meet her to reward her love. For the moment she arrived, "there was a great earthquake, and an angel of the Lord descended from heaven, and coming, rolled back the stone, and sat upon it. And his countenance was like lightning and his raiment as snow. And for fear of him the guards were struck with terror, and became as dead men. And the angel, answering, said to the woman: 'Fear not you, for I know that you seek Jesus who was crucified. He is not here, for He is risen, as He said. Come and see the place where the Lord was laid. And go quickly, tell his disciples that He is risen, and behold, He will go before you into Galilee. And they went out quickly from the sepulchre with fear and great joy, running to tell his disciples.' [Footnote 110]

[Footnote 110: St. Matt. xxviii. 2-8.]

See her running from the sepulchre as fast as she had so lately run to it; for love easily changes its employment at the voice of its beloved. She had come to anoint the body of Jesus; there is no need of that now, for Jesus is alive; but still there is something to do for Jesus—to tell His disciples. Peter, James, John, and the other disciples are at home, sorrowful and fearful. He whom they loved and trusted is no more; and they, whither shall they go? Besides this, there was an additional sorrow. They had forsaken their good Master in the day of His distress; Peter had even denied with an oath that he knew Him; and they now sat depressed and anxious in that upper chamber in which so lately they had eaten the Passover with Him. But He is alive! and Mary knows it! Shall she wait to see Him? No, she must go quickly and tell His disciples. "This commandment have we from God, that He that loveth God, love his brother also." [Footnote 111]

[Footnote 111: I. St. John iv. 21.]

And Mary leaves the sepulchre, leaves Christ, to go and carry the joyful news to His afflicted brethren. With nimble feet, with eager countenance, she returns to the city, seeks out the well-known house, and appears in the midst of the sorrowing group, with the exclamation: "Jesus is alive! He is risen from the dead!"

Alas! poor Magdalene! "Her words seemed to them as an idle tale." To us, familiar with the doctrine and proofs of our Lord's Resurrection, it is wonderful how slow the apostles were to believe it. No doubt, their slowness to believe is a benefit to us, because it was the occasion of multiplying the proofs. Perhaps, too, it was not unnatural; for faith does not come all at once. There is often a period between doubt and faith, a period of inconsistency; in which one is at one moment all Christian, and at another believes nothing. Certainly it was so with the apostles on Easter Day, and Mary Magdalene seems to have shared their infirmity. The apostles, as soon as they had heard the news that Christ has risen, set out for the sepulchre. When they came to the place, they found indeed the grave open, and the linen cloths, in which the Lord's body had been wrapped, lying in it, and the guard gone; but Him they saw not. Mary Magdalene accompanied them, and when she saw neither the Lord Himself, nor the angel who had spoken to her, and when she saw the incredulous looks of the disciples, she herself began to doubt. But though her faith was weak, her love was strong; and she stood at the door of the sepulchre, weeping. At least she will not give up the idea of finding the Lord's body, and carrying out her first intention of embalming it. So she stands at the sepulchre, and looks in. She had looked in many times already; she had every corner of it by heart; but she looks in again. She will see the place where the Lord lay, if she cannot see Himself: and lo! this time she sees a new sight. There are two angels, in white, sitting, one at the head and the other at the feet, where the body of Jesus had lain. Angels again! but this time not angels of fear, with a terrible countenance, as the first had been, but angels of comfort and peace. And they spoke to her: "Woman, why weepest thou? Why dost thou seek the living among the dead?" One would have thought it was something to see an angel, and hear his voice: but this good woman makes very little of it. No angel will satisfy her now. "They have taken away my Lord," she replies, "and I know not where they have laid Him." Is not this grief enough to have lost a Lord, a Friend, a Saviour, such as Jesus was, and not even to have so much as His lifeless body left on which to lavish her endearments. O my brethren, no created thing can satisfy the soul. I say not, though we had all the treasures of earth, but though we had all the treasures of heaven; though angels and saints were ours; though we had visions and revelations; yet all would be nothing if we had not God. Heaven would be hell without Him, and at the very gate of Paradise the soul would weep and say, "They have taken away my Lord."

But at this point a new actor appears on the scene. A man approaches, and addresses Magdelene in the same words that the angels had used: "Woman, why weepest thou? Whom seekest thou?" She takes him for the gardener, and suddenly a suspicion seizing her that he might know something of the treasure she had lost, turned upon him and said: "Sir, if thou hast borne Him away, tell me where thou hast laid Him; and I will take Him away." She does not answer his question. She does not tell him whom she is seeking. For, as St. Bernard observes, "Love imagines everyone is as full of the object of its love as it is itself;" and so she says: "If thou hast borne Him away, tell me where thou hast laid Him, and I will take Him away." No need to mention His Name. All things knew it. The sun publishes it. It is written on the leaves. The wind utters it. It is the Name that is above every name—the Name at which every knee must bow. "Tell me where thou hast laid Him, and I will go and carry Him away." What, you! a weak woman! Can you carry away a heavy corpse? Yes, she can; and they that doubt it do not know how strong love is, how great a weight it can carry, what hard things it can do, and how it makes a man do what is above nature, or, rather, how, with faith and grace, it brings out the power that is in these human hearts of ours, and awakens their latent energies.

And now Jesus can restrain Himself no longer; for Jesus it is who now speaks with her. She had charged Him with taking away the Sacred Body, and she was right. He it was who had taken it from the grave. "I have power to lay it down," said He, "and I have power to take it up again. [Footnote 112]

[Footnote 112: St. John x. 18.]

Yes, it was Jesus. He had seen her tears, listened to her complaint, watched her efforts, and now the time had come when He would disclose Himself to her. He said to her: "Mary!" Oh! what voice is that? What sweet and tender memories it wakes up! The home of Bethany, the banqueting-hall of Simon, Mount Calvary, all are brought before her. She turns and looks keenly at the speaker, and one look is enough. It is He, the same—the very same who spoke pardon and peace to her soul, when first, a guilty woman, she had washed His feet with her tears. It is Jesus. He lives again. And, with her accustomed salutation, she kneels before Him, and says: "Rabboni!" which is to say, Master!

How much is expressed in this brief interview. "Mary!" It is a word of gentle reproach. Mary, dost thou not remember My words—My promise—that I would rise again? Mary,—dost thou not believe My angels, bearing testimony to My Resurrection? Mary, whose brother Lazarus I have raised from the grave, dost thou not think that I am as powerful to rise from the dead as to restore life to others? "Mary!" It is a term of affection. As much as to say: I am risen; but I am still thy friend. I do not forget the past, and now, on this glorious morning of My Resurrection, I tell thee that I know thee by thy name, and love thee with the same love with which I loved thee in the days of My sorrow'. And, "Master!" is her fitting reply. "Master of my heart, whom only I have loved!" "Master of my faith, whom now' I acknowledge as indeed risen from the dead!" "Master, whose Truth and Power I have been so slow to understand!" "Master, whom all my future life shall honor and obey!" O happy Magdalene! Her search is ended. Her tears are dried. O joy beyond all thought! She has seen Him, and talked with Him!

O my brethren, need I say more? Has not St. Magdalene preached an Easter sermon? Love is the way to keep this feast. Love is the way to faith and joy. It is the way to faith, for our Lord says: "If any man shall do the will of God he shall know of the doctrine, whether it is of God." [Footnote 113]

[Footnote 113: St. John vii. 17.]

It is said of Magdalene that she loved much because she was pardoned much; I say she believed much because she loved much. And love is the way to joy. Who are they that are truly happy on this day? They who with Magdalene have sought Jesus; they who by a true confession and a devout communion have united themselves to the risen Saviour, and conversed with him in sweet familiarity. For to them our Lord speaks and says: "Fear not, I have called thee by thy name, thou art mine. I am the Lord, thy Saviour, thy Redeemer, the mighty One of Jacob. Behold My hands and feet, that it is I Myself! Fear not, Israel my chosen, and Jacob mine elect, for I am He that liveth and was dead, and have the keys of hell and death. And behold! I am alive for ever more!"

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Sermon XVI.
The Preacher,
The Organ Of The Holy Ghost.
(Fourth Sunday After Easter.)

"When He the Spirit of Truth shall come,
He will lead you into all truth."
St. John XVI. 13.

I need hardly say that the words "all truth" in this promise mean all truth relating to our salvation. It is no part of our Lord's plan to teach us the truths of natural science. He leaves us to discover these by our own intelligence. He comes to teach us faith and morals—what we are to believe, and what we are to do, in order to be saved. He did this while He was on earth by His conversations with His disciples, and by His public sermons to the Jews; but He promised that this work should be carried on after His death more extensively and systematically. Thus, in the words of the text: "When He the Spirit of Truth shall come He will lead you into all truth." [Footnote 114] And again: "The Paraclete, the Holy Ghost, Whom the Father will send in My name, He will teach you all things and will bring all things to your mind whatsoever I shall have said to you."[Footnote 115] It cannot but be a matter of interest to inquire in what manner this promise has been fulfilled.

[Footnote 114: St. John xvi. 13.]

[Footnote 115: St. John xiv. 26.]

I answer, the Holy Ghost leads us into all truth necessary to our salvation by the public preaching of the Word of God. If we examine our Lord's words attentively, we shall be led to the conclusion that the ministry of the Holy Ghost to which He alludes is a public ministry. His own ministry was a public one, and in promising that the Holy Ghost should carry it on and complete it, He leads us to anticipate that the ministry of the Holy Ghost would also be public. And His own subsequent language shows that this is really so, and acquaints us with the way in which this ministry is to be exercised. Just before our Lord's Ascension He met the Apostles on a mountain in Galilee, and said to them: "All power is given to Me in heaven and in earth. Go ye, therefore, and teach all nations; baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost; teaching them to observe all things whatsoever I have commanded you; and behold I am with you all days, even to the consummation of the world." [Footnote 116] August and extensive as this commission was, it did not by itself qualify the Apostles for their great work. They were to wait in Jerusalem "till they were endued with power from on high." This "power" was the Holy Ghost which actually did descend on them at the feast of Pentecost. Here we find a company of men commissioned by Christ to teach the world in His name, and empowered by the Holy Ghost for that purpose. We find these men afterward everywhere claiming to be the organs of the Holy Ghost. Thus, at the council of Jerusalem, they did not hesitate to publish their decrees with this preface: "It hath seemed good to the Holy Ghost and to us." [Footnote 117] And St. Paul tells the bishops of Ephesus, that they were placed over the Church "by the Holy Ghost." [Footnote 118]

[Footnote 116: St. Matt. xxviii. 18-20.]

[Footnote 117: Acts xv. 28.]

[Footnote 118: Acts xx. 28.]

Now, who does not see here the realization and fulfilment of the great promise of Christ which I have quoted as my text? That teaching of the Holy Ghost which was to follow His, which was to bring all things to remembrance which He had said, which was to abide forever, and which was to make known all necessary truth, was the teaching of the Apostles and their successors. It is the teaching of the Holy Ghost, because the Holy Ghost moves them to preach, furnishes them with the rule of their doctrine, and gives them their warrant and authority. In this sense it is that our Lord's promise is to be understood. It is a promise that reaches to all time. It concerns us here and now. It assures us that at this day, far removed as we are from the times of Christ, across so many centuries, the Holy Ghost through the agency of the Church still brings to us the echoes of His words. He does this in the most solemn and authoritative way by those great decisions of the Church to which He sets the seal of His Infallibility; but he does it in less solemnity, less authoritatively, but more frequently, by the preaching of each individual priest. It is for this end that the priest is ordained. He is consecrated and set apart, not merely to say Mass, not merely to receive the confessions of penitent sinners and absolve them, but to publish the Word of God; and He is empowered by the Holy Ghost for this very purpose. The Christian preacher is no mere lecturer, but an authorized agent and messenger of God, to deliver to the people the will of God. It is chiefly by the ordinance of preaching, in its various forms, that the Holy Ghost carries on the work of instructing men's faith, and regulating their morals.

And here, I think, is to be found the real answer to a misconception of our principles so common among Protestants. It is very commonly said and believed that the Catholic Church wishes to keep the people in ignorance of the Scriptures. Now, this is not true. The Church does not wish to keep the Scriptures from the people. On the contrary, in all cases in which they are likely to prove beneficial she approves and encourages their use; but she does not regard the reading of the Scriptures as the necessary, or even as the ordinary mode of familiarizing the people with the Word of God. Thousands have gone to heaven who never read one page of the Bible. St. Irenæus instances whole nations who professed and practised Christianity in entire ignorance of the Divine Records. How many people in every generation are unable to read. Now, God has not made a twofold system of salvation; one for the ignorant and one for the educated. No: according to the Catholic idea, for rich and poor, for learned and unlearned alike, there is one way of truth—the living voice of the preacher. This is God's way. This is the Voice of the Holy Ghost. This is the publication of the Word of God. This is the sword of the Spirit. The decree has never been revoked: "The priest's lips shall keep knowledge; and the people shall seek the law at his mouth; because he is the messenger of the Lord of Hosts." [Footnote 119]

[Footnote 119: Mal. ii. 7.]

But an objection may be drawn against this high view of the ordinance of preaching, from the infirmities of the preacher himself. It may be said: You tell us that the Holy Ghost speaks by the voice of the preacher, yet the preacher is but a fallible man, ignorant of many things, liable to be deceived himself, not free from passions which may affect his judgment. May he not falsify his message? May He not dishonor it? I do not deny the fact on which this objection is founded. Undoubtedly, the preacher may be unfaithful in the delivery of his message. In the Catholic Church, however, the watchfulness of discipline, and the general acquaintance on the part of the people with the standards of faith and practice, will prevent any very serious error finding its way into the public teaching of the priest. Who supposes, for instance, that any Catholic congregation would tolerate from the pulpit a denial of Transubstantiation, or the true Divinity of our Lord, or the necessity of good works? But within a certain limit, no doubt, there may be much imperfection in the preacher, much that detracts from the purity, the majesty, and the dignity of the Word of God. What then? I affirm, nevertheless, that preaching is the great instrument of the Holy Ghost for the conversion of souls. Strange, that we should start back at every new manifestation of a law that goes all through Christianity, and even through all the arrangements of the natural world. In every department of human life, God makes man His representative—man fallible and weak. The judge on the bench represents God's Wisdom and Equity, though his decisions are often far enough from that Divine pattern. The magistrate represents God's authority, though in his hands that authority is sometimes made the warrant for tyranny and oppression. So, in like manner, the preacher represents the Holy Ghost, though he does not always represent Him worthily either in manner or matter.

It is part of a plan. He who chooses man, sinful like ourselves, and encompassed with infirmities, to convey His pardon to the guilty, chooses as the organ of the Eternal Wisdom, "holy, one, manifold, subtle, eloquent, undefiled, having all power, overseeing all things, the Brightness of Eternal Light, the unspotted mirror of God's Majesty [Footnote 120] —man, with stammering lips, with a feeble intellect and an impure heart.

[Footnote 120: Wisd. vii. 22-26.]

And there is a reason in this plan. When the Church goes out to evangelize a new and strange people, she seeks, as soon as possible, to secure some of the natives to aid her in her work, who know the speech, and the manners, and the habits of thought, of those with whom they have to deal. No doubt her old, tried missionaries could furnish an instruction which would be more complete in itself, but the words of the neophyte will be better understood and received. So God, when He speaks to man, chooses as His instrument one who understands the dialect of earth. An angel would be a messenger answering better to His dignity, but less to our necessities; so He considers our welfare alone, and passes by Raphael, "who is one of the daily angels," and Michael, "who is one of the chief princes," and Gabriel, who is the strength of God, and chooses Moses, who was "slow of speech," and Jeremias, who was diffident as a child, and Amos, who was but a herdsman, following the flock—to utter His will to man. The human alloy in the Divine Word, no doubt, makes it less accurate, but it makes it more easily understood. Oh! it is a mercy of God thus to disguise Himself and dilute His word. The children of Israel said to Moses: "Speak thou to us, and we will hear. Let not the Lord speak any more to us, lest we die." [Footnote 121] Who could look upon the Lord and live? Who could listen to His voice in its untempered majesty and not be afraid? "The word of God is more penetrating than any two-edged sword, reaching unto the division of the soul and the spirit, of the joints also, and the marrow." [Footnote 122]

[Footnote 121: Exod. xx. 19.]

[Footnote 122: Heb. iv. 12.]

Do not be displeased, then, because God has sent to thee a messenger like thyself, one who speaks thy language, who shares thy ignorance and thy frailties; pardon him, forgive him his defects, strain your ear to detect in his lowly language some notes of that great message of Eternal Truth and Infinite Love, the story so old yet ever new—the love of Christ, the will of God, the end of man, grace, holiness, and eternity, those things on which depend our happiness here and our salvation hereafter.

But here I feel as if I ought to add a word or two of explanation. When I say that the Holy Ghost teaches by the voice of the preacher, I do not mean to assert that He teaches in no other way. A very great part of the preacher's message consists of truths which are already written by the finger of God on every man's natural conscience. A preacher is not required to make us understand that it is wrong to break the precepts of the moral law. Natural reason, the light that enlighteneth every man that comes into this world, tells us that. I could not but be struck the other day, as I passed two young men in the street, at hearing the honest protest with which one of them met the sophistry in which his companion was evidently trying to indoctrinate him: "What!" said he, "you don't mean to say it isn't a sin to get drunk!" Indeed, it is seldom that men justify themselves for actions that are plainly wrong. They are still too full of the Holy Ghost for that. Passion corrupts their will, but does not always darken their understanding. They know the right while they pursue the wrong. But this circumstance does not make the office of the preacher unnecessary; by no means. On the contrary, it is from this that the preacher derives a great part of his power. What he says finds an echo in the hearts of his hearers. One of the strongest things that St. Paul said in his defence before Agrippa was the appeal: "King Agrippa, believest thou the prophets? I know that thou believest." [Footnote 123]

[Footnote 123: Acts xxvi. 27.]

And so when the preacher is speaking before a congregation, of justice, of temperance, of judgment to come, do you know what it is that gives him such boldness and daring? My brethren, I will tell you a secret. Perhaps you may sometimes have felt surprise when you have heard us, who have so many reasons for feeling diffident before you, so keen in denouncing your sins, so vehement in urging you to your duties. Are we not afraid of wounding your pride, of alienating your affections? No: it is in your hearts that we have our strength. We would not dare to speak so unless we knew that we had a powerful ally in your hearts—your better nature, your reason, your conscience, the divinity that is within you. It is the greatest mistake in the world to suppose that it is unnecessary to tell people what they know already. Half the good advice that is given in the world consists of the most commonplace and familiar truths, but will anyone say for that reason that it is useless? No: the fact is, it is a great help to hear our own convictions uttered outside of us. A man believes more, is more conscious of his belief, his belief becomes more distinct, more serviceable, when he hears it from another's lips. What a mercy of God it is, then, in a world like this, where there are so many temptations, where there are so many evil examples, so much to draw off the mind from God, where it is so easy to obscure the line between right and wrong, that there should be an authoritative voice lifted up from time to time in warning! What a mercy, in those dreadful moments when the conflict rages high between passion and principle, and the soul, weary of the strife, is on the point of surrender, to be re-enforced by God Almighty's aid—to hear His voice amid the strife, saying: "This is the way; walk ye in it!" [Footnote 124]

[Footnote 124: Isaiah xxx. 21.]

And then it must be remembered, too, that there is much of the preacher's message that is not known to man's natural reason, consisting of mysteries deep and high, which at the best can be known only in part; and it is apparent how much it must depend on the preacher's office to keep these mysteries in men's minds, and to secure for them a place in men's intelligence and affections. The Christian Faith has always, from the beginning, been surrounded by adversaries who have attacked it, now on one side, now on another. We are apt to think it our peculiar misfortune to hear continually the doctrines of our faith disputed; but in fact such has been, more or less, the trial of each generation of Christian believers. Now, amid such ceaseless controversies, what means has our Lord left to protect and defend His people from doubt and error? The ministry of preaching. Therefore, says the Holy Scripture: "Some He gave to be Apostles, and some prophets, and others evangelists, and others pastors and teachers, that we may not now be children, tossed to and fro, and carried about with every wind of doctrine, in the wickedness of men, in craftiness by which they lie in wait to deceive." [Footnote 125]

[Footnote 125: Eph. xi. 11-14.]

It is the office of the preacher to declare Christian doctrine, to defend and explain it, to show its consistency and excellence, to answer objections against it, and thus to add to the power of hereditary faith the force of personal conviction. The Church has always understood this, and therefore, whenever a new heresy arises, she sends out a new phalanx of preachers to confront it by good and sound doctrine. And the enemies of the Church have always understood it, and therefore, in times of persecution, when they wished to deal the Christian faith a deadly blow, they sought in the first place, by the murder of bishop and priest, to silence the voice of the teacher. It was one of the last woes threatened against Jerusalem that the people should seek in vain for a vision of the prophet, and that the law should perish from the priests; [Footnote 126] and when in the Christian Church there shall be heard no more the message of truth, when there shall be no more reproof, no more instruction in justice, the iniquity shall come in like a flood; then shall be the abomination of desolation, and the time of Antichrist.

[Footnote 126: Ezech. vii. 26.]

Great, then, my brethren, is the dignity of preaching. It is God speaking on Mount Sinai. It is Jesus preaching on the Mount. It is the Divine Sower scattering the seeds of truth and virtue. The Holy Ghost has not left the world. In every Christian church, at every Mass, the day of Pentecost is renewed. See, the priest has clothed himself to celebrate the unbloody sacrifice. He has ascended the altar. Already the clouds of incense hang over the mercy-seat, and hymns of praise ascend;—but he stops, he turns to the people. Why does he interrupt the Mass? Has he seen a vision? Has an angel spoken to him, as of old to the prophet Zacharias? Yes, he has seen a vision. He has heard a voice. A fire is in his heart. A living coal hath touched his lips, the Breath of the Spirit hath passed over him, and he speaks as he is moved by the Holy Ghost. Listen to him, for he is a prophet. He speaks to thee from God. What is thy misery? What is thy sorrow? What is thy trial? Now thou shalt find relief. Are you in doubt about religious truth? Listen, and you shall find the answer to those doubts. Are you sorely tempted to sin? Now God will give you an oracle to strengthen you. Are you distressed and suffering? Have you a secret sorrow? Now you shall receive an answer of comfort. Do you wish to know how to advance in God's love? Now the way shall be made plain before your face. O blessed truth! God has not left Himself without a witness. The world is not to have it all its own way. The teachings of Satan are not to go on all the week uncontradicted. The dream of the heathen, that there are sacred spots on earth whence Divine Oracles issue, is fulfilled. The Chair of Truth is set up for the enlightenment of the nations. "The people that walked in darkness have seen a great light; to them that dwelt in the region of the shadow of death light is sprung up." "The earth is filled with the knowledge of the Lord, as the waters cover the sea." [Footnote 127]

[Footnote 127: Isaias ix. 2, 19.]

This subject suggests some very practical reflections. I am not unmindful that some of them concern the preacher himself. I do not forget that the thought of the high dignity of his office calls for the greatest purity of purpose and diligence of preparation; but while I remember this, suffer me also to remind you of your duty in listening to the preacher. St. Paul praises the Thessalonians because they listened to his words, not as the words of man, but as the words of God. In the sense in which the teaching of an uninspired man can be so designated, have you thus listened to the preacher's words? Has it been a task to you to listen to the sermon? Have you sought only to be amused? Have you been critical and captious? Or, acknowledging the truth you have heard, have you been careless about putting it in practice? Oh, how much the preaching of God's word might profit us, if we brought the right dispositions to the hearing of it! If we came to Church, eager to know more of God, with a single heart desirous to nourish our souls with His Truth, what progress we should make! A single sermon has before now converted men. St. Anthony, hearing but a single text, embraced a saintly life. If we had such dispositions, if each Sunday found us diligent hearers of God's Word, anxious to get some new thoughts about Him, some new motive to love Him, some new practical lesson, some new help against sin, it would not be long before the effect would be visible in us all. We should make progress in the knowledge of our religion. The devil and the world would assail us in vain. Scandals and sins would become rare. Heavenly virtues would spring up. Piety would become strong and manly. And that which the prophet describes would be fulfilled: "The Lord will fill thy soul with brightness. And thou shalt be like a well-watered garden, and like a fountain of water, whose waters shall not fail." [Footnote 128]

[Footnote 128: Isaias lviii. 2.]

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Sermon XVII.
The Two Wills In Man
(Fourth Sunday After Easter.)

"The spirit indeed is willing,
but the flesh is weak."
—St. Matt. XXVI. 41.

The word "flesh" here does not mean the body, but the lower or sensitive part of the soul in which the fleshly appetites reside. Our Lord is warning St. Peter of the necessity of prayer in order to meet the temptation which was coming upon him, and He tells him not to trust to the willingness of his spirit, that is, his good intentions and resolutions, because he had an inferior nature which might easily be excited to evil, and which in the hour of temptation might, without a special grace of God, drag his will into sin. What our Lord is declaring, then, is the fact attested by universal experience, that there are in the heart of man two conflicting principles—inordinate passion on one side, and reason and grace on the other. This truth, though so well known, touches our happiness and salvation too closely not to possess at all times an interest and importance for each one of us; and I propose, therefore, to make it the subject of my remarks this morning.

In the first place, then, what is the source and nature of the conflict thus indicated by our Lord? Whence does it arise? How does it come to pass that there are those two principles within us? How does it happen that every child of man finds himself drawn, more or less, two contrary ways, toward virtue and toward vice, toward God and toward the devil, toward Heaven and to-ward Hell? The answer commonly given is, that this conflict we feel within us comes from the fall, that it is the fruit of original sin. But the fall, according to the Catholic doctrine, introduced no new principle into our nature, infused no poison into it, and deprived it of none of its essential elements. We must look farther back, then, than the fall for the radical source of this conflict; and we find it in the very essential constitution of our nature. Man, in his very nature, is twofold. He is created and finite, yet he has a divine and eternal destiny. He has a body and a soul, and therefore he must have all the passions which are necessary to his animal and sensible life, as well as the intellectual and moral powers which are necessary to his spiritual life. Here, then, we have, in the very idea of man's nature, the possibility of a conflict. We have two different principles, which it is conceivable might come into collision. Man's appetites and passions, no less than his reason, are given to him by God, are good, are necessary, but since his appetites and passions are blind principles, it is conceivable that they might demand gratifications which would not be in accordance with his reason and spiritual nature. As human nature was at first constituted by the Almighty, any actual collision between these parts was prevented by a gift, which is called "the gift of integrity," a gift which was no essential part of our nature, but was conferred on it by mere grace, and which bound together the various powers of the soul in a wondrous harmony, so that the movements of passion were always in submission to reason. When Adam sinned, this grace was withdrawn from him; and since it was no necessary part of our nature, since it was given of mere grace, it was withdrawn from the whole human race. Hence men now find in themselves an actual conflict between the higher and lower parts of the soul. In a complicated piece of machinery, if a bolt or belt is broken that bound it together, the parts clash. Each part may in itself remain unchanged, but it no longer acts harmoniously with the other parts. So in fallen man, the bolt that braced the soul together is broken, and the powers of the soul clash together. The passions, the will, the reason, all, in themselves, remain as they were, undepraved; but they are no longer in harmony together, and man finds himself weakened by an intestine conflict. This, together with the loss of supernatural grace and a supernatural destiny, is the evil which, according to Catholic theology, accrued to man by the fall.

This conflict, then, which we find within us; this clamor of the lower nature against the higher; this propensity of the passions to rebel against reason—in other words, this proneness to sin, which is the universal experience of humanity, does not prove that we have lost any constituent part of our nature, that there is any thing positively vicious in us, nor does it prove that we are hateful to God. It proves, indeed, that we are not divine, that we are not angels, that we are not in the condition of human nature before Adam's transgression; it proves that a source of weakness, inherent in our nature, has been developed by the fall, that we need grace; but it gives not the slightest reason for supposing that our manhood has been wrecked, that the will is not free, that the reason of man has been extinguished, or that the passions are not in themselves good, and have not their legitimate sphere and exercise. So true is this, that this propensity to sin remains even in the baptized. Baptism does a great deal for a man. It takes away original sin, by supplying that justifying grace which our race forfeited in Adam. It restores to man his supernatural destiny. In the language of the Council of Trent, it renders the newly-baptized "innocent, immaculate, pure, harmless, and beloved of God, an heir of God, and a joint heir with Christ, so that there is nothing whatever to retard his entrance into heaven." But there is one thing it does not do. It does not remove the propensity of the passions to rebel. And the Council uses this fact—that concupiscence remains in the baptized—to prove that concupiscence, or the propensity to evil, cannot itself be sin; and enforces its conclusion by the seal of its infallibility and the warrant of its censures, saying: "If anyone is of the contrary sentiment" (that is, declares that the incentive to sin, which remains in the baptized, hath in it the true and proper nature of sin), "let him be anathema." [Footnote 129]

[Footnote 129: Sess. V. Decree on Original Sin.]

Thus, Christianity explains the origin of this conflict in the human heart, in a manner agreeable to reason and human experience. But it does more. It reveals to us the purpose of this conflict. Why does our Lord leave us subject to this strife? The same holy Council I have quoted already, answers distinctly; this incentive to sin is left in the soul "to be wrestled with." The state of the case is this: The passions desire to be gratified without waiting for the sanction of reason, sometimes even in defiance of reason. Morally speaking, this is no evil. The passions are but blind instincts; it is the province of the will to restrain them in their proper limits, and to help her in this work she has reason and the grace of God. If she fails to do her work, then she sins. Whenever sin is committed, it is the will that commits it. It is only the will that can sin. The sin lies not in the inordinate desire, but in the will's not resisting that desire. The will is the viceroy of God in the heart, appointed to keep that kingdom in peace. And herein lies the root of Christian morality, the secret of sanctification, and the essence of human probation. We speak of outward actions of sin; but all sin goes back to the will. There was the treason. "Out of the heart," says our Blessed Lord, "proceed murders, adulteries, fornications, thefts, false testimonies, blasphemies." [Footnote 130]

[Footnote 130: St. Matt. xv. 19.]

Each black deed is done in the secret chamber of the heart before the hand proceeds to execute it. Each false, impure, and blasphemous word is whispered first by the will before the lips utter it. Yes, man's heart is the battle-field. There is the scene of action. We speak sometimes of a man's being alone or being idle: why, a man is never alone; never idle. He may, indeed, be silent, his hands may be still, no one may be near him; but in that kingdom within great events are going on all the time. Angels and saints are there. The armies of Heaven and the armies of Hell meet there. Attack and repulse, parley and defiance, truce and surrender, stratagem and treason, victory and defeat—are things of daily occurrence there.

Of course, this is all very well known, very simple, very elementary, but yet there are some who never seem to understand it. They do not understand it who confound temptation with sin. This is a mistake often made, and by those too who ought to know better. If a man feels a strong inclination to evil, if an evil thought passes through his mind, or a doubt against the faith assails him, immediately he imagines that he has fallen under God's displeasure. To state such an error is to refute it. Never, my brethren, fall in to this mistake. No: between temptation and sin there lies all that gulf that separates Heaven from Hell. Let the devil fill your mind with the most horrid thoughts, let all your lower nature be in rebellion, let you have temptations to unbelief, to despair, to blasphemy; yet if that queenly will of yours keeps her place, if she stand steadfast and immovable, not only have you not sinned, but you are purer, more spiritual, more full of faith and reverence than if you had had no such trial. When St. Agnes was before the heathen judge, he ordered her to be sent to the stews and thrown among harlots, but she answered: "I shall come out of that place virgin as I entered it." Yes, all the powers of earth and hell cannot make a resolute soul commit a single sin. It is said that the walls of that house of prostitution, to which the holy maiden was condemned, still stand, and form the walls of a church dedicated in her honor—a visible proof how the soul, faithful to itself and God, turns the very means and instruments of its temptations into trophies of its most magnificent victories.

Nor do those understand the nature of the Christian conflict who make strong passions the pretext for the neglect of religious duties. There are such. Their hearts are too tumultuous, their passions too strong, their virtue too weak, their circumstances too difficult; and they must wait till they become more composed, calmer, more devout, until religion becomes more natural to them. Error, dangerous as common! I tell you, Christianity takes hold of every man just as he is, and just where he is, and claims him. No doubt, a quiet temper, a tranquil disposition, a devout spirit, are valuable gifts, but the root of religion does not lie in them, but in the will. That is it. God never intended religion to be confined to the passive and gentle, and to be neglected by the strong and impulsive. You, young man of pleasure; you, man of business and enterprise; you, proud and worldly man; you, passionate woman, with your wild and wayward nature, God, this day, here and now challenges you: "Why are you not working with Me, and for Me? Why are you not religious?" "Me!" you say, "it is impossible. I am sensual and avaricious, I am selfish and revengeful, I am full of hatred and jealousy, I am worldly to the heart's core." No matter: you know what is right; are you willing to do it? "Oh! I cannot. I do not love God. My heart is cold." No matter: are you willing to serve God with a cold heart? That is the question. "I cannot, I cannot. I have no faith. I cannot pray. I have not a particle of spirituality. Religion is wearisome to me, and strange. It is as much as I can do to stay through a High Mass." No matter, I say once more. Do you want to have faith? Are you willing to practise what you do believe? Then if you are, begin your work here and now. You cannot be of so rough a nature that Christ will reject you. No matter who you are and what you are, no matter what your trials have been, and what your past life, if you are a man, with a human heart, with human reason and a human will, Christ calls you by your name, and points out a way that will lead you to peace and heaven.

But least of all do they understand the nature of the Christian life, who make temptation an apology for sin; who excuse themselves for a wrong action by simply saying, "I was tempted." Far be it from me, my brethren, to undervalue the danger of temptation, or to forget the frailty of the human heart, or to lack compassion for the fallen; but it is one thing to fall and bewail one's fall, and another to make the temptation all but a justification of the fall. And are there not some who do this? who do not seek temptation, but invariably yield to it when it comes across them? who only steal when some trifle falls in their way; who only curse when they are angry; who only neglect Mass when they feel lazy and self-indulgent; and are always sober and chaste except when the occasion invites to libertinism and intemperance? What! is this Christianity? To abstain from sin as long as we have no particular inclination to commit it, and to fall into it as soon as we have! O miserable man, O miserable woman, go and learn the very first principles of the doctrine of Christ. Go to the Font of Baptism, and ask why you renounced Satan, and promised to keep God's commandments. Go to the Bible and learn why Christ died, and what is the duty of His followers. Temptations come upon you in order that you may resist them. You are subject to gusts of anger, in order that you may become meek. You are tempted to unchastity, in order that you may become pure. You are tempted against faith, that you may learn to believe. That you are tempted, is precisely the reason that you should not yield; for it shows that your hour is come, and the question is whether you will belong to Christ or Satan.

Yes, my brethren, our conflict is for the trial of our virtue. It is a universal law of humanity. It was so even in the garden of Eden. In the fields of Paradise, where the trees were in their fresh verdure, and the air breathed a perpetual spring, and all things spoke of innocence and peace, there Adam had to meet this trial. And each child of man since then has met it in his turn. And Christians must meet it too. In the sheltered sanctuary of the Church, where we have so many privileges, so much to strengthen and gladden us, even there each one must abide the test. As the Canaanite was left in the promised land, to keep the children of Israel in vigilance and activity, so the sting of the flesh, the power of our inferior nature, is left in the baptized, to school us in virtue, to make us men, to make us Christians, to make us saints. This is the foundation principle of religion. He who has learnt this, has found out the riddle of life.

And now, my brethren, that I have explained to you the source of the conflict that we feel within us, and the purpose it is designed to answer, you will see what the result of it must be, how it issues in the two eternities that are before us. "He that soweth in his flesh, of the flesh also shall reap corruption; but he that soweth in the Spirit, of the Spirit shall reap life everlasting." [Footnote 131]

[Footnote 131: Gal. vi. 8.]

The Judgment Day is but the revelation of the faithfulness or unfaithfulness of each one of us in the struggle to which he has been called. Every act, every choice we make, tells for that great account. The day will declare it. Then the secret of each man's heart shall be revealed, and how that battle in his heart has been fought. Oh, what a spectacle must this world present to the angels who look down upon the solemn strife that is going on here below! There is a man who has ceased to strive. No longer making any resistance, he is led on wholly and completely by his inferior nature. The slave of sin, he hardly feels the conflict in his soul, but it is because the voice of reason and the voice of grace have been so long resisted that they have become almost silent. And there are others who have given up the pure strife, but not so determinedly, not so completely. Occasionally they have better moments, regrets for the good they have forsaken, but still they float on with the careless world. And there is the young girl taking her first step on the downward road, looking back to the father's house she is leaving, reluctant, but consenting. Then there is the penitent, who has fallen but risen again; who has learned wariness from his fall, and new confidence in God from His mercy and goodness, and who is striving by penance and prayer to make up what he has lost. And there is the man with feeble will, ever sinning and ever lamenting his sin, divided between good and evil, with too much conscience to give free reins to his passions, and too little to master them completely. And there is the soul severely tried, still struggling but almost overwhelmed, and out of the depths calling upon God the Holy and True, "Incline unto mine aid, O God." And there is the soul strong in virtue, strong in a thousand victories, which stands unmoved amid temptations, like the deep-rooted tree in a storm, or like the rock beaten by the waves. Oh, yes, in the sight of the angels, this world is full of interest. There is nothing here trivial and common-place. What prophecies of the future must they not read! What saints do they see, ripening for Heaven! What sinners rushing madly to Hell! What unlooked-for falls! What unexpected conversions! What hidden sins, unsuspected by the world! Now they must rejoice, and now they must weep. Now they tremble over some soul in danger, and now they exult because the danger is over. So it is now; but when the end shall come, then fear and hope shall be no more, the conflict will be ended, the books shall be opened, and the secrets of the heart published to the universe. The struggle of life will be past, only its results will remain—two separate bands, one on either side of the Judge, the good and the wicked, those who have been true to their conscience, to reason, to grace, and those who have not.

Well, then, we will strive manfully against sin. There are untold capacities in us for good and evil. God said to Rebecca: "Two nations are in thy womb, and two peoples shall be divided out of thy womb, and one people shall overcome the other." [Footnote 132]

[Footnote 132: Gen. xxv. 23.]

So, my brethren, in each heart there are two powers struggling for the mastery—the Spirit and the Flesh. There are two sets of offspring struggling for the birth—"the works of the flesh, which are immodesty, uncleanliness, fornication, enmities, wrath, envies, emulations, quarrels, murders, drunkenness, revellings; and the works of the spirit, which are love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, faith, modesty, continence, chastity." It is for the will, with and under God's grace, to say which of these shall overcome the other. Do you say that I put too much on the will? that the will is too weak to decide this fearful contest? O brethren, the will is not weak. On the side of God, and with the help of God, it is irresistible. Look at the martyrs' will. Did it not carry them through fire and sword? Did it not enable them to meet death with joy? This is our mistake, we do not know our strength. We know our weakness, but we do not know our strength. We think God is to help us, independently of ourselves, and not through ourselves. But this is not so, God helps us by strengthening our will, by enlightening our reason, by directing our conscience. We cannot distinguish between what God does and what we do in any act. The two act together. Therefore, I say, you have it in your power to resist sin, you have it in your power to become saints. No matter though your evil dispositions have been increased by past sins, you can overcome evil habits, and be what God wills you to be. Only do not be contented with a superficial religion, a religion of feelings, and frames, and sensible consolations. Go down deep, go down to the will. Let the sword of the LORD probe till it pierces even "to the division of the soul and the spirit," the point at which our higher and lower natures meet each other. Make your religion not a sham, but a reality. School yourself for heaven. Day by day fight the good fight of faith, and thus merit at last to die like a holy man at whose death St. Vincent of Paul assisted: "He is gone to heaven," said the saint, speaking of M. Sillery, "like a monarch going to take possession of his kingdom, with a strength, a confidence, a peace, a meekness, which cannot be expressed."

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Sermon XVIII.
The Intercession Of The Blessed Virgin
The Highest Power Of Prayer.
(Sunday Within the Octave of the Ascension.)

"If you remain in me,
and my words remain in you,
ye shall ask whatever you will,
and it shall be done to you."
—John xv. 7.

There is perhaps no Catholic doctrine which meets with more objection among those outside the Church, than our devotion to the Blessed Virgin. Expressions of love to her, of hope in her intercession, which seem to us perfectly natural, which come from our hearts spontaneously, when they are most under the influence of Christian and holy principles, seem to them altogether at variance with Christianity. I do not believe that this comes always from prejudice, and a spirit of opposition on their part. It comes often, I am persuaded, from not understanding us. There is a link in our minds which connects this practice with other Christian doctrines, and this link is wanting in theirs; and therefore acts of devotion of this kind seem to them arbitrary and useless, an excrescence on Christianity, and even alien to its spirit. If this is the case, it cannot but be a duty and charity for us to explain, as far as possible, what is in the mind of a Catholic when he prays to the Blessed Virgin; and I shall accordingly attempt to do so this morning. Perhaps while we are thus removing a stumbling-block out of some erring brother's way, we shall be at the same time rendering our own ideas on this doctrine clearer, and its practice more intelligent.

The Blessed Virgin Mary, then, to a Catholic, represents the power of intercessory prayer in its highest form and degree.

I believe there are very few persons, indeed, who realize at all the power which is attributed to intercessory prayer in the Bible and in Christianity. The Apostles frequently exhort the Christians to whom they are writing to pray for them. They enjoined it upon them as a duty to pray for one another. What does this mean? Had not St. Paul and St. Peter influence enough with Heaven to carry their wants directly to the throne of grace? Was not the way of access to God open and easy for every one? Did God require to be reminded of the woes and wants of any child of man, by the sympathizing cries of his fellow-creatures? Was not God's own heart as large as theirs? Could any thing He had made escape His knowledge, or any sorrow fail to awaken His compassion? Or, if it did, was the intercession of Christ insufficient that any other had to be called in to supplicate? No, certainly. None of these suppositions are true. God's goodness and knowledge are infinite. He needs not to be told what is in man. He loves the work of His hands. The meanest and the poorest are in the light of His Providence. Christ's merits are infinite and universal. But after all, there stands the fact. Intercessory prayer is an ordinance of God. It is a duty to pray for others, and it is useful to have others pray for us. You may call it a mystery if you like. To me, it does not seem so very wonderful. No man lives to himself. We are not the only Christians. Many others walk alongside of us on the road to Heaven. Many are ahead of us. Many have already reached their term. Shall there be no sympathy between us? Is that principle so deeply seated in our nature to have no play in Christianity? Are we to have no interest, no feeling for each other? Or, is that sympathy to be a barren sentiment, and to have no results? God, in religion, makes use of and commands this kindness and sympathy. He makes use of it to bind all men together in a bond of love. In order to [do] this, He makes it a law that we shall pray for one another, and suspends His gifts upon its execution. It is, then, to meet that nature that He has framed—it is to exalt that nature craving for sympathy—it is to give rein to charity—it is to make us always sensible and mindful of that great human family to which we belong—it is for these reasons, I conceive, that God has instituted the ordinance of intercessory prayer. But, explain it as you will, the fact cannot be denied. It is an appointment of God, and an appointment of great efficacy. It plays a large part in the history of the Bible. Elias was a man subject to like passions with us, and he prayed earnestly that it might not rain, and it rained not for three years and six months; and he prayed again, and the heavens gave rain. Abraham prayed for Abimelech, and God healed him. When Moses prayed for the Israelites suffering under the fire with which God had visited them for their sins, the fire was quenched. In the prophet Ezechiel, God speaks as if he could not act without this intercession—as if it were really a necessary condition for the bestowal of His graces. "I sought among them for a man," he says, "that might stand in the gap before me, in favor of the land, that I might not destroy it, and I found none." [Footnote 133] St. James even seems to make salvation depend on intercessory prayer. "Pray for one another," is his language, "that ye may be saved." [Footnote 134]

[Footnote 133: Ezechiel xxii. 30.]

[Footnote 134: St. James v. 16.]

These are but a sample of the many Scriptural proofs that might be brought to show that intercessory prayer is an ordinance of God. It is one of the forms in which the goodness of God and the merits of Christ flow over upon us. By it we obtain graces from God much more easily than we could without it. And we obtain by it special graces, which we would not be likely to obtain at all without it. In this sense, perhaps, St. James meant to imply that it was necessary to our salvation. Not that it was a matter of precept to ask the prayers of this or that particular person, but that their intercession might be the condition of our obtaining graces without which our salvation would be a work of great difficulty.

But this is not all that the Scriptures tell us about intercessory prayer. They not only declare its wonderful power, but they make known to us that the efficacy of intercessory prayer depends on the goodness and merit before God of the one who offers it. I do not mean that no one should pray for another unless he is very holy. By no means. No matter how great a sinner a man may be, it is a good thing for him to pray for others, and the mercy and compassion of God, I am sure, never turn away from such a petition. But then, in such a case, it is mercy and compassion which moves God to hear the prayer. In the case of a good man praying for another, there is a sort of claim that he should be heard. Not an absolute claim, by which he can demand any thing for another, as of right, but a claim of fitness, a claim as if between friend and friend, a claim on God's bounty and generosity, which will not allow Him to turn a deaf ear to one who is faithfully striving to serve Him. The passages of inspiration which express this are very clear and very strong. "The continual prayer of a just man availeth much." [Footnote 135] There it is the prayer of a righteous man that has this efficacy. And to this agree the words of our Lord: "If ye remain in me, and my words remain in you, ye shall ask whatever ye will, and it shall be done unto you." [Footnote 136] Could words express more clearly that the power of intercessory prayer is in direct proportion to the closeness of the union which we maintain with God? And St. John reiterates the same principle when he says: "Whatsoever we shall ask we shall receive of Him, because we keep his commandments, and do those things that are pleasing in His sight." [Footnote 137]

[Footnote 135: St. James v. 15.]

[Footnote 136: John xv. 7.]

[Footnote 137: I. St. John iii. 22.]

God's dealings, as recorded in the Bible, are in exact accordance with this rule. At the prayer of Abraham, God desisted from His purpose of destroying Sodom, because Abraham was God's friend. When the three friends of Job had displeased God by their wrong judgments and unjust suspicions, God commanded them to go to His servant Job, and he would pray for them, and him He would accept. And in the prophet Ezechiel, when the Almighty would express, in the strongest possible manner, the fact that His anger was enkindled against a people and a city; that nothing, however strong, should stay its effects, He says: "And if these three men, Noe, Daniel and Job, shall be in it, they shall deliver their own souls only by their justice." [Footnote 138]

[Footnote 138: Ezechiel xiv. 14.]

As if to say: "Notwithstanding the intercession and merit of these great saints, even though they were all combined in favor of that one city, they should not avail to make Me spare such wickedness. What must be the wickedness that can force Me to withstand the power of such an appeal?"

Here, then, we have two things clearly taught in Holy Scripture. One is that intercessory prayer is an ordinance of God of great power and utility. The other is, that the degree of power this prayer has in any particular case depends on the merit of him who offers it. Who, then, shall be the favored child of man, the favored saint, who shall exercise this power in the fullest degree? Of whom it can be said literally, "Whatever thou askest of Me I will do it," because the condition of union with God is perfectly fulfilled? Who shall this be whom Holy Scripture thus clothes with this tremendous power, if it be not the Blessed Virgin Mary? My brethren, our belief in the surpassing sanctity of the Blessed Virgin is no fancy of later times. It goes back to the very beginning of Christianity. St. Ambrose wrote her praises as he had learned them from those who had received them from apostolic men. Grave, austere men, as far as possible removed from any thing like fancy religion or sentimentality, men who had suffered for the name of Christ, and even faced death in its defence, employed their art and care to coin words which might express the virtue and purity and exceeding sanctity of the Virgin Mary, as they had learned it from their forefathers. And in the most ancient writings of the Church, in the Canon of the Mass, when the priest recalls by name the glorious army of Christian heroes who had gone before, always in the first place she is mentioned, the all-glorious, undefiled, immaculate Mary, Mother of God, and ever Virgin. This being so, is not her power of intercession fixed beyond dispute? Does not Scripture itself fashion out for her the glorious throne on which the Catholic Church places her? Did any remain in Christ as she did? Did His words ever so abide in any heart as in hers? Suppose a Christian who lived in the times of the Apostles, before the Blessed Virgin had gone to her rest, when she was just dying; suppose such a one sorely tried and tempted within and without; suppose him anxious about his salvation, distrustful of his own petitions, fearful of the coming storms of persecution; and suppose him in this state of mind to have read that passage of St. James, "The continual prayer of a just man availeth much," what more natural than that he should have said to himself, "I will go to ask the prayers of the dear Mother of Christ. I will ask her to use her power and influence with her Divine Son in behalf of a frail wanderer like me." And when he came into her presence and knelt before her, and kissed her hand and made his plea, and looked up to her and saw that sweet grave smile, and heard her say, "Yes, my child, when I stand in the presence of my Royal Son, and He holds out to me the golden sceptre, and says to me, what wilt thou? what is thy request? then I will remember thee!" Oh! how light his heart! Oh, how strong his soul! what a charm against sadness! what a fortress in temptation! Mary prays for me in heaven to Christ her Son! And is there any thing in this joy and confidence which reason or Christianity would condemn? If so, it must be either that intercessory prayer is not the power the Scriptures say it is, or that Mary is not the saint the Church considers her. Why, even Protestants have gone as far as this. Protestants who have made the primitive form of Christianity their study and profess to accept it as their rule, as, for example, High-Church Episcopalians, have distinctly acknowledged in the seventeenth century, and in our own day, that the saints in heaven do intercede for us, and that this was the primitive doctrine of Christianity. Why, then, find fault with us for invoking the saints, and say we ought only to ask God to hear their prayers for us, as if invocation on our part were not the correlative of intercession on theirs; as if it could be right to ask a saint to pray for us the moment before he died, and wrong the moment after; as if there could be any moral difference before God between a direct and an indirect supplication for the benefit of their prayers in heaven?

Such, my brethren, is our idea when we address the Blessed Virgin for aid. It is not that we cannot go directly to God. It is not that God is not the nearest to us, and at all times accessible. It is not that, sinful as we are, we may not go with our miseries into the very presence of the Almighty. It is not that prayer to God is not the best of all prayers. It is not that we put the Blessed Virgin in the place of God. O cruel charge! It is not that we derogate from the merits of Christ. O strange misconception! But it is this—we believe in intercessory prayer. We believe that man may help his brother. We believe that Christianity is a human and a social relation; we believe that heaven is very near this earth—oh, how much nearer than ever we believed! and that in Christ we are in communion with an innumerable company of angels, and the Church of the First-born. We believe that there is joy in the presence of the angels of God over the good deeds done on earth, and that the litanies of the saints ascend over one sinner and his deeds. And we believe that this power of intercessory prayer culminates in the Blessed Virgin. We believe that she is the "one undefiled," whose way has been always in the law of the Lord. We believe that before the foundations of the earth were laid, or ever the earth and the sea were made, she was foreknown by the Almighty, spotless in purity, matchless in virtue. We believe that she was the flower of humanity, the fairest type of Christianity—-and we believe, therefore, that God is as good as His word, and whatever she asks of Him, He gives it to her. This is the doctrine on which we found our devotion to the Blessed Virgin. Take our strongest language. It means no more than this: "Pray for me." You may amplify as you will, but from the necessity of the case every thing we say comes to that. Put prayer for the Blessed Virgin, suppose prayer personified in her, and you have the key to the Catholic doctrine on this subject. Strong things are said of the power of the Blessed Virgin, but so are strong things said in Holy Scripture and by holy men of the power of prayer. Whatever can be said of prayer, can be said of her. Cease, then, to misunderstand us. Acknowledge that we are but obeying Christ in praying to the Blessed Virgin. And if you will still find fault, find fault, not with us, but with God, who has instituted intercessory prayer and given such power to men.

And for you, my brethren, let these thoughts strengthen you in your confidence in the powerful intercession of the Mother of God. Our work is too severe, our difficulties are too great, for us to neglect any help God has offered us. There are many adversaries. The world, with all its seductions, passes in array before us. Why should we shut our eyes to the hosts of heaven that march unseen by our side? Why should we stay outside when we are invited to the marriage supper, and Jesus and His disciples are there, and Mary, pleader for heavy hearts, saying, "They have no wine;" and at her prayer Jesus gives them that wine that maketh glad the heart of man with the abundance of His grace and love? I have been glad to see you these bright May mornings around the altar. Persevere more and more. Your labor of love is not in vain. God's words cannot fail. His gifts are without repentance. Mary's power of intercession is as fresh this day as it was when her prayer made the miraculous wine to gush forth at the wedding feast; and until some one shall arise more blessed, more holy, nearer to Christ than she, it will remain as it is now, the highest and the most efficacious of all forms of prayer in heaven or on earth.

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Sermon XIX.
Mysteries In Religion
(Trinity Sunday.)

"Oh, the depths of the riches
of the wisdom and knowledge of God!
How incomprehensible are His judgments,
and how unsearchable are His ways!"
—Rom. XI. 33.

The word revelation means the discovery of something that was not known before, or the making clear something that was obscure. Now, with this idea in our mind, it may excite surprise to find how much the Christian Revelation abounds in mysteries. By mysteries, I understand truths which are imperfectly comprehended. A doctrine which contradicts reason is not a mystery it is nonsense. A doctrine which is wholly unintelligible is not a mystery: it is simply unmeaning, and cannot be the object of any intellectual act on our part. But a doctrine which is in part comprehended, and in part not, is a mystery. Now, in Christianity we meet such mysteries on every side. The Sacraments are mysteries. Grace is a mystery. The Person of Christ is a mystery. And above all, the great doctrine we commemorate to-day is a mystery. To-day is the Feast of the Most Holy Trinity. To-day we call to mind that wonderful Relationship which exists in God, eternal and necessary, by which, in the undivided Unity of His Essence, there are three distinct modes of subsistence, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. It seems, then, not unfitting on this day to give you some reasons why you should acquiesce in that mysteriousness of Christian doctrine, which is certainly one of its marked characteristics, and which has been urged against it as a serious objection.

And, first, I observe that mysteries are necessary attendants on religion. There can be no revelation without them. There can indeed be no knowledge without them. To a little child the earth is a plane of no great extent, and the stars are colored lamps hung in the canopy of the night. But as he grows older, he learns that the earth is very big, and that the stars are very far off, and that there are many systems of worlds above us; and now how many questions press themselves upon his mind! What is the history of this universe? How old is the earth which we inhabit? Are the stars inhabited? Science with the hard earnings of human thought and labor gives him some little satisfaction, but for every question that she sets at rest there are many new ones that she raises, and at last in every department there comes a point where she gropes, and loses her way, and stops altogether. If you light a candle in a large room it casts a bright light on the table you are sitting at, and on the pages of the book you are reading, but gives only a dim light in the distance. You see that there are pictures on the walls, but you cannot discover their subjects. You see there are books on the shelves, but you cannot read their titles. When the room was quite dark you did not know that they were there at all, and now you know them only imperfectly. So every light which knowledge kindles brings out a new set of mysteries or half-knowledges. For this reason it is that a man of true science is apt to be modest in his language. Your loud-talking philosopher, who has no difficulties, has but a very narrow scope of thought and vision. He is clear because he is shallow. But a highly educated man knows that there are a great many things he is ignorant of, and so his language is modified and qualified. I believe it was Sir Isaac Newton who used to say, that in his scientific investigations he seemed to himself like a child gathering pebbles on the sea-shore. It was his vast attainments that made him sensible that Truth is as boundless as the sea. And when scientific men forget this; when they forget how much they are ignorant of; when they are boastful, over-positive, or inconsiderate in their statements, how applicable to them becomes the reproof which the Almighty addressed to Job: "Where wast thou when I laid the foundations of the earth? tell Me if thou hast understanding. Upon what are its bases grounded? or who laid the corner-stone thereof? By what way is light spread, and heat divided on the earth? Who is the father of the rain, or who hath begotten the drops of dew? Dost thou know the order of heaven, and canst thou set down the reason thereof on the earth? Tell Me, if thou knowest these things."

And this holds good just as well in regard to religious knowledge. Reason teaches us that there is a God, and it tells something of His Nature; but it speaks to us about Him only in riddles. God is immutable, and yet He is perfectly free: who shall reconcile these together? God is infinite, infinite in Essence, infinite in all His Attributes—try to comprehend infinitude if you can. Again, what a mystery there is in the creation of this world! What a mystery in the union of spirit and matter! Everywhere mystery is the necessary accompaniment of knowledge; and the more we know, the more mysteries will we have. If, then, God reveals to us any thing about Himself additional to that which reason can ascertain, mystery must still be the consequence. The wider the view, the more indistinct and shadowy the outline. It is revealed to us that in God, without injury to His Simplicity, there is a Threefold Relationship—that the Father, contemplating Himself from all eternity, has conceived a perfect Image of Himself, and that this Image is His Son, and that the Father and the Son have loved each other from all eternity, and that this Love is the Holy Ghost—that thus the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost are Three distinct, eternal, necessary Subsistences. Do not be surprised at this. Here is nothing contradictory to reason. True, it is wonderful. True, you cannot pierce it through and through. It is full of darkness. No matter. You know, when the moon comes out from behind a cloud, how sharp and well-defined the shadows become. So these darknesses of doctrine come because the light is brighter. Men talk of the simple doctrines of the gospel. There are no such things. The gospel, as a scheme of doctrine at least, is a mystery. St. Paul called it so, and so it is. It is a mystery because it reveals so much. If we did not know that God is both One in substance and Three in the mode of subsistence, our difficulties would be less, but so would our knowledge. Well does the prophet exclaim: "Verily, Thou art a hidden God, the God of Israel, the Savior!" [Footnote 139]

[Footnote 139: Isai. xlv. 15.]

What, the God of Israel a hidden God! Did He not manifest Himself to the patriarchs? Did he not speak face to face with Moses? Yes, but He is all the more hidden, the more He has manifested Himself. It cannot be otherwise. God yearns to make Himself known to man, but He cannot. The secret is too deep and high. Language is too weak. Thought too slow. Reason too narrow. The very means He takes to reveal Himself conceal Him. Clouds and darkness gather around Mount Sinai as He descends upon it. The Flesh in which He was "manifested" to men serves as a veil to His Divinity. No, we cannot find out the Almighty to perfection. The time will come in heaven when by the Light of Glory our intellects shall be marvellously strengthened, and we shall see Him "as He is"—but now we see as through a glass darkly. Our utmost happiness here is that of Moses, to be hidden in the rock, while the Almighty passes by and lifts His Hand that we may see a ray of His Glory. Do not complain if the ray dazzles thy feeble sight, but receive each glimpse of that Eternal Truth and Beauty thankfully, and give heed unto it, "as unto a light shining in a dark place."

But, further, mysteries are not only necessary attendants on revelation, they are really sources of advantage to us. In order to make this clear, I must remind you that Faith is one of the conditions of our acceptance with God. There was a time when men laid too much stress on faith and made light of works; then the Church had to define that works are necessary, and that there is no salvation without them. Now the contrary error is afloat. Men say: "Be moral," "Be religious in a general way, and it is no matter what a man believes." Now, this is an error as great and as dangerous as the other. "Abraham believed God, and it was reputed to him unto justice." [Footnote 140] The apostles believed Christ, and were praised for it. On the other hand, those who disbelieved are reproved as being guilty of a mortal fault. "The heart of this people is grown gross: and with their ears they have been dull of hearing, and their eyes they have shut: lest at any time they should see with their eyes, and hear with their ears, and understand with their heart, and should be converted, and I should heal them." [Footnote 141]

[Footnote 140: Rom. iv. 3.]

[Footnote 141: St. Matt. xiii 15.]

In like manner, when our Lord took leave of unbelieving Jerusalem, He wept over it. Now, why is this? What is there, in the act of believing or disbelieving, that is of a moral nature, that deserves praise or blame? Is not faith an act purely intellectual? I reply, faith is an act partly intellectual, partly moral. The intellect demands proof that a particular doctrine has been revealed by God, but, when that is once ascertained, faith accepts the doctrine, not because it is perfectly clear in itself, but because God reveals it. Clearly, there enter into such an act many elements of morality—our reverence for God, our desire to do His Will, our humility and docility. You know it is an honor to a man for one to believe in his word, and especially for one to make ventures on the faith of his word. Just so, to make ventures on God's word is a generous, devout, and noble act. Now, it is the mysteriousness of Christian doctrine that gives faith this generous character—or rather, that makes faith possible. The obscurity of the revelation throws the weight on the authority of the Revealer. It is mystery which gives life to faith. A man is not said to believe a thing he sees. "Blessed are they," said our Blessed Lord, "that have not seen, and yet have believed." [Footnote 142]

[Footnote 142: St. John xx. 29.]

There are certain flowers that require the shade to bloom. Constant sunshine burns them up. So Faith requires the shadow of mystery. It thrives under difficulties. Abraham's faith was so admirable, because he considered not his own decrepitude, nor Sarah's barrenness, but believed he should have a son at the time appointed by the Almighty. The faith of the apostles was so pleasing to Christ because they accepted His call so readily. They might have stopped to ask a thousand questions, but they rose up without delay and followed Him.

You see, then, what I meant when I said that mysteries are of advantage to us. They enter into our probation. They are the occasion of our practising the noble virtue of faith. They are a test of moral character. Nay more, by calling into action the best principles of our nature they exalt our character. You know how it is in the world when some new and great social question is started—how everyone is affected by it. The indolent take their opinions about it from others. The prejudiced and interested judge of it according to prejudice and interest. Men of principle decide it on grounds of morality. But everyone's position is in some way changed by it. So it is with the gospel. Its preaching throws men into new attitudes. "The Cross of Christ is to them that perish foolishness, but to them that are saved it is the power of God." [Footnote 143] The proud and the perverse stumble at this stumbling-stone, but men of "good will," the humble, and the loving, find it a precious corner-stone on which their faith has a solid foundation, and on which they are built up to everlasting life. So it was in the time of Christ. After our Lord had been preaching for some time, He inquired of the apostles into the effects of His preaching: "Whom do men say that the Son of Man is?" And they said: "Some say that thou art John the Baptist, and others Elias, and others Jeremias, or one of the prophets." "But whom do you say that I am?" [Footnote 144] —and Faith, undaunted by difficulties, answers by the mouth of St. Peter: "Thou art Christ, the Son of the living God." On another occasion, after He had performed the miracle of the multiplication of the loaves, as we read in St. John's Gospel, He taught the people the doctrine of the Real Presence in Holy Communion: "Unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man, and drink His blood, you shall not have life in you." [Footnote 145] Now, what happened? Many were offended and walked with Him no more. It was too great a mystery. "How can this man give us his flesh to eat?" they said. And our Lord turned to His disciples and said—it seems to me I can see His anxious countenance, and hear His tones of sorrow as He asks the question—"Will you also go away?" And again Peter answered on behalf of all: "To whom shall we go? Thou hast the words of Eternal Life." As much as to say, "Thou art the Truth; no mystery at Thy mouth can deter us."

[Footnote 143: I. Cor. i. 18.]

[Footnote 144: St. Matt. xvi. 13.]

[Footnote 145: St. John vi. 54.]

So it has been, also, throughout the history of the Church. What are all the heresies that have arisen but the scandal which the world has taken at the Christian mysteries, and what are all the decisions of the Church but acts of loyalty and submission to Him who is "the Faithful and True Witness"?

And the same thing is going on in our day. "Wisdom preacheth abroad: she uttereth her voice in the streets." [Footnote 146] The Catholic Church publishes those startling doctrines which have come down to her from the beginning, which have been held everywhere and by all—the principality of the Roman See, the Power of Forgiveness of Sins, the necessity of Penance, the grace of the Sacraments—and what is the result? The children of wisdom, they whose hearts are tender, enter her sacred fold and are blessed. But many listen and say: "It is all very well, if we could believe it. If we could believe it! And is it, then, not credible? Has not God given His revelation complete credibility? Can we not believe Jesus Christ? "God, Who in times past spoke to the father's by the prophets, hath in these days spoken unto us by His Son." [Footnote 147] "No one knoweth the Father but the Son and He to whom the Son will reveal Him." [Footnote 148]

[Footnote 146: Prov. i. 20.]

[Footnote 147: Heb. i. 1, 2.]

[Footnote 148: Matt. xi. 27.]

Jesus Christ has spoken. Miracles and prophecy attest His Truth and Authority. Can you, then, innocently refuse to listen? "Surely they will reverence my son," was the language of the father in the parable; will not God the Father Almighty look for an equal submission to His Eternal and Coequal Son? Can He speak, and you go on as if He had not spoken? Can you pick and choose among His doctrines, and take up one and reject another? No, to turn back, to stand still, to falter, is a crime. The trumpet has sounded: men are marshalling themselves for the valley of decision. Oh, take your part with the generation of faithful men, the true children of Abraham, who have "attested by their seal that God is true." Have courage to believe. Plunge into the waters with St. Peter, for it is Christ that is beckoning you on. To believe is an act of duty—of fidelity to your own intelligence, of generosity and devotion to God. "Without faith it is not possible to please God." [Footnote 149] Faith is the door to all supernatural blessings. There is a whole world that exists not to a man that has not faith. Faith enlarges our thoughts, opens our hearts, elevates us above ourselves and multiplies a thousand-fold our happiness. Why do men grope in darkness? Why do they remain in ignorance, when by one generous resolve, one courageous act of faith, an act so noble, so meritorious, they might enter into that Glorious Temple of Truth that has come down out of heaven to man, might enter and dwell therein, and their hearts wonder and be enlarged? Happy those who can say with the Psalmist: "Thy testimonies are wonderful; therefore hath my soul sought them." [Footnote 150] They are wonderful—they rest for their evidence on Thy Word and Thy Truth, therefore I believe them and love them, for to believe Thee is my first duty and my highest wisdom.

[Footnote 149: Heb. xi. 6.]

[Footnote 150: Ps. cxviii 129.]

Let not, then, the mysteries of our holy religion disturb us, my brethren, but rather let them make us rejoice. For what are they but the evidences of the greatness of our religion? They do not repel, they attract us. We believe them on the authority of God, and we esteem it both a duty and a delight to do so. Neither are they all dark in themselves. Nay, they are only dark from excess of light. Each one of them has much that addresses itself to our understanding, much that enlists our affections. The angels in heaven worship the Trinity with devoutest adoration. "I saw the Seraphim," says the prophet, "and they covered their faces and cried: Holy, Holy, Holy Lord God of Hosts!" [Footnote 151]

[Footnote 151: Isai. vi. 3.]

Incessantly sings the Church on earth: "Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost." There have been saints who so dwelt upon all that Faith teaches us of God, that they had to go by themselves, in quiet places, for their hearts were all but breaking with the sweet but awful sense of His Majesty. Let us, too, learn to love these mysteries and meditate on them. We live in the midst of great realities. "You are come to Mount Sion, and to the city of the living God, the heavenly Jerusalem, and to the company of many thousands of angels, and to the Church of the first-born, who are written in heaven, and to God the Judge of all, and to the spirits of the just made perfect, and to Jesus, the Mediator of the New Testament." [Footnote 152]

[Footnote 152: Heb. xii. 22, 23, 24.]

Day by day, let it be our endeavor to pierce into these holy truths more and more, that at last, like Moses, our countenances may reflect some portion of their beauty and brightness, that continually "beholding the glory of the Lord we may be transformed into the same image from glory to glory." [Footnote 153]

[Footnote 153: II Cor. iii. 18.]

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Sermon XX.
The Worth Of The Soul.
(Third Sunday After Pentecost.)

"There shall be joy before the angels of God
over one sinner doing penance."
St. Luke xv. 10.

This is what theologians call an accidental joy. The essential joy of heaven consists in the perfect knowledge and love of God, and is unchangeable and eternal; but the accidental joy of heaven springs from the knowledge of those events in time which display the goodness and greatness of God. The first of these events was the creation itself, when the hand of God spread the carpet of the earth, and stretched the curtains of the heavens. Then "the morning stars praised Him together, and all the sons of God made a joyful melody." [Footnote 154]

[Footnote 154: Job xxxviii 7.]

After this the great historic events of the world have been successively the burden of the angelic songs—the unfolding of the plan of Redemption, the birth of Christ, the triumphs of the Church. But lo! of a sudden these lofty strains are stopped. There is silence for a moment, and then the golden harps take up a new and tenderer theme. What is it that has happened? What is the event that can interrupt the great harmonies of Heaven, and furnish the Angels with a new song? In some corner of the earth, in some secret chamber, in some confessional, on some sickbed, in some dark prison, a sinner is doing penance. He prays, whose mouth had been full of cursings. He weeps, who had made a mock at sin. The slave of Satan and of Hell turns back to God and Heaven—and that is the reason of this unusual joy. It is not that a recovered sinner is really of more account than one who has never fallen, but his recovery from danger is the occasion of expressing that esteem and love for the souls of men which always fills the heart of God and the Angels. Therefore, as that contrite cry reaches heaven, the Angels are silent, for they know that there is no music in the ear of God like that. And then, when God has ratified the absolving words of the priest, and restored the contrite sinner to His favor, they cast themselves before the throne, and break forth into loud swelling strains of ecstasy and triumph, while He Himself smiles His sympathy and joy. O my brethren, what a revelation this is! A revelation of the value of the soul. There are great rejoicings on earth when a battle is won, or upon the occasion of the visit of some great statesman or warrior, or when some great commercial enterprise is successful, but these things do not cause joy in Heaven. The conversion of one soul—it may be a child, or a young man, or an old woman—the conversion of one soul, that it is that makes a gala day in Heaven. Now, God sees every thing just as it is, and if there are such rejoicings in Heaven when a soul is won, what must be the value of a soul! Let us confess the truth, we have not thought enough of the value of a soul. We have thought too much of the world, of its pleasures, of its profits, of its honors, but too little of our own souls. We have not thought of them as God thinks of them. Let us, then, strive to exalt our ideas, by considering some of the reasons why we should put a high value on our souls.

In the first place, we should value a human soul, because it is in itself superior to any thing else in the world. The whole world, indeed, with every thing in it, is good, for God made it. But He proceeded in a very different manner in the creation of the material world from what He did when He made the soul. He made the world, the trees, the rivers, the lights of heaven, the living creatures on the earth, by the mere word of his power. "God said, Be light made. And light was made." [Footnote 155]

[Footnote 155: Gen. i. 3.]

And God said, "Let the earth bring forth the green herb, and the fruit tree yielding fruit after its kind. And it was so." [Footnote 156] But when He made the soul, the Scriptures tell us, "He breathed into the face of man and he became a living soul." [Footnote 157]

[Footnote 156: Gen. i. 12.]

[Footnote 157: Gen. i. 26.]

By this action we are to understand that God communicated to man a nature kindred to his own divinity. The Holy Ghost, the Third Person of the Blessed Trinity, is the uncreated Spirit of God, eternally breathing forth and proceeding from the Father and the Son; and God, when He breathed into the face of man, signified that He imparted to man a created spirit kindred to his own eternal Spirit. The Holy Scriptures, indeed, expressly tell us that such was the case: "Let us make man to our image and our likeness." [Footnote 158]

[Footnote 158: Gen. i. 26, 27.]

This likeness consisted in the possession of understanding and free will, the power of knowledge and love—the two great attributes of God himself. You are, then, my brethren, endowed with a soul which raises you immeasurably above God's material creation. You have a soul made after God's image. This is the source of your power. The two things go together in Holy Scripture. "Let us make man to our image and likeness; and let him have dominion over the fishes of the sea and the fowls of the air, and the beasts, and the whole earth, and every creeping creature that moveth upon the earth." [Footnote 159] In the state of original innocence, no doubt, this dominion was more perfect, but even now it exists in a great degree. "Every kind of beast, and of birds, and of serpents, and of the rest, is tamed, and hath been tamed by mankind." [Footnote 160]

[Footnote 159: Gen. ii. 7.]

[Footnote 160: St. James iii. 7.]

See how a little boy can drive a horse. See how a dog obeys his master's eye and voice. See how even lions and tigers become submissive to their keepers. And the elements, often wilder than ferocious beasts, are obedient to you. The fire warms you and cooks for you, and carries you when you want to travel for business or pleasure. The wind fans the sails of your vessels, and the waters make a path for them under your feet. Even the lightning leaps and exults to do your bidding and to be the messenger of your will. Thus every thing falls down before you and does you homage, and proclaims you lord and master. What is the reason that every thing thus honors you? It is on account of the soul that is in you—the power of reason and will—the godlike nature with which you are endowed.

Yes, and your soul is the source of your beauty, too. In what consists the beauty of a man? Is it a mere regularity of form and feature? Do you judge of a man as you do of a horse or a dog? No; the most exquisitely chiselled features do not interest you, until you see intelligence light up the eye, and charity irradiate the countenance—then you are captivated. A man may be a perfect model of grace in his movements without exciting you, but when he becomes warm with inspirations of wisdom and virtue, when his words flow, his eye sparkles, his breast heaves, his whole frame becomes alive with the emotions of his soul, then it is you are carried away, you are ready almost to fall down and worship. What is the reason that Christian art has so far surpassed heathen art? that the Madonna is so far more beautiful than the Venus de Medicis? It is because the heathens portrayed mere natural beauty; the Christians portrayed the beauty of the soul. And if the soul is so beautiful in the little rays that escape from the body, what must it be in itself? God has divided his universe into several orders, and we find the lowest in a superior order higher than the highest in the inferior order. The soul, then, is more beautiful than any thing material. "She is more beautiful than the sun, and above all the order of the stars: being compared with the light she is found before it." [Footnote 161]

[Footnote 161: Wisdom vii. 29.]

O my brethren, do not admire men for their form, or their dress, or their grace, but admire then for the soul that is in them, for that is the true source of their beauty.

It is also the secret of their destiny. God did not give you this great gift to be idle. He gave it for a worthy end. He gave understanding that you might know Him, and free will that you might love Him; and this is the true destiny of man. You were not made to toil here for a few days, and then to perish. You were made to know God, to be the friend of God, the companion of God, to think of God, to converse with God, to be united to God here, and then to enjoy God hereafter forever. Once more, then, I say, do not admire a man for his wealth, or his appearance, or his learning. Do not ask whether he is poor or rich, ignorant or learned, from what nation he springs, whether he lives in a cabin or palace. Let it be enough that he is a man, possessed of understanding and free will, spiritual and immortal, with a soul and an eternal destiny. That is enough. Bow down before him with respect. Yes, respect yourselves—not for your birth, or your station, or your wealth, but for your manhood. "Let not the wise man glory in his wisdom, and let not the strong man glory in his strength, and let not the rich man glory in his riches. But let him that glorieth glory in this, that HE UNDERSTANDETH AND KNOWETH ME." [Footnote 162] Yes, my brethren, this is your true dignity, the soul that is in you—the soul, that makes you capable of knowing and loving God.

[Footnote 162: Jer. ix. 23, 24.]

And yet, there is another reason why you should value your souls, besides their intrinsic excellence—I mean, the great things that have been done for them. Do you ask me what has been done for your souls? I ask you to look above you, and around you, and under you. Oh, how fair the earth is! See these rivers and hills! Look on the green grass! Behold the blue vault of heaven! Well, this is the palace God has prepared for your abode; nay, not for your abode—your dwelling-place is beyond the skies, where "the light of the moon is as the light of the sun, and the light of the sun seven-fold, as the light if seven days,"—but for the place of your sojourn. This earth was made for you; and, as your destiny is eternal, therefore the earth must have been made to subserve your eternal destiny. Why does the sun rise in the morning, and go down at night? It is for you—for your soul. Why do summer and winter, seed-time and harvest, return so regularly? It is for you, and your salvation. The earth is for the elect. When the elect shall be completed, the earth, having done its work, will be destroyed. This is the end to which, in God's design, all things are tending. God does not look at the world, or its history, as we do. We say: "Here such a great battle was fought;" "there such a celebrated man was born;" "in this epoch such an empire took its rise, such a dynasty came to an end." But God says: "Here it was a little child died after baptism, and went straight to heaven;" "there it was I recovered that gifted soul, which had wandered away into error and sin, but which afterward became so great in sanctity;" "in such an age it was that I lost that great nation which fell away from the faith, and in such another, by the preaching of My missionary, I won whole peoples from heathenism." I know we shrink from this in half unbelief: When it is brought home to us that this little earth is the centre of God's counsels, and our souls of the universe, we are amazed and offended. But so it is. "All things work together unto good to them that love God." [Footnote 163] All things; not blindly, but by the overruling Providence of Him who made them for this end.

[Footnote 163: Rom. viii. 28.]

Do you ask me what has been done for your souls? I answer, the Church has been established for them. Look at the Church, and see how many are her officers and members—Bishops, Priests, Levites, Teachers, Students. All are yours—all are for you. For you the Pope sits on his throne; for you Bishops rule their Sees; for you the Priest goes up to the altar; for you the Teacher takes his chair, and the Student grows pale in the search for science. That the Apostolic commission might come down to you, St. Peter and St. Linus and Cletus ordained Bishops in the churches. That the true doctrine of Christ might come down to you uncorrupted, the Fathers of the Church gathered in council, at Nice, and Ephesus, and Chalcedon, and Trent. That you might hear of the glad tidings of Christ, St. Paul and St. Patrick labored and died. For you, for each one of you, as if there were no other, the great machinery of grace, if I may express myself so coarsely, goes on.

Do you ask what has been done for your souls? Angels and Archangels, and Thrones and Dominions, and Principalities and Powers—all the hosts of Heaven—have labored for them. "Are they not all ministering spirits, sent to minister for those who shall receive the inheritance of salvation?" [Footnote 164]

[Footnote 164: Heb. i 14.]

For you the whole Court of Heaven is interested, and one bright particular Angel is commissioned to be your guardian. For you St. Gabriel flew on his message of joy to the Blessed Virgin Mary, and St. Michael, the standard-bearer, waits at the gate of death.

Do you ask what has been done for your souls? From all eternity God has thought of them, the means of salvation have been determined on, the chain of graces arranged. And the Son of God has worked for them. Galilee, and Judea, and Calvary were the scenes of His labors on earth, and on His mediatorial throne in heaven He carries on still His unceasing labors in our behalf. And the Holy Ghost has worked. He spake by the Prophets, and on the day of Pentecost He came to take up His abode in the Church, never to be overcome by error, or grieved away by sin, to vivify the Sacraments, and to enlighten the hearts of the faithful by the preaching of the Gospel and His own holy inspirations.

Why, who are you, my brethren? The woman at Endor, when she had pierced the disguise of Saul, and knew that she was talking with a king, was afraid, and "said with a loud voice: 'Why hast thou deceived me, for thou art Saul?'" [Footnote 165]

[Footnote 165: I. Kings xxviii. 12.]

[Transcribers Note: The correct reference is I. Samuel xxviii. 12.]

So, I ask you, who are you? I look upon your faces, and I see nothing to make me afraid; but faith tears away the disguise, and I see each one of you radiant with light, a true prince, and an heir of heaven. I look above, and see Heaven open and the Angels of God ascending and descending on errands of which you are the object. I look higher yet, and I see God the Father watching you with anxiety, and the Son offering his blood for you, and the Holy Ghost pleading with you, and the Saints and Angels, some with folded hands supplicating for you, and others pointing with outstretched finger to the glorious throne reserved in Heaven for you.

Have you, my brethren, so regarded yourselves? Have you valued that soul of yours? Have you kept it as your most sacred treasure? Is it now safe and secure? Oh, how carefully do men keep a treasure they value highly! Kings spend many thousand dollars yearly just to take care of a few jewels. The crown jewels of England are kept, as you know, in the Tower. It is a heavy fortress, guarded by soldiers who are always on watch. At each door and avenue there is an armed sentinel. The jewels themselves are kept in glass cases, and visitors are not allowed to touch them. And all this pains and outlay to take care of a few stones that have come down to the Queen by descent, or been taken from her enemies! And that precious soul of yours, before which all the wealth of the world is but worthless dross with what care have you kept that? Alas! every door has been left open. No guard has been at your eyes to keep out evil looks. No guard at your ears to keep out the whispers of temptation. No guard at your lips to stop the way to the profane or filthy word. Nay, not only have you kept up no guard, but you have carried your soul where soul-thieves congregate. The Holy Scripture says: "A net is spread in vain before the eyes of a bird." [Footnote 166]

[Footnote 166: Provo i. 17.]

Yes, the birds and beasts are cunning enough to avoid an open snare; but you go rashly into dangers that are apparent to all but you. Sinners lie in wait for you. They say, in the language of Scripture: "Come, let us lie in wait for blood; let us hide snares for the innocent without cause. Let us swallow him up alive like hell, and whole as one that goeth down into the pit"—and you trust yourself in their power. Oh, fly from them! Consider the treasure you carry. "What shall it profit a man to gain the whole world and lose his own soul?" Will you sin against your own soul? you that are made after God's likeness; you that are princely and of noble rank, will you defile that image, and degrade yourselves to a level with the brutes that perish?

But there are others whose offence is of another kind. They let their salvation go by sheer neglect. If a man plants a seed, he must water it, or it will not grow. So the soul needs the dew of God's grace; and prayer and the sacraments are the channels of God's grace. Yet how men neglect the Sacraments! Even at Easter, when we are obliged to receive them, some absent themselves. It has been a matter of the keenest pain to us to miss some members of this congregation during the late Paschal season. You say, you have nothing on your conscience, and it is not necessary to go to confession. But is it not necessary to go to communion? Will you venture to deprive yourselves of that food of which, unless ye eat, the Saviour has said, "Ye have no life in you?" Or; you have a sad story to tell. You have fallen into mortal sin, and you are afraid to come. But do you think we have none of the charity of the Angels? Only convert truly, for it is a true conversion that gives the Angels joy, and we can give you the promise that Thomas à Kempis puts into the mouth of Him whose place we fill: "How often soever a man truly repents and comes to Me for grace and pardon, as I live, saith the Lord, who desireth not the death of a sinner, but rather that he should be converted and live, I will not remember his sins any more, but all shall be pardoned him."

And to you, my brethren, who, during the Easter season just past, have recovered the grace of God, I have a word of advice to give in conclusion. Keep your souls with all diligence. Keep your souls; that is your chief, your only care. Keep them by fleeing from the occasions of sin. Keep them by overcoming habitual sins. Nourish them by prayer and the sacraments. How great a disgrace, that all the irrational world should do the will of God, and you, the rulers of the world, should not do it! "The kite in the air hath known her time; the turtle, and the swallow, and the stork have observed the time of their coming; but my people have not known the judgment of the Lord." [Footnote 167]

[Footnote 167: Jer. viii. 7.]

How great an evil it is in a state when an unworthy ruler is at its head. The people mourn and languish, and at last rebel. So, when a man neglects the end for which he was made, the whole creation cries out against him. The stones under his feet cry out. The air he breathes, the food he eats, protest against the abuse he makes of them. Balaam's ass rebuked the madness of the prophet; so, when you live in sin, the very beasts cry out: "If we had souls, we would not be as you. Now we serve God blindly, and of necessity; but if we had souls, it would be our pride and happiness to give Him our willing service." All things praise the Lord;—"showers and dew;" "fire and heat;" "mountains and hills;" "seas and rivers;" "beasts and cattle." O sons of men, make not a discord in the universal harmony! Receive not your souls in vain! Serve God; "praise Him and exalt Him forever."

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Sermon XXI.
The Catholic's Certitude Concerning
The Way Of Salvation.
(Fifth Sunday After Pentecost.)

"I know whom I have believed, and I am certain that He is able to keep that which I have committed to Him against that day."
—II. Tim. I. 12.

No one can deny that this sentiment of the Apostle is a very comfortable one. To be confident of salvation is surely an excellent and desirable thing. But the question with many will be, is it possible to attain it? Now, there is one sense in which we cannot have a security of our salvation. We cannot have personally an infallible assurance that we are now and shall always continue in the grace of God, and shall at last taste the joys of heaven. Our free-will forbids such an assurance, and neither our happiness nor the attributes of God demand it. But there is another sense in which a man may be said to have a security of his salvation, viz.: that he has within his reach, beyond all doubt, the proper and necessary means for attaining that end; for if the means are certain, it is plain that in the use of those means he may acquire a moral certainty that he is doing those things which God requires of him, and a well-grounded hope of everlasting life. Such a security it would seem a man ought to be able to attain. Without it the service of God must be slavish. There can be no free and generous service where there is not confidence. When one is travelling at night on a road he is ignorant of, he goes slow, he falters; but in the broad daylight, in a road he is sure of, he walks with a free, bold step. So in religion, if we have no security that we are right, we can never do much for God. Man is not an abject being; he is erect; he looks up to heaven; he seems to face his Maker and to demand from Him to know the terms on which he stands toward Him. A confidence, then, at least of being able to secure our salvation, must be within our reach. The only question is, how is it to be attained? I answer, the Catholic has within his reach the security of his salvation, and he alone.

In order to show this to you, I must remind you of what I mean by salvation. Put out of your minds that childish idea that salvation is an external, arbitrary reward, given to some men when they die, and denied to others, as a father gives a book or a plaything to an obedient child, and refuses it to a disobedient. Salvation is union with God. We are made for God. That is our high destiny. In God are our life and happiness; and out of God our death and ruin. Salvation is our union with God for all eternity, and, in order to be united to God for all eternity, we must be united to Him here. Our salvation must begin here. Now, we are united to God when our intelligence is united to His intelligence by the knowledge of His truth, and our will united to His will by the practice of His love. When I affirm, then, that the Catholic alone has the means of attaining a security of salvation, I mean that he alone has the certain means of coming to the knowledge of His truth, and the practice of His will.

I say the certain means of coming to the knowledge of His truth, for it is one thing to have a certain knowledge of a thing, and another to have only some ideas about it. We see this difference when we contrast the language of a man who is master of a science with that of one who has only vague notions about it. One possesses his knowledge—knows what he knows—can make use of it; while the other is embarrassed the moment he attempts to use his knowledge—is uncertain whether he is right or wrong—is driven to guesses and conjectures. In the same way, in religion, it is one thing to have convictions more or less deep—opinions more or less probable, to be acquainted with its history and able to talk about it—and quite another to have certainty in religion, to know that one is right. This is the assurance I claim as the special possession of the Catholic. There can be no doubt that Catholics do, in point of fact, show a much deeper conviction of the truth of their religion than Protestants. This is a matter of common observation, and the proofs of it are on every side. Officers who come back from the army tell how struck they have been with the fact that the Catholic soldiers believe their religion and carry it with them to the camp. Proselyting societies make frequent confession of the difficulty they find in undermining the faith even of ignorant and needy Catholics. Those who have experience at death-beds, know that faith is found sometimes surviving almost every other good principle, and making a return to God possible. Those who are familiar with the history of the Church know that this faith is strong enough to bear the severest tests which can be applied to it; that it has often led men to despise what the world most esteems—wealth, pleasures, honor; that it sends the missionary to heathen countries without a regret for the home and the native land he leaves behind him; that, in fine, it has often led men in times past, and still at this day leads them joyfully to the rack, the stake, and the scaffold. Now, whence comes this deep and fixed certainty in religion? Is it a mere prejudice that melts before investigation? Is it a stupid fanaticism? Or has it a reasonable basis, and are its foundations deep in the laws of the human mind? I answer, Catholics have this undoubting conviction on the principle of faith in an infallible authority. There are but two principles of Christian belief, when we come to the bottom of the matter. One is the Protestant principle, viz.: that each one is to settle his faith for himself, by a study of the clear records of Christianity. The other is the Catholic principle, viz.: that each one is to receive his faith from an infallible authority. I feel as if I ought to pause here for a while to explain to you what is meant by this principle, for there exists in regard to it in some minds a misconception which does us the grossest injustice. Some persons imagine that our creed is manufactured for us by the Pope and the Bishops; that whatever they may think right and good they may decree, and forthwith we are bound to believe it. But this is an enormous mistake. The authority to which I submit myself is something far more august. It lies behind Pope and Bishop, and they must bow to it as well as I. The Pope and the Bishops are the organs of this authority, not its sources. When we speak of learning from an infallible authority, we mean that a man is to find out the truth by putting his intelligence in communication with that living stream of truth that flows down through the channel of tradition, that living word of God, that public preaching of the truth in the true Church, begun by the Apostles, carried on by their successors, confessed by so many people, recorded in so many monuments, adorned by so many sacrifices, attested by so many miracles. Unquestionably, this was the mode in which men were expected to learn the truth in apostolic days. It would not have been of the least avail for a man to have said to the Apostles that his convictions differed from theirs. He would have been instantly regarded as in error. "We are of God," says St. John; "he that is of God, heareth us; he that is not of God, heareth not us. By this shall ye know the spirit of truth, and the spirit of error." [Footnote 168]

[Footnote 168: I St. John iv. 6.]

Nor is there the least intimation in the New Testament that this principle was to be departed from after the death of the Apostles. On the contrary, we find that the Apostles ordained others, and communicated to them their doctrine and authority, that they might go on and preach just as they had done. And we find in the early Church that whenever a dispute arose about doctrine it was settled on the same principle, viz.: by an appeal to the tradition of the churches that had been founded by the Apostles. Thus, when a heresy arose in the second century, Tertullian confronts it by bidding them compare their doctrine with that of the Apostolic Churches: "If thou art in Achaia," he says, "thou hast Corinth; if thou art near Macedonia, thou hast Philippi; if thou art in Italy, thou hast Rome. Happy Church! to which the Apostles bequeathed not only their blood, but all their doctrines. See what she has learned, see what she has taught." [Footnote 169]

[Footnote 169: Adv. Præscr. Hær. n. 32-6.]

Such is the principle on which the Catholic Church acts to this day. Now, while the Protestant principle of private judgment in its own nature cannot lead to certainty, while in point of fact it has led only to endless dispute, until in our own day it has ended by bringing those Divine Records, which it began by exalting so highly, into doubt and contempt; the Catholic principle, which, I have stated, is the principle of tradition, is adapted to give a complete and a reasonable certainty and assurance. The reasons why this public tradition of the living Church has this power are manifold. They are in part natural, and in part supernatural—universal consent, internal consistency, Divine Attestation, the Warrant and Promise of Christ; all of which are so well summed up by St. Augustine, in that famous letter of his to the Manichees: "I am kept in the Catholic Church," he says, "by the consent of peoples and nations. By an authority begun with miracles, nourished by hope, increased by charity, confirmed by antiquity. By the succession of priests from the chair of St. Peter the Apostle—to whom our Lord after His resurrection gave His sheep to be fed—down to the present Bishop. In fine, by that very name of Catholic, which this Church alone has held possession of; so that though heretics would fain have called themselves Catholics, yet to the inquiry of a stranger, 'Where is the meeting of the Catholic Church held?' no one of them would dare to point to his own basilica." [Footnote 170]

[Footnote 170: Con. Ep. Manich. i. 5. 6.]

The conviction which such considerations produce is so deep that a Catholic rests in it with the most undoubting certainty. He can bear to look into his belief, to examine its grounds; he feels it is a venerable belief. He says it is impossible that God would allow error to wear so many marks of truth. To imagine it, would be to impugn His Truth, His Justice, His Power, His Goodness. And therefore, our belief in the Catholic religion is only another form of our belief in God. The foundation of that belief is deep and abiding, for it is the Eternal Throne of God. That desire for truth which is implanted in man's nature is not, then, given only to be baffled and disappointed—here is its fulfilment. Man is not raised to a participation in Christ of the Divine Nature, to be left in doubt of the most essential truths. To the Catholic are fulfilled those pleasant words of Christ: "I will not now call you servants, for the servant knoweth not what his Lord doeth; but have called you friends, because all things, whatsoever I have heard from my Father, I have made known to you." [Footnote 171]

[Footnote 171: St. John xv. 15.]

But some one may make an objection to my doctrine that certainty about truth is the result only of the Catholic principle of faith, and say: "You do not mean to assert that Protestants have no faith at all?" A Protestant may say to me: "I acknowledge that we have among us a great deal of disunion, and a great deal of doubt, but after all there are some things that are believed by some of us, that are believed without doubt, and you will not deny it." No, I will not deny it. I am glad to think that it is true. But how did you come by that belief? You did not come by it on the principle of Protestantism. The truth is, that principle never has been, and never can be carried out. Thank God, it is so. Utter unbelief would be the consequence. You have a child—a child that you love dearly. Will you wait, as your Protestantism requires you to do, till he is grown up, for him to form his religious convictions? No; if you love him, you will not. Your heart will teach you a better wisdom. You will tell him about God, you will tell him Who Christ is, and what He has done for him. You will tell him these things not doubtingly, not as if he was to suspend his judgment on them, but as true, and as to be believed then and there. And as he looks up at you out of his trusting eyes, he believes you. But how does he believe you? On the principle of a Protestant, or a Catholic? On the principle of private judgment, or on faith in an infallible authority? Surely it is as a Catholic he believes? You represent to him the Great Teacher, and his childish soul, in listening to you, hears the voice of God, performs a great act of religion, and does his first act of homage to Truth. His nature prompts him to believe you. Perhaps he is baptized, and then there is a grace in his heart which secretly inclines him the more to credit you, and he believes without doubting. He is a Catholic. Yes, my brethren, there is many a child of Protestant parents who is a Catholic—a Catholic, that is, in all but the name, and the fulness of instruction, and the richness of privilege. He may grow up in this way, perhaps continue all his life in this childish faith and trust. I will not say it may not be so. But let his reason fully awaken. Let him honestly go down to the foundation of his faith and see on what it rests, and then let him remain a Protestant, and retain his undoubting assurance if he can. He cannot—a crisis in his history has come. The sun has arisen with its living heat. The flower begins to wither. It must be transplanted or it will die. One of three things will happen: either the man, finding that he has not learned all that the Great Teacher has revealed, will go on to accept the rest and will become a Catholic; or he will learn to doubt what he has received already and become a sceptic; or he will stick to the creed he has received from his fathers or picked up for himself, and doggedly refuse to add to it, thus rendering himself at the same moment amenable in the Court of Reason for unreasonableness in what he holds, and in the Court of Faith for unbelief in what he rejects. So true it is that all the faith there is in the world is naturally allied to Catholicity. If men were perfectly reasonable and consistent, there would be only two parties in the religious world. Protestantism would disappear. On the one side would be faith, certainty, Catholicity; on the other, doubt and unbelief.

Nor is this all. The Catholic has not only a certain means of arriving at the knowledge of God's Faith, but he has also the sure means of knowing what he is bound to do in order to [obtain] salvation. Christianity is a supernatural religion, and therefore it suggests many questions to which natural reason cannot give the answer. By what means can I be united to Christ? Suppose I am in mortal sin, how can I be forgiven? What are the precise obligations binding on me as a Christian? Now, how distinctly, how promptly were such questions answered in the time of the Apostles! When St. Paul came to Ananias to know what he was to do, the answer was given to him: "Arise, and be baptized, and wash away thy sins." In the same way in the Catholic Church of this day, when a convert asks the same question, he gets the same answer: Seek in faith and repentance the cleansing of baptism, and thou shalt be joined unto Christ. Dost thou wish to know the life thou must practise? It is written in the ten commandments and the precepts of the Church. Dost thou wish to know where thou wilt gain strength to keep these laws? In prayer and the sacraments. The Church tells you how many there are, what is their efficacy, and the conditions of their saving operation. Art thou in sin after baptism? Dost thou ask the way back to God? The Church tells thee that sorrow for sin is the way back, and that this sorrow, when it is completed by confession, and accepted by the absolution of the priest, has a sacramental efficacy. So precise are the answers of Catholicity to the important practical questions of Christianity; and the authority which, I have already said, attaches to her words, gives ease and certainty to the conscience. But how different is all this in Protestantism! How various the answers given to these questions by the different sects! Nay, how contradictory sometimes the answers given in the same sect! It would be odious to go into particulars on this subject, but I say what I know when I affirm that an intelligent Protestant cannot have faith in his Church, if he would; he may adopt a set of opinions and associate with those who hold them, but he cannot have faith in his Church as a Church. It is not long since an intelligent member of one of the most enlightened Protestant denominations told me that the members of that Church did not seem to be satisfied with it, only they did not know whether there was any other Church in the world that would satisfy them. I say what I know when I affirm that there are young children in Protestant Churches who weep because they are told that God hates them, and they do not know how to gain His love. That there are numbers of young men, full of generous and noble thoughts and impulses, who are utterly destitute of any fixed Christian belief; who say they would like to believe, but they cannot. That there are multitudes and multitudes who die in this land, who die without one single Christian act, and many who submit at their last hour to take part in such acts at the request of friends, and on the chance that there may be some good in them. That there are some who openly lament that they were not born Catholics, that they might have had faith; some who rise in the night to cry to God out of the hopeless darkness that surrounds them; some who, in despair of seeing God with an intelligent faith, take up a substitute, the best of all, it is true, but still very insufficient—works of benevolence and philanthropy, and the beauties of a merely moral life; some who would welcome death itself if it would but remove their agony of doubt.

I do not say these things, my Protestant friends, if any such are present, to mock your miseries. Far from it. I know you too well. I love you too much. I say these things to lead you to truth and peace. I call to you struggling with the waves, from the rock whereon our feet have found a resting-place. I speak to you to the same effect as Christ spoke to the woman at the well of Jacob, who was a member of the schismatical Samaritan Church. You worship you know not what. We know what we worship; for salvation is of the Jews. You know not what you worship. Your religion is at the best one of doubt and uncertainty. We know what we worship. We are certain we are right, for salvation is of us. We are the Israelites. To us belongeth the adoption of children, and the glory, and the covenant, and the giving of the law, and the service of God, and the promises. This is the mountain of the Lord established in the last days on the top of the mountains, and exalted above the hills, into which the nations flow. O you who know not this home of peace, God did not make you to be as you are, to be tossed to and fro and carried about with every wind of doctrine, to follow blind guides, to give your money for that which is not bread, and your labor for that which satisfieth not. No, come with us and be happy. Come with us and be blessed. Come, let us go the mountain of the Lord, and to the house of the God of Jacob, and He will teach us His ways, and we will walk in His paths, for the law shall come forth from Sion, and the word of the Lord from Jerusalem. Incline your ear unto me and you shall live—the life of faith—the life of certainty and hope. You shall go out with joy and be led forth with peace. Instead of the shrub shall come up the fir tree: and instead of the nettle shall come up the myrtle tree. All nature shall sympathise in your happiness. The mountains and hills shall break forth into singing before you, and all the trees of the country shall clap their hands.

And you, my dear Catholics, be not indifferent to the graces God has given you, nor slothful in their use. You have it your power to make sure your salvation. About the means there is no uncertainty. They are infallible. It is of the Catholic Church that the prophet spoke when he said: "A path shall be there, and a way, and it shall be called a holy way, and this shall be unto you a straight way, so that even fools shall not err therein." [Footnote 172] And again: "This saith the Lord God: I will lay a stone in the foundation of Sion, a tried stone, a corner-stone, a precious stone, founded in the foundation." [Footnote 173]

[Footnote 172: Isai. xxxv. 8.]

[Footnote 173: Ibid. xxviii. 16.]

A way to heaven in this dark, uncertain world! a straight, a sure, a certain way! A rock under our feet under this swelling sea! O my brethren, what blessings are these! Let them not be in vain. Be not found at the last day with your lights gone out! The just shall live by faith. Live by yours. Do you wish to advance in a good life? Your faith tells you how. Does sin wage a war against you? Your faith tells you how to meet the combat. Are you in sin? Your faith tells you how to be forgiven. Correspond, then, honestly with this faith, and you may enjoy a firm hope of heaven, a hope not based on excited feelings, not claiming to be a direct inspiration from on high, but a reasonable hope, that will stay by you in adversity, and support you at the hour of death. Claim, then, your privilege. Assert the freedom wherewith Christ has made you free. Be not troubled or anxious all your days. Do your part, act up to your Catholic conscience, then lift up your heads, eat your bread with joy, and let your garments be always white, for God now accepteth your works. In this is the love of God perfected in us, that we may have confidence in the day of judgment. "Wherefore, be ye steadfast, unmovable, always abounding in the work of the Lord, forasmuch as ye know that your labor is not in vain in the Lord." [Footnote 174]

[Footnote 174: I. Cor. xv. 58.]

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Sermon XXII.
The Presence Of God.
(Fifth Sunday After Pentecost.)

"Indeed the Lord is in this place, and I knew it not.
How terrible is this place;
this is no other than the house of God and the gate of heaven."
—Gen XVIII. 16,17.

These words were spoken by the Patriarch Jacob when he was journeying to Syria to visit his uncle. He had stopped for the night at a place which was afterward called Bethel, and as he lay on the ground with a stone for his pillow, the Lord appeared to him in a vision, and blessed him, and foretold his future greatness and increase. Then, penetrated with a sense of the nearness and greatness of God, with whom he had been conversing, he rose up and exclaimed: "Indeed the Lord is in this place, and I knew it not." And trembling, he said: "How terrible is this place; this is no other than the house of God, and the gate of heaven." Now, my brethren, we may make every morning and every night a similar declaration. Wherever we are, we may say: "Indeed the Lord is in this place." Every spot on earth, on which a man tarries for a moment, becomes the house of God, and the gate of heaven. You understand what I mean. I am speaking of the omnipresence of God. Reason and faith both proclaim to us this great truth of the universal presence of God. He is present by His immensity to all creatures in the universe, whether living or inanimate. When God created the world, He did not leave it to itself. He sustains it by His presence and power, and it is in Him that we live and move and have our being. He is present to our intellectual and moral being as the light of reason and the object of the will, for without Him there would be no rational or moral life. He is present with us also as the source of that supernatural life which begins in baptism and ends in the uncreated vision of the Blessed Trinity in heaven. "He that loveth Me, shall be loved by My Father; and I will love him, and will manifest Myself to him. * * * And My Father will love him, and We will come to him, and will make an abode with him." [Footnote 175]

[Footnote 175: St. John xiv. 21, 23.]

O my brethren, what a piercing thought is this of the presence of God, if we did but realize it! Think for a moment of the doctrine of the real presence of our Lord in the Holy Eucharist. We believe that Jesus Christ, true God and true man, with His deity, His soul, His flesh and blood, is present in the holy sacrament of the altar. What consequences this doctrine has! The whole Catholic ritual, the ceremonies of worship, the respect paid to churches, the bowing of the knees, the incense, the lights, the music—all flow from this. In the early ages, during the times of persecution, it was customary for Christians to take home with them the Blessed Sacrament, that they might communicate themselves in case of necessity. Imagine that such were the custom now. Imagine you were to take away with you, this day, as you left the church, and carry to your homes, the sacred host which is kept in the tabernacle. How silently would you go along the streets! With what care would you seek out a place for our Saviour's body to repose in! With what care would you go about your home as long as He remained your guest! How would your heart thrill as you reflected, on a awaking in the morning, that indeed the Lamb of God, once crucified for you, was now a dweller in your own home! Yet, if such were the case, if the Blessed Sacrament were actually kept in your houses and in your rooms, God would not be any more present to you than He is now. He is indeed present in a different manner in the Blessed Eucharist. That sacramental presence, that sweet, precious, consoling presence of the body once broken, and the blood once shed for us, is confined to the sacramental species. But the presence of the deity, the real presence of God, is just as much outside as it is inside the church; just as much with us when we are at home as when we are at Mass. Not if His footstep shook the heavens and the earth, as it will on the Last Day when He comes to judgment, would God be one whit closer to us or more present to us than He is now to everyone of us, every day, and everywhere. Even sin cannot separate us from God. We sometimes say that mortal sin separates a man from God. As a figure of speech, implying the loss of God's grace and friendship which sin occasions, this language may pass, but taken literally it is untrue. A man can never be separated from God. That would be annihilation. Even when we are in sin, even when we are committing sin, God is with us and in us, the soul of our soul, the life of our life. Yes, here is a bond that can never be broken. Never can we escape that awful presence—never for a moment, here or hereafter. We shall not be more in God's presence in heaven or less in hell than we are now at this moment. God is not a God afar off up in heaven. He is here. This whole universe is only God's shadow. Every thing that is attests, not only God's creating power, but His living presence. He is in the flames and in the light, and in the pastures, in the air, in the ground, in the body, and in the soul, in the head, in the eye, in the ear, and in the heart. He is in us, and we are in Him, bathed in His presence as in an ocean, breathing in it as in an atmosphere. This is what the Psalmist expresses so beautifully: "Whither shall I go from Thy spirit? or whither shall I flee from Thy face? If I ascend into heaven, thou art there; if I descend into hell, thou art present; if I take my wings early in the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea, even there also shall Thy hand lead me, and Thy right hand shall hold me. And I said: Perhaps darkness shall cover me; and night shall be light in my pleasures. But darkness shall not be dark to thee; and night shall be light as the day; the darkness thereof, and the light thereof, are alike to Thee." [Footnote 176]

[Footnote 176: Ps. cxxviii. 7-12.]

If we thought more frequently of this, how many sins should we avoid! When a man is going to commit a crime, he takes precautions against discovery. He seeks out a secret place. He chooses a fitting hour. Vain precautions! There is no secret place on earth, no lonely spot, no time of darkness. There is a proverb among men that "walls have ears," and the counsel of the wise man is, "Detract not the king, no, not in thy thought; and speak not evil of the rich man in thy private chamber; because even the birds of the air will carry the voice; and he that hath wings will tell what thou hast said." [Footnote 177]

[Footnote 177: Eccles. x. 20.]

What is it that has impressed on men this universal fear of detection? Is it not an unconscious acknowledgment of the presence of God? Yes, we cannot shut the door against Him. We cannot leave Him out. We cannot draw the blind before His eye. "The eyes of the Lord in every place behold the good and the evil." [Footnote 178] "Before that Philip called thee, when thou wast under the fig-tree, I saw thee," [Footnote 179] said our Lord to Nathanael.

[Footnote 178: Prov. xv. 3.]

[Footnote 179: St. John i. 48.]

I wish you thought more of this; I am sure it would save you from many a sin. I have read of a holy man who, on hearing a person say that circumstances were favorable to the commission of a shameful sin, because no one was present, exclaimed: "What! are you not ashamed to do that before the living God which you would be ashamed to do before a man like yourself?" Even the eye of a dog has restrained men from the commission of crime—how much more ought the eye of God! Listen to the language you hear as you pass through the streets. The sacred names of God and Jesus Christ, how they are bandied about! Would men speak so, if they realized that God and Christ were then and there present? Would they insult God to His face? Suppose our Saviour were to appear to one of these men as he was pouring out his oaths and blasphemies, in the guise in which He was as He journeyed to Calvary to die for man, with sorrow in His eye, and sweat and blood on His forehead, with weak and faltering steps, and lips mute, but full of appealing love and agony; would he still go on with his dreadful oaths? No! The knee would be bent, the head would be bowed, and the very ground on which He walked would be regarded with reverent awe. Why so? Merely because he saw Him with his bodily eyes? Would it not be the same, if he were to close His eyes, and yet be aware of His presence? And is He not present to you as truly as if you saw Him, hearing each imprecation and blasphemy which you utter? Oh, spare Him! spare those sacred ears; spare His majesty and His goodness, and cease to profane His holy name. Tertullian, speaking of the early Christians, says they talked as those who believed that God was listening. Let the thought of God's presence be deeply graven on your soul, and it will teach you to use the language of a Christian—at least it will cure you of blasphemy.

It will cure you also of another sin of the tongue: that is of falsehood. Lying implies a virtual denial of God's presence, as well as blasphemy. When you lie, you forget the there is One who know's the truth—who is Himself the Eternal Truth; and you act as if He knew not, or would be a party to your fraud. Every lie is, in this respect, like the lie of Ananias and Sapphira—a lie to God.

Oh! how much must God be displeased by all the sins He witnesses. It is said of righteous Lot, that from day to day he vexed his righteous soul at all the sins which he witnessed in Sodom, where he dwelt. How must the Holy God be vexed every day at all the dark deeds, the injustices, the impurities, the falsehoods, the deceits, the treacheries, the cruelties, to which men compel Him to be a witness! Is it not a necessity that Christ should come with ten thousand of His saints to take vengeance on the ungodly! Would it not seem, otherwise, that God made Himself a party to our sins by keeping silence? "These things hast thou done," says the Almighty, "and I was silent. Thou thoughtest unjustly that I shall be like to thee: but I will reprove thee, and set before thy face." [Footnote 180]

[Footnote 180: Ps. xlix. 21.]

David committed adultery in secret; but God declared to him that He would punish him before all Israel, and in the sight of the sun. So the Judgment Day will bring to light every secret thing, and manifest, in the sight of all, those hidden sins which have been committed in the presence and with the full knowledge of God. They have never been hidden from God, and the disclosures of the Last Day are only the Presence and the Knowledge of God asserting and manifesting themselves to men. The thought of God, and of His Omnipresence, is thus the greatest preservative against sin.

But this is not all. The thought of God's perpetual and universal presence is our greatest strength and consolation. What a comfort it would be to have a friend, who loved us truly, who was most sincerely desirous of our welfare and happiness, who was very wise and able to help us in difficulties, never variable or capricious, but always true and faithful and trustworthy! The possession of such a friend will go as far as any thing earthly can go to make one perfectly happy. Now, each one of us really has such a friend. Such a friend? Ah! far better, far wiser, far more loving—even the good God! God, in the Holy Scriptures, represents the soul of man as a garden, in which it is His delight to walk about. What an idea this gives us of the familiarity a man may have with God. Why do not men take advantage of this loving condescension? Why do they not converse with God? Why do they not think of Him? The face of Moses shone after he had been talking to God on Mount Sinai, and our countenance would be light and joyous if we dwelt more in God's presence. Oh, to think of it! When we walk in the streets, when we sit down and rise up, there is one ever at our side—no, not at our side; but in us—our very life and being; God, the Beautiful and Good. God, Who made the heavens and the earth; the God of our fathers. God, Who has been the comfort and stay of the just in all ages, Who talked with Abraham, and went before the children of Israel in a cloud by day, and a pillar of fire by night. God, Who gave manna from heaven, Who spoke by the prophets, and in the still, small voice on Mount Horeb; Who awoke Samuel, as he lay sleeping in his little crib in the priest's chamber, and chose David, the youth, fair and of a ruddy countenance, to be the prince of His people; and who, in these last days, hath revealed Himself in His Only Begotten Son, full of grace and truth.

He it is Who is with you and me, even from our youth unto this day. O thou who art afflicted, tossed with tempests and not comforted, what dost thou want?—what wouldst thou have? The Eternal God is thy refuge, and underneath thee are the everlasting arms. Thou hast but to open thy soul, and floods of comfort and strength will pour into thee. Art thou weak? He is thy Strength. Art thou sad and lonely? He is thy Consoler. Art thou guilty? He is thy Redeemer—the God ready to pardon. Does the world allure thee? His Beauty will make its attractions pale. Is thy heart weary and inconstant? He is unfailing and unchanging. O source of strength, too much slighted! O happiness, too often blindly rejected! In the presence of God there is pleasure and life. "They that hope in the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall take wings as eagles; they shall run and not be weary; they shall walk and not faint." "For He is a covert from the wind, a hiding-place from the storm, as rivers of waters in a dry place, and the shadow of a great rock in a weary land." [Footnote 181]

[Footnote 181: Isai. xl. 31; xxxii. 2.]

Learn, then, my brethren, to keep yourselves in the presence of God. To forget God, what is it, but to plunge ourselves into sin and misery. To remember God, what is it, but to be strong and happy. "Walk before Me, and be thou perfect," said God to Abraham. That is the secret of perfection, the way to heaven. It is not necessary to go out of your own mind. It is not necessary to lift the eye to heaven, or bend the knee. Closer than the union of soul and body is the union between God and thee. Quicker than thought is the communion between thy soul and its Maker. "Thou shalt cry," says the Almighty, "and I will say: Here I am—yea, even before thy call, I will hear, and even while thou art yet speaking I will answer." [Footnote 182]

[Footnote 182: Isai. lviii. 9; lxv. 24.]

Practise, then, attention to the presence of God. I do not speak so much now of daily prayers, and of your devotions in the church. But when you are abroad in the busy world, or in your homes, accustom yourselves from time to time to think of God. Complicated pieces of machinery require the care of an overseer from time to time, lest they get out of gear. So we must think of God from time to time during the day, and keep the powers of our soul in harmony with the will of God, lest they fall into disorder, and the work of life be hindered. It is not a work of very great difficulty. The chief difficulty lies in its simplicity. It is so much easier to pray than we think, that oftentimes we have already prayed when we are perplexing ourselves how to pray, and busying ourselves with preparing to pray. God is in us, in the very centre of our soul. He knows its most secret thoughts, and thus a simple act of the will is enough to bring us into communion with Him. To realize this is to be men of prayer, to be as happy as it is possible for us to be in this life, and to begin here that contemplation of God which will constitute our everlasting beatitude in heaven.

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Sermon XXIII.
Keeping The Law Not Impossible.
(Ninth Sunday After Pentecost.)

"I can do all things in Him who strengtheneth me."
—Phil. VI. 13.

If I am not mistaken, a very great number of the sins that men commit, are committed through hopelessness. The pleasures of sin are by no means unmixed. Indeed, sin is a hard master; and all who practise it find it so. I never met a man who said it was a good thing, or that it made him happy. On the contrary, all lament it, and say that it makes them miserable. Why, then, do they commit it? Very often, I am persuaded, because they think they have no power to resist it. They feel in themselves strong passions; they have yielded to them in times past, they see that others yield to them, and so they come to think it impossible not to yield to them. The law of God is too difficult, they say. It is impossible to keep it. It may do for priests or nuns who are cut off from the world, or for women, or for the old, or for children, but for us who mix in the world, whose blood is warm, and whose passions are strong, it is too high and pure. It is all very well to talk about; it is all very well to hold up a high standard to us, but you must not expect us to attain it. The utmost that you can expect of us is to stop sinning, now and then, and make the proper acknowledgments to God by going to confession; but actually to try not to sin, to keep on endeavoring not to sin at any time, or under any circumstances, that is impossible, or at least so extremely difficult that, practically speaking, it is impossible. Are there none of you, my brethren, who recognise this as the secret language of your hearts? Is there not an impression in your minds that the law of God is too strict, or at least that it is too strict for you, and that you cannot keep it? If so, do not harbor it. It is a fatal error. No; it is not impossible to keep God's law. It is not impossible to keep from mortal sin. It is, I admit, impossible to keep from every venial sin, though even here we can do a great deal, if we try. Such is the frailty of human nature that even the best men, as time goes on, fall into some slight faults, only the Blessed Virgin having been able, as we believe, to pass a whole life without even in the smallest thing offending God. But it is possible for all of us to keep from mortal sin, at all times and under all circumstances. This, I think, you will acknowledge when you consider the character of God, the nature of God's law, and the power of God's grace which is promised to us.

I say the character of God is a pledge of our ability to keep from mortal sin. God requires us to be free from mortal sin, and He requires it under the severest penalties, and therefore it must be possible for us. You may say, "God requires us to be free from venial sin too, and yet you have just said we cannot avoid every venial sin." But the case is far different. A venial sin does not separate us from God, and does not receive extreme punishment from Him—nay, those venial sins which even good men commit, and which are only in small part voluntary, are very easily forgiven—but a mortal sin cuts us off entirely from God, and deserves eternal punishment. You know, one mortal sin is enough to damn a man—one single sin of drunkenness, for instance, or impurity; a cherished hatred, a false oath, or an act of grave injustice. One such sin is sufficient to sink a man in hell, and although we know very little in particular of the torments of hell, we have every reason to believe that they are most bitter, and we know that they are eternal. Now, can it be thought that a being of justice and goodness, as we know God to be, would inflict so extreme a punishment for an offence which was unavoidable, or could only be avoided with the utmost difficulty? Holy Scripture sends us to an earthly parent for an example of that tenderness and affection which we are to expect from our Heavenly Father. "If you, being evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father who is in heaven, give good things to them that ask Him." [Footnote 183]

[Footnote 183: St. Matt. vii. 11.]

What would be the thought of an earthly father who laid upon his son a command which it was all but impossible for him to comply with, and then punished him with the utmost rigor for not fulfilling it? You would not call that man a father, but a tyrant; a tyrant like Pharaoh, who would not give straw to the children of Israel, and yet set taskmasters over them to exact of them the full measure of bricks as when straw had been given them. Why, if you were going along the street and saw a man whipping unmercifully an overloaded horse, you would not bear it patiently. And would you attribute conduct so disgraceful among men to our Father in heaven? God forbid! Far be such a thought from us! It is not so. We must not think it. At least we cannot think it as long as we remain Catholics; for when the earlier Protestants proclaimed the shocking doctrine that though God punished men for disobeying his law, man was really unable to obey it, the Church branded the doctrine as a heresy to be abhorred of all men, as most false in itself, and most injurious to God. No; God loves his creatures far more than we conceive of: He does not desire the death of a sinner. He wills truly the salvation of all men. His goodness and mercy, His truth and justice, are all so many infallible guarantees of our ability to keep His law. He would not have given us His law unless He had meant us to keep it. He would not punish us so severely for breaking it, unless our breaking it was an act of deliberate, wilful, determined rebellion.

But there is another source from which I draw the conclusion that it is possible to keep the law of God—from the nature of the law itself. The law of God is of such a nature that, for the most part, in order to commit mortal sin, it is necessary to do or to leave undone some external act, which of its own nature it is entirely in our power to do or not to do. For instance, the law says, "Thou shalt not steal;" now, to steal, you have got to put your hand into your neighbor's pocket. The law says: "Thou shalt do no murder;" to murder, you must stretch out your hand against your neighbor's life. Nay, it requires ordinarily several external actions before a mortal sin is consummated. Thus the thief has his precautions to take, and his plans to lay. The drunkard has to seek the occasion. He seeks the grogshop. Every step he takes is a separate act. When he gets there, it is not the first glass that makes him drunk. He drinks again and again, and it is only after all these different and repeated actions that he falls into the mortal sin of drunkenness. Now, here you see are external acts—acts in which the hand, the foot, the lips, are concerned, and which, therefore, it is perfectly in our power to do or to let alone. This requires no proof, but admits of a striking illustration. You have heard of the great sufferings of the martyrs; how some of them were stoned to death, others flayed alive, others crucified, others torn to pieces by wild beasts, others burned to death. Now, what was it all about? You answer, "They suffered because they would not deny Christ." Very well; but how were they required to deny Christ? "What was it they were required to do? I will tell you. Sometimes they were required to take a few grains of incense and throw it on the altar of Jupiter; that would have been enough to have saved them from their sufferings. They need not have said, 'I renounce Christ;" only to have taken the incense would have been sufficient. Sometimes they were required to tread on the cross. Sometimes to swear by the genius of the Roman emperor; that was all. And the fire was kindled to make them do these things; but they would not. The flames leaped upon them, but not a foot would they lift from the ground. Their hands were burnt to the bone, but no incense would they touch. The marrow of their bones melted in the heat, and forced from them a cry of agony, but the name of the emperor's tutelary genius did not pass their lips. Now, will you tell me that you cannot help doing what the martyrs would not do to save them from death? They had a fire before them and a scourge behind them, and they refused; and you say you cannot help yourself when you are under no external violence whatever! They died rather than lift a hand to do a forbidden thing; have you not the same power over your hand that they had? They died rather than utter a sinful word; have you not as much power over your tongue as they? Indeed you have, for you control both one and the other whenever you will. I say there is no sinner whose conduct does not show that his actions are perfectly in his own power. The thief waits for the night to carry on his trade; during the day he is honest enough. The greatest libertine knows how to behave himself in the presence of a high-born and virtuous female. And even that vice which men say it is most difficult of all to restrain when once the habit is formed—profane swearing—you know how to restrain it when you will, for even the heaviest curser and swearer ceases from his oaths before the priest, or any other friend whom he greatly respects. Now, if you can stop cursing before the priest, why can you not before your wife and children? If you can be chaste in the presence of a virtuous female, why can you not be chaste everywhere? If you can be honest when the eye of man is on you, why can you not be honest when no eye sees you but that of God?

"But," someone may say, "there is a class of sins to which the remarks you have made do not apply, that is, sins of thought. You must admit that they are of such a nature that it is all but impossible not to commit them." No, I do not admit it. I acknowledge that sins of thought are more difficult to guard against than sins of action; but I do not acknowledge that it is impossible to guard against them. To prove this, I have only to remind you that an evil thought is no sin until we give consent to it. To keep always free from evil thoughts may be impossible, because the imagination is in its nature so volatile, that but few men have it in control; but, though it be not possible to restrain the imagination, it is always possible to restrain the will. In order for the will to consent to evil it is necessary both to know and to choose, and therefore from the nature of the thing one can never fall into sin either inevitably or unawares. And besides, the will has a powerful ally in the conscience, whose province it is to keep us from sin and to reproach us when we do sin—so that it is scarcely possible, for one who habitually tries to keep free from mortal sin, to fall into it without his conscience giving a distinct and unmistakable report. And this is so certain that spiritual writers say that a person of good life and tender conscience, who is distressed with the uncertainty whether or no he has given consent to an evil temptation, ought to banish that anxiety altogether and to be sure that he has not consented. But suppose these evil temptations are importunate, and remain in the soul even when we resist them, and try to turn from them? No matter. They do not become sins on that account; nay, they become the occasion of acts of great virtue. It is related in the life of St. Catharine of Sienna that on one occasion that pure virgin's soul was assailed by the most horrible temptations of the devil. They lasted for a long time, and after the conflict our Saviour appeared to her with a serene countenance. "O my Divine Spouse," she said, "where wast thou when I was enduring these conflicts?" "In thy soul," he replied. "What, with all these filthy abominations?" "Yes, they were displeasing and painful to thee; this therefore was thy merit, and thy victory was owing to My presence." So that we see even here, where the danger is greatest, the law of God exacts of us nothing but what in its own nature is in our power to do or not to do.

But if you wish another proof of your ability to keep God's law, I allege the power of His grace. I can imagine an objector saying: "You have not touched the real difficulty, after all. The difficulty is not on God's side; no doubt. He is good and holy. Neither are the requirements of his law so very hard. The difficulty is in us. We are fallen by nature. We have sinned after baptism. We are so weak, so frail, that to us continued observance of the divine commandments is impossible." No, my brethren, neither is this true. It is not true from the mouth of any man; least of all from the mouth of a Christian. "No temptation," says the Apostle, "hath taken hold of you but Such as is human: And God is faithful, who will not suffer you to be tempted above that which you are able; but will also with the temptation make a way of escape that you may be able to bear it." [Footnote 184]

[Footnote 184: I Cor. x. 13.]

The weakest and frailest are strong enough with God's grace, and this grace He is ready to give to those that need it. At all times and in all places He has been ready to give His grace to them that need it, but especially is this true under the gospel. The Holy Scriptures make this the distinguishing characteristic of the times of the gospel, that they shall abound in grace. "Take courage, and fear not," the prophet says, in anticipation of the time when Christ should come in the flesh, "Behold, God will come and save you. Then shall the eyes of the blind be opened, and the ears of the deaf unstopped. Then shall the lame man leap as an hart, and the tongue of the dumb shall be free; for waters are broken out of the desert, and streams in the wilderness. And that which was dry land shall become a pool, and the thirsty land springs of water." [Footnote 185] Such was the promise, hundreds of years before Christ, of a time of peace, of happiness and grace; and when our Lord was come, He published that the good time had indeed arrived: "The spirit of the Lord hath anointed me to preach the gospel to the poor. He hath sent me to heal the contrite of heart. To preach deliverance to the captive, and sight to the blind, to set at liberty them that are bruised, to preach the acceptable year of the Lord." [Footnote 186]

[Footnote 185: Is. xxxv. 4-7.]

[Footnote 186: St. Luke iV. 18, 19.]

Yes, the great time has come; the cool of the day; the evening of the world; the time when labor is light and reward abundant. O my brethren, you know not what a privilege it is to be a Christian! You enter a church. You see a priest in his confessional. A penitent is kneeling at his feet. The sight makes but little impression on you, for you are accustomed to it, but this is that "fountain" promised by the prophet "to the house of David and to the inhabitants of Jerusalem, for the washing of the sinner;" a fountain that flows from the Saviour's side, and not only cleanses, but strengthens and makes alive. You pass an altar. The priest is giving communion. Stop! it is the Lord himself! the bread of angels! the wine of virgins! the food "whereof if a man eat he shall live forever." And not only in the church do you find grace; it follows you home. You shut your door behind you, and your Father in heaven waits to hear and grant your prayer. Nay, at all times God is with you, for you are the temple of God, and He sits on the throne of your heart to scatter His grace on you whenever and wherever you ask Him. Do not say, then, Christian, that you are unable to do what God requires of you. It is a sin of black ingratitude to say so. Even if it were impossible for others to keep the law of God, it is not for you. He hath not done to every nation as he hath done to you. When the patriarch Jacob was dying, he blessed all his children, but his richest blessing was for Joseph. So God has blessed all the children of His hand, but you, Christian, are the Joseph whom He hath loved more than all His other sons. To others He hath given of "dew dew of heaven," and "the fatness of the earth," but you "He hath blessed with all spiritual blessings in Christ."

Away, then, with the notion that obedience to the commandments of God is impracticable—a notion dishonorable to God and to ourselves. It is possible to keep free from mortal sin—for all—at all times, under all temptations. Nay, I will say more. It is, on the whole, easier to live a life of Christian obedience, than a life of sin. I say "on the whole," for I do not deny that here and there, in particular cases, it is harder to do right than wrong; but taking life all through, one who restrains his passions will have less trouble than one who indulges them. Heroic actions are not required of us every day. In order to be a Christian, it is not necessary to be always high-strung and enthusiastic. It is not necessary to be a devotee, to adopt set and precise ways, to take up with hypocrisy and cant—in a word, to be unmanly. It is just, for the most part, the most matter of fact, the most practical, the most simple and straight-forward thing in the world. It is to be a man of principle. It is to have a serious, abiding purpose to do our duty. It is to be full of courage; not the courage of the braggart, but the courage of the soldier—the courage that thrives under opposition, and survives defeat, the courage that takes the means to secure success—vigilance, humility, steadfastness, and prayer. Before this, all difficulties vanish, and this is what we want most of all. It is amazing how little courage there is in the world. We are like the servant of Eliseus, the prophet, who, when he awoke in the morning, and saw the great army that had been sent by the King of Syria to take his master, said, "Alas, alas, alas, my lord; what shall we do!" But Eliseus showed him another army—the army of angels ranged on the mountain, with chariots of fire and horses of fire, ready to fight for the servants of God, and he said, "Fear not: for there are more with us than with them." [Footnote 187]

[Footnote 187: IV. Kings vi. 15-17.]

Why should we fear? Christianity is no new thing. The path of Christian obedience is not an untried path. Thousands have trod it and are now enjoying their reward. God, and the angels, and the saints, are on our side. And there are multitudes of faithful souls in the word who are fighting the good fight, and keeping their souls unsullied. We cannot distinguish them now, but one day we shall know them. Oh! let us join them. Yes, we will make our resolution now. Others may guide themselves by pleasure or expediency; we will adopt the language of the Psalmist: "Thy Word is a lamp to my feet, and a light to my paths." [Footnote 188]

[Footnote 188: Ps. cxviii. 105.]

We will be Christians, not in name, but in deed. Not for a time only, but always. One thought shall cheer us in sadness and nerve us in weakness, "I have sworn and am determined to keep the judgments of Thy justice." [Footnote 189]

[Footnote 189: Ibid. 106.]

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Sermon XXIV.
The Spirit Of Sacrifice..
(For The Feast Of St. Laurence, Martyr.)

"I beseech you therefore, brethren, by the mercies of God,
that you present your bodies a living sacrifice,
holy, pleasing to God, your reasonable service."
—Rom. XVII. 1.

There is, my brethren, among many men who practise Christian duties to a certain extent, one remarkable want. I will call it the want of the Spirit of Sacrifice. Compare such men with any of the saints, and you will see at once what I mean. One saint may differ a great deal from another, but this is common to them all—a vivid sentiment of God's greatness and Sovereignty, of His right to do with us what He wills, and a willing and reverent recognition of that right. Now the defective Christianity to which I allude lacks this spirit altogether. It differs from the Christianity of the saints not only in degree but in kind. Not only does it fail to produce as many sacrifices as the saints made for God, but the idea of Sacrifice is completely strange and foreign to it. It bargains about the commandments of God, and, when any commandment is difficult, postpones fulfilment, or refuses it altogether. To prevent any of you from being content with so imperfect and unsatisfactory a sort of religion, I will give you this morning some reasons why you should aim to serve God in the spirit of sacrifice.

First, then, I assert that the spirit of sacrifice is necessary. God requires it of us. On this point I think some people make a mistake. They seem to think that a willingness to make sacrifices for God is one of the ornamental or heroic parts of religion, and that everyday people are not required to have it. But this is not so. The Spirit of Sacrifice is required of everyone. I infer this from the fact that an external sacrificial worship is necessary. It is frequently said that there is no religion without a sacrifice. And this is true. There never has been, nor indeed could there be, a true religion without having some external act of sacrificial worship. But why is this necessary? Not simply because we are sinners and need propitiation, for some theologians have thought that sacrifices would have been necessary, though man had never sinned. What religion requires a sacrifice for, is this—to express our sense of God's supreme Sovereignty. In a Sacrifice there is something offered to God and destroyed, thus signifying that God is the Author of Life and Death, our Creator, our Ruler, our Supreme Judge. The excellence of the Christian Sacrifice—the Sacrifice of the Mass—consists in this, that the victim offered is a living, reasonable, Divine Victim, even the Son of God Incarnate, Who by His Life and Death rendered most worthy homage to the Divine Majesty, and still in every Mass, continually, offers it anew.

This, then, is what the Mass is given us for, and this is why we are required to assist at the Mass, that we may in a perfect and worthy manner recognize God's Sovereignty and our dependence on Him. When we assist at Mass, the meaning of our action, if put into words, would be something like this: "I acknowledge Thee, O God, for my Sovereign Lord, and the Supreme Disposer of my Life and Death, and because I am not able worthily to express Thy Greatness, I beg of Thee to accept, as if it were my own, all the submission with which Thy Son honored Thee on the Cross, and now again honors Thee in this Holy Sacrifice." Now, it cannot be imagined that we are required to make this profession to God without at the same time being required to have in our hearts that sentiment of God's greatness and sovereignty which we express with our lips. Our Lord did not come to suffer and die, and give His life [as] a sacrifice to the Father, to dispense us from the obligation of worshipping God ourselves, but to give to our worship a perfect example and a higher acceptability. Without our worship the Mass is incomplete. On our Lord's part, indeed, the Sacrifice of the Mass is always efficacious, for He is present wherever it is celebrated; but on our part it is empty and unmeaning if no one really fears God, submits unreservedly to Him, is willing to do all He commands, and acknowledges that all that could be done for Him is too little. A worship of Sacrifice implies a life of sacrifice. This is beautifully illustrated in the life of St. Laurence, whose Martyrdom we celebrate to-day.

St. Laurence was one of the seven deacons of the city of Rome in the third century of the Christian era. As deacon, it was his office to serve the Mass of St. Xystus, who was at that time Pope. "When the persecution broke out under the Emperor Valerius, St. Xystus was seized and carried off to martyrdom. As he was on his way, St. Laurence followed him weeping and saying: "Father where are you going without your son? Whither are you going, O holy priest, without your deacon? You were not wont to offer sacrifice without me your minister, wherein have I displeased you? Have you found me wanting to my duty? Try me now and see whether you have made choice of an unfit minister for dispensing the Blood of the Lord." And St. Xystus replied: "I do not leave you, my son, but a greater trial and a more glorious victory are reserved for you who are stout and in the vigor of youth. We are spared on account of our weakness and old age. You shall follow me in three days." And, in fact, three days after, St. Laurence was burnt to death, his faith rendering him joyful, even mirthful in his sufferings.

Now, I do not look on this conversation as poetry. Times of affliction are not times when men look around for fine ways of expressing themselves. At such times words come straight from the heart. I see, then, in the words of St. Laurence the sentiments with which he was accustomed to assist at Mass. As he knelt at the foot of the altar at which the Pope was celebrating, clothed in the beautiful dress of a deacon, his soul was filled with the thoughts of God's greatness and goodness, and along with the offering of the heavenly Victim, he used to offer to God his fervent desire to do something to honor the Divine Majesty, the color sometimes mounting high in his youthful cheek as he thought how joyfully he would yield his own heart's blood as a sacrifice, if the occasion should offer. Martyrdom to him was but a natural completion of Mass. It was but the realisation of his habitual worship.

In the early history of the city of St. Augustine, in Florida, it is related that a priest, who was attacked by a party of Indians, asked permission to say Mass before he died. This was granted him, and the savages waited quietly till the Mass was ended. Then the priest knelt on the altar steps and received the death-blow from his murderers. With what sentiments must that priest have said Mass! with what devotion! with what reverence! with what self-oblation! So, I suppose St. Laurence, and St. Xystus, and the Christians of the old time were accustomed always to assist at Mass, with the greatest desire to honor God, the most complete spirit of self-sacrifice. Now, I do not say we are all bound to be as holy as these great saints. I do not even say we are bound to desire martyrdom; but I do say there is not one kind of Christianity for the saints and another for ordinary Christians; one kind, all self-denial for them, and another kind, all self-indulgence, for us. I say God is to us what He is to the saints—our Creator and our Sovereign; and He demands of us the worship of creatures and subjects—the worship of sacrifice—a willingness to do all He demands of us now, and a readiness to do greater things the moment that He makes it known to us that such is His Will.

How many difficulties, my brethren, such a spirit takes out of the way of Christian obedience! It cuts off at One blow all our struggles with the decrees of God's providence. How much of our misery comes from murmurings against the providence of God! One is suffering under sickness and pain, another is overwhelmed with reverses and afflictions, another is irritated by continual temptations. No one can deny that these are severe trials; but see how the spirit of sacrifice disposes of them. It says to the sick man, to the suffering man, what Isaac said to his father Abraham on the mountain: "See, here is fire and wood, but where is the victim for a burnt offering? Here are the materials for a beautiful act of sacrifice. It wants only a meek heart for a victim, and love to light the flame, to turn the sickbed, the house of mourning, the soul agitated by temptation, into an altar of the purest worship, and the language of complaint into the liturgy of praise. Again: it sometimes happens that a man gets involved in relations of business or friendship, or becomes addicted to some indulgence, which threaten to ruin his soul, and he is required to renounce them, to give up the intimacy, to change his business, to deny himself that indulgence. The command of God is distinct and peremptory: "If thy hand or thy foot scandalize thee, cut it off and cast it from thee. And if thy eye scandalize thee, pluck it out and cast it from thee." [Footnote 190]

[Footnote 190: St. Matt. xviii. 8.]

How does he receive it? He says: "It is too hard." Too hard! And is it, then, only God for whom we are unwilling to do any thing hard? We must make sacrifices of some sort in life, and heavy ones, too. We cannot get rid of the necessity of making them, do what we will. The world requires them of us. Our families require them. Our health requires them. Our pleasure requires them. Nay, our very sins require them. And what we do willingly for the world, for our families, for our health, our pleasure, our sins, shall we refuse to do for the great and good God? for Christ our Saviour, who did not refuse the Cross to give us an example of the obedience we owe His Father?

Or take another example: A person who is not a Catholic finds much that is reasonable in Catholic doctrine, but makes a great stumbling-block of confession; or even a Catholic gets a dread of it, and stays away for years and years from the sacraments of the Church. Now, of course, in such cases it is only charitable to show that the difficulty of confession is very much magnified, and that, like many other things that frighten us, it loses its terror when we approach it; but, to say the truth, I always feel something like shame when I hear one trying to prove to such persons that confession is easy; partly because I know he cannot succeed perfectly, since confession is of its own nature arduous, and in particular cases may be very difficult; but chiefly, because I cannot help thinking if God Himself were to answer them, it would be in the few strong words He has used in the Holy Scripture: "Be still: and know that I am God." [Footnote 191] A creature must not parley with his maker, a sinner with his Judge.

[Footnote 191: Ps. xlv. 11.]

Yes: we shrink from the very mention of sacrifice, yet it is the spirit of sacrifice that makes all our duties easy. No doubt it is our privilege to reason about the commandments of God; and we shall often see, what we know is always the case, that they are full of wisdom and goodness; but we need in practice some principle that is ready at hand always to be used in every time of trial, in every difficulty, and that is the Spirit of Sacrifice, a profound reverence for God, an unquestioning conviction of His absolute right to dispose of us as He will. Abraham had this spirit, and therefore faltered not a moment when the command came to sacrifice his son Isaac. Moses had it, and therefore "when he was grown up, refused to be called the son of Pharaoh's daughter, choosing rather to suffer persecution with the people of God, than to enjoy the pleasure of sin for a time." [Footnote 192]

[Footnote 192: Heb. xi. 24.]

The Christian saints have had it, and therefore they trampled on every repugnance, every attachment, when it came in the way of their perfection. And this principle is the life of the great religious and charitable orders of the Church. These institutions are a mystery to Protestants. Soon after the "Little Sisters of the Poor" were established in London, a Protestant writer, in one of the periodicals of the day, described a visit he had made to their establishment, and after giving a most interesting account of the self-denying labors of the community, he says he was curious to trace the feelings that actuated these ladies in devoting themselves to duties so apt to be repulsive to their class. He supposed that benevolence was the impulse most concerned, but, on questioning the Sisters, found that this was not the case, but that the basis of their action was a principle of self-renunciation for Christ's sake. To him such a motive had in it something strange and unnatural; but, really, this is always the sustaining principle of all high religious action. Every thing fails sooner or later but the spirit of sacrifice. This is the spirit that does great things for God, that cuts down the mountains in our road to heaven and fills up the valleys, making straight paths for our feet.

And how pleasing is such a spirit to God! Even among men such a spirit is highly esteemed. Who does not admire a generous, self-sacrificing man? In a family, who is so much loved as the one whose thoughts are all for others? Where are such tears shed as over the fresh grave of a self-forgetful friend? What makes the character of a mother so beautiful but the trait of self-sacrifice? And so before God there is nothing so beautiful as the spirit of Sacrifice. A religion which does not centre in itself, but which centres in God, that is His delight. There is nothing abject in such a spirit. To serve God is to reign. God knows our nature, and He requires of us nothing but what gives to our whole being its highest harmony. The man who has the spirit of sacrifice is a royal man. How beautiful, my brethren, is an altar! Every thing connected in our minds with an altar is beautiful. When we think of an altar, we think of sweet flowers and burning lights, and smoking incense, and a meek victim, and worship, music, and prayer. So, in the heart where the spirit or Sacrifice reigns, there are sweet flowers of piety, and flaming zeal, and the silent victim of a heart that struggles not, and the incense of prayer, and the harmonies of joy and praise. Oh, if there is a sacred place on earth, a home of peace, a shrine, a holy of holies, a place where heaven and earth are nearest, where God descends and takes up His abode, it is in the heart of the man who is penetrated through and through with the sense of God's greatness, and who walks before Him in reverence and continual worship.

My brethren, I covet for you such a spirit. I do not always find it among Catholics. I remember, some years ago, when collecting for a charitable object, I called on a man who was engaged in a large business, and asked for a contribution. He said, Oh yes, he thought highly of the undertaking, and wished to give a generous donation, say one hundred dollars. When I called for it at the appointed time, he asked me if I did not want any goods in his line. They were articles of luxury, such as very few persons have occasion for, and I told him, no. Then he mentioned a rich gentleman with whom I happened to be acquainted, and asked me to secure for him his custom, intimating that this donation of one hundred dollars depended on my success. Now I do not know that this person was at all sensible of acting an unworthy part, but I think you must all feel that this was very far from the spirit in which one ought to give any thing to God; and yet, my brethren, inferior motives enter too much and too often into our religious actions. Selfishness mingles too much with our piety. Oh, how diluted, how paltry and feeble is our religion, compared with that of other times! David refused the site for an altar that Areuna offered him as a gift, saying: "Nay but I will buy it of thee at a price; and will not offer to the Lord my God holocausts free cost." [Footnote 193]

[Footnote 193: 2 Kings xxiv. 24.]

Magdalene took a box of spikenard ointment, because it was the most precious thing she had, and very costly, and broke the box, and poured it wastefully on the Saviour's head. [Footnote 194]

[Footnote 194: St. Matt. xxvi. 7.]

Those who have examined the cathedrals of Europe that were built in the Middle Ages, tell us that away up on the outside of the roof, there is found carving as rich, as beautiful, and as elaborate as that on the parts in full sight. A human eye would hardly see it once a year; no matter: it was done for the eye of God and the angels. Oh that you had such a spirit! I want you to think more of God. I want you to fear Him more deeply, and to love Him far, far more fervently. O my brethren, is the service you are rendering Him at all worthy of Him? Look at the earth and sky that He has made; look at the glorious Throne of Light from which He sways the universe, look at the Cross, look into your own hearts, and answer. "Holy things are for the Holy." "Great is the Lord, and greatly to be praised." [Footnote 195] "O Lord God Almighty, just and true, who shall not fear Thee and magnify Thy Name!" [Footnote 196] "As the eyes of servants are on the hands of their masters, and as the eyes of a handmaid are on the hands of her mistress, so our eyes are unto Thee, O Lord our God, Thou that dwellest in the heavens." [Footnote 197]

[Footnote 195: Psalm xlvii. 1.]

[Footnote 196: Apoc. xv. 3.]

[Footnote 197: Psalm cxxii. 2.]

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Sermon XXV.
Mary's Destiny A Type Of Ours.
(The Feast Of The Assumption.)

"Mary hath chosen the best part,
which shall not be taken away from her."
—St. Luke x. 42.

To-day is the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary. To-day she entered into the enjoyment of heaven. The trials and troubles of life are over. The time of banishment is ended. She closes her eyes on this world, and opens them to the vision of God. She is exalted to-day above the choirs of angels to the heavenly kingdom, and takes her seat at the right hand of her Son. I do not mean to attempt any description of her glory in heaven. I am sure whatever I could say would fall far short, not only of the reality, but of your own glowing thoughts about her. Who is there that needs to be told that the Blessed Virgin is splendid in sanctity, dazzling in beauty, and exalted in power? But, my brethren, it is possible to contemplate the Blessed Virgin in such a way as to put her at too great a distance from us. It is possible to conceive of her glory in heaven as flowing entirely from her dignity as Mother of God, and therefore to suppose it altogether unattainable by us; and, as a consequence of this, to regard her with feelings full of admiration indeed, but almost as deficient in sympathy as if she were of another nature from us. Now, this is to rob ourselves of so ennobling and encouraging a part of our privilege as Christians, and at the same time to take away from our devotion to the Blessed Virgin an element so useful and important, that I have determined, on this her glorious Feast, to remind you that our destiny and the destiny of Mary are substantially the same.

And the first proof I offer of this is, that the glory of the Blessed Virgin in heaven is not owing to her character as Mother of God, but to her correspondence to grace—to her good works—to her love of God—in a word, to her fidelity as a Christian. This is certain, for it is the Catholic doctrine that the Blessed Virgin, like every other saint, gained heaven only as the reward of merit. Now, she could not merit it by becoming the Mother of God. Her being the Mother of God is indeed a most august dignity, but there is no merit in it. It is a dignity conferred on her by the absolute decree of God, just as He resolved to confer angelic nature on angels, or human nature on men. It is no doubt a great happiness and glory for us to be men, and not brutes, but there is no merit in it; so there is honor but no merit in the Blessed Virgin's being the Mother of God. Now, if she did not merit heaven by becoming the Mother of God, how did she merit it? for it is of faith that heaven is the reward of merit. I answer, by her life on earth. It was not as the Mother of God that she won heaven, but as Mary, the daughter of Joachim, the wife of Joseph, the mother of Jesus. It is impossible to read the Gospels without seeing how careful our Lord was to make us understand this. He seems to have been afraid, all along, that the splendor of that character of Mother of God would eclipse the woman and the saint.

Thus once when He was preaching, a woman in the crowd, hearing his words of wisdom, and, perhaps, piercing the veil of his humanity, and thinking what a blessed thing it must be to be the mother of such a son, exclaimed: "Blessed is the womb that bare thee, and the paps that gave thee suck," [Footnote 198] but He answered immediately: "Yea rather, blessed are they who hear the word of God and keep it." No one doubts that the Blessed Virgin did hear the Word of God, and keep it. So our Lord's words are as much as to say: "You praise my mother for being my mother; what I praise her for is her sanctity." In the same way, when they came to Him on another occasion, when there was a great throng about Him and said, "Behold, thy mother and thy brethren stand without, seeking thee," He answered, "Who is my mother? and who are my brethren? And stretching forth his hand towards his disciples, he said: Behold my mother and my brethren. For whosoever shall do the will of my Father who is in heaven, he is my brother, and sister, and mother. [Footnote 199]

[Footnote 198: St. Luke xi. 27.]

[Footnote 199: St. Matt. xii. 48.]

External advantages, however great, even to be related to the Son of God, are as nothing in his sight, compared to that in which all may have a part—obedience to his Father's will. Perhaps, also, this is the explanation of his language at the marriage of Cana in Galilee. When the wine failed, and his mother came to Him and asked Him to exert his Divine power to supply the want, He said: "Woman, what hast thou to do with me? My time is not yet come." [Footnote 200]

[Footnote 200: St. John ii. 4 (Archbishop Kenrick's translation).]

He does not allow her request on the score of her maternal authority, but what He refuses on this ground He grants to her virtue and holiness, for He immediately proceeds to perform the miracle she asked for, though, as He said, his time was not yet come. So, too, on the cross He commends the Blessed Virgin to St. John's care, not under the high title of Mother, but the lowly one of woman. "Woman, behold thy Son." [Footnote 201]

[Footnote 201: St. John xix. 26.]

Now, why was this? Did not our Lord love his Mother? Was He not disposed to be obedient to her as his mother? Certainly; but it was for our sakes He spoke thus. In private, at Nazareth, we are told, he was "subject to her," but on these great public occasions, when crowds were gathered around Him to hear Him preach, when He hung on the Cross, and a world was looking on, He put out of view her maternal grandeur, in compassion to us, lest there should be too great a distance between her and us, and we should lose the force of her example. He wished us to understand that Mary, high as she was, was a woman, and in the same order of grace and providence with us. We might have said: "Oh, the Blessed Virgin obtains what she asks for on easy terms. She has but to ask and it is done. She enters heaven as the son of a nobleman comes into his father's estate, by the mere title of blood and lineage." But no: our Saviour says: "To sit on my right hand is not mine to give you, but to them for whom it is prepared by my Father." [Footnote 202]

[Footnote 202: St. Matt. xx. 23.]

It is not a matter of favor and arbitrary appointment; not even my Mother gains her glory in that way. She must comply with the terms on which my Father promises heaven to men, and therefore the Church applies to her words spoken of another Mary: "Mary hath chosen the best part; therefore it shall not be taken away from her." Oh, blessed truth! Mary is one of us. Her destiny, high as it is, is a human destiny. And she reached it in a human fashion. She built that splendid throne of hers in heaven with care and labor while she was on the earth. She laid the foundation of it in her childhood, when her feet trod the Temple aisles. She reared its pillars when with faith, purity, and obedience unequalled, she received the message of the archangel. And her daily life at Bethlehem, Egypt, and Nazareth, her holy, loving ways with Joseph and with Jesus, her perfect fulfilment of God's law, her interior fervent acts of prayer, covered it with gold and ivory.

Then, when the blind world was going on its way of folly; while one King Herod was deluging villages in blood, and another steeping his soul in the guilt of incest, and of the blood of the Son of God; while the multitude were doubting, and Scribes and Pharisees disputing about Christ, the lowly Jewish maiden, with no other secret but love and prayer, was preparing for herself that bright mansion in Heaven wherein she now dwells, rejoicing eternally with her Son. Oh, happy news! One, at least, of our race has perfectly fulfilled her destiny. Here we can gain some idea of what God created us for. Here is the destiny that awaits man when original sin does not mar it; when co-operation with grace and unswerving perseverance secure it. The Jews were proud of Judith. They said: "Thou art the glory of Jerusalem; thou art the joy of Israel; thou art the honor of our people." So we may say of Mary: "O Mary, thou art the pride of our race. In thee the design of God in our creation has been perfectly attained. In thee the redemption of Christ has had its perfect fruit. Mankind conceives new hopes from thy success." Christ, indeed, has entered into glory; but Christ was God. Mary is purely human, and Mary has succeeded. Why tarry we here in the bondage of Egypt? Mary has crossed the Red Sea, and has taken a timbrel in her hand and sings her thanksgiving unto God. True it is that she is fleet of foot, and we are all halt and weak; but even she needed the grace of God, and the same grace is offered to us, that we may run and not faint. Listen to her song of triumph. She does not set herself above us, but claims kindred with us, and bids us hope for the same grace which she has received. "My soul doth magnify the Lord, for he hath exalted the humble, and hath filled the hungry with good things. And his mercy is from generation to generation to them that fear Him."

Another proof that the destiny of the Blessed Virgin is substantially the same with ours, is the fact that the same expressions are used to describe her glory and ours. Sometimes those who are not Catholics, when they hear what high words we use of the Blessed Virgin, are scandalized; but we use almost no words of the Blessed Virgin that may not, in their measure, be applied to other saints. It is true that the Blessed Virgin has some gifts and graces in which she stands alone—as her character of Mother of God, and her Immaculate Conception—but, as I said before, these are dignities and ornaments conferred on her, and are not the source of her essential happiness in heaven. In other respects, her glory is shared by all the saints. Thus, Mary is called "Queen of Heaven;" but are not all the blessed called in Holy Scripture, "kings and priests unto God?" [Footnote 203] Is she said to sit at the "King's right hand?" and are not we too promised a place at his right hand, and to "sit on thrones?" [Footnote 204] Is she called the "Morning Star?" and does not St. Paul, speaking of all the saints, say, "star differeth from star in glory?" [Footnote 205] Is she called a "Mediatrix of Prayer" and is it not said of every just man, that his "continual prayer availeth much?" [Footnote 206] Is she called the "Spouse of God?" and does not the Almighty, addressing every faithful soul, say, "My love, my dove, my undefiled?" [Footnote 207] Is she called the "Daughter of the Most High?" and are not we too called the "Sons of God?" [Footnote 208]

[Footnote 203: Apoc. i. 6.]

[Footnote 204: Apoc. iii. 21.]

[Footnote 205: I Cor. xv. 41.]

[Footnote 206: St. James v. 16.]

[Footnote 207: Can. v. 2.]

[Footnote 208: I St. John iii. 2.]

The glory of the Blessed Virgin, then, differs from that of the other saints in degree, but not in kind. She is not separated from them, but is one of them. She goes before them. She is the most perfect of them. But she is one of them. And for this reason, the glory of the Blessed Virgin gives us the best conception of the magnificence of our destiny. When a botanist wishes to describe a flower, he selects the most perfect specimen. When an anatomist draws a model of the human frame, he makes it faultless. So we, to gain the truest idea of our destiny, must lift up our eyes to the Blessed Virgin on her heavenly throne, and say: "Oh! my soul, see for what thou art created." Think of this, my brethren, as often as you kneel before her image, or meditate on her greatness. You cannot be what she is, but you can be like her. She is a creature like you. She is a human being like you. She is a Christian like you. And her joy, her beauty, her glory, her wealth, her knowledge, her power—nay, even the mighty efficacy of her intercession—are only what, in their measure, God offers to you. "Glory, honor, and peace to EVERY ONE that worketh good; for there is no respect of persons with God." [Footnote 209]

[Footnote 209: Rom. ii. 10.]

If these things be so, what greatness it gives to human life. Perhaps, if you had lived in the times of the Blessed Virgin Mary, you would never have noticed her; or if you had known her by sight, what would she have seemed to you but a good little Jewish girl, lowly and retiring in her manners and appearance? or, later in life, a poor young woman thrust away, with her husband, from a crowded inn, or fleeing by night with an infant child or, still later, the mother of a condemned malefactor, watching his sufferings in the crowd. Herod did not know her, and the nobles of Jerusalem were ignorant of her. She was not one of the friends of the queen's dancing daughters. Even the rustics of the village of Bethlehem looked down on her. She carried no servants about with her, and had no palace to live in. But Faith tells us of angel visits, of union with God, of heavenly goodness, and an immortal crown. So, in like manner, how our life becomes grand and dignified when it is lighted up by faith! You know there are porcelain pictures, which in the hand are rough and unmeaning, but held up to the light reveal the most beautiful scenes and figures; so our common, ordinary life, rough and unmeaning as it often seems, when enlightened by faith becomes all divine. There is a little girl who learns her lessons and obeys her parents, and tells the truth, and shuns every thing that is wicked; why, as that little girl kneels down to pray, I see a bright angel drawing near to her, and he smiles on her and says: "Hail! Blessed art thou: the Lord is with thee." That young man who, by a sincere conversion, has thrown off the slavery of sin, and regained once more the grace of God—"what is his heart but another cave of Bethlehem, in which Christ is born, and around which angels sing: "Glory to God in the highest, on earth, peace to men of good will." That Christian family, where daily prayers are offered, and instruction and good example are given, and mutual fidelity is observed between the members—what is it but the Holy House of Nazareth?—the Home of Jesus? Yes, good Christian, do not be cast down because you are poor, or because you suffer, or because your opportunities of doing good are limited; live the life of a Christian, and you are living Mary's life on earth. We have not, indeed, Mary's perfect sinlessness, but we have the graces of baptism, by which we may vanquish sin. We have not, as she had, the visible presence of our Lord, but we have Him invisibly in our hearts, and sacramentally in the Holy Communion. We are not "full of grace," as she was, but we have grace without limit promised to us in answer to prayer. Let us assert the privileges of our birth-right. We belong to the new creation. Angels claim kindred with us. God is our Father. Heaven is our home. We are the children of the saints—yes, of her who is the greatest of the saints. Let us follow her footsteps, that one day we may come to our Assumption, the glory of which surpassed even the power of St. John to utter. "Dearly beloved, we are now the sons of God, and it hath not yet appeared what we shall be. We know that when He shall appear we shall be like Him, because we shall see Him as He is." [Footnote 210]

[Footnote 210: St. John iii. 2.]

Every thing depends an our co-operating with grace. How did the Blessed Virgin arrive at such glory? By corresponding to every grace. See her at her Annunciation. The angel comes and tells her of the grace God has prepared for her. If she had not believed, if she had not assented, what would have come of it? Why, she would have lost for all eternity the glory attached to that grace. But she did not refuse. She was ready for the grace when it was offered. She said: "Fiat," "Be it done to me according to thy word." Oh, how much hung on that Fiat! an eternal glory in heaven. So it is with us. There are moments in our lives big with the issues of our future. God's purposes concerning the soul have a certain order. He gives one grace; if we correspond to that He gives another; if we do not correspond, we lose those that depended on it; sometimes, even, we lose our salvation altogether. This is the key of your destiny—fidelity to grace. You have an inspiration from God: He speaks to your soul. Oh, listen to Him, and obey Him! To one He says: "Abandon, O sinner, your evil life, and turn to Me with all your heart." "Now is the accepted time, now is the day of salvation!" To another, who is already in His grace, He sends inspirations to a more perfect life, a life of higher prayer and more uninterrupted recollection. Another, by the sweet attractions of His grace, He draws away from home and kindred to serve Him as a Sister of Charity by the bed of suffering; or as a nun, to live with Him in stillness and contemplation; or as a priest, to win souls for heaven. Oh, speak the word that Mary spoke: "Be it done to me according to thy word." Are you in sin? Convert without delay. Are you leading a tepid, imperfect life? Gird your loins to watchfulness and prayer. Do you feel in yourselves a vocation to a religious or sacerdotal life? Rise up and obey without delay. Tomorrow may be too late. The grace may be forfeited forever. Why stand we all the day idle? Heaven is filling up. Each generation sends a new company to the heavenly host. Time is going. The great business of life remains unaccomplished. By our baptism we have been made children of God and heirs of heaven. Labor we, therefore, to enter into that rest. Mary, dear Mother, lift up thy voice for us in heaven, that we, following thy footsteps, may one day share thy glory, and with thee praise forever God the Father. Son, and Holy Ghost. Amen.

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Sermon XXVI.
Care For The Dead.
(Fifteenth Sunday After Pentecost.)

"And when He came nigh to the gate of the city,
behold a dead man was carried out."
—St. Luke VII. 12.

It is not at the gate of Naim only that such a procession might be met. From every city "dead men are carried out to the grave"—nay, from every house. Death knocks alike at the palace and the cabin. It is only a question of time with him. Sooner or later he comes to all. Yes, my brethren, a day will come to each home in this parish when a piece of black crape at the door will tell the world that death has been there. Within there will be stillness and sadness, and in some darkened chamber, wrapt in a winding sheet, will lie the cold and lifeless form of some beloved member of your family—a father or mother; a wife or husband; a brother or sister; a son or daughter. After a little while even that will be taken away from you. The time of the funeral will come. The mourners will go about the streets, and the dead will be buried out of your sight. I do not speak of this to make you sad. On the contrary, what I am going to say will, I know, be a source, the only real source, of comfort to you in the loss of your friends. I wish to remind you of your duties to the dead. Christianity does not permit us to bid farewell forever to our departed friends. Death, it tells us, does not sever the bond of duty and love between us and them. We still have duties toward them, and in the performance of those duties, while we are doing good to the dead, we are procuring for ourselves the best solace. What are those duties?

First: To give back the dead resignedly to God. It is not wrong to weep for the dead. It is not wrong, for we cannot help it. It is as impossible not to feel pain at such a separation as it would be not to suffer when the surgeon's knife is cutting off an arm or a leg; and, what nature demands, God does not forbid. Therefore the Holy Scripture says: "My son, shed tears over the dead; and begin to lament as if thou hadst suffered some great harm." [Footnote 211]

[Footnote 211: Eccles. xxxviii. 16.]

Do you think that poor widow of whom the Gospel speaks to-day could help weeping? She had known sorrow before, but then she had one support, a dear and only son. He was a good lad. Every body knew and loved him. But now he too is gone. It is strange that he should go and she be left behind, but so it is: there lies his body on the bier, and she is following him to the grave. See her as she goes along in her coarse black dress, bent with age and sorrow. Can you blame her for weeping, as she looks, for the last time, on that dear form? At least, Jesus did not blame her. He looked at her, and He sorrowed with her. He was moved with compassion. It is not wrong, then, to weep for the dead, but we must moderate our grief, banish every rebellious thought from our heart, and mingle resignation with our sorrow. The Office which the Church sings over the dead is made up in great part of joyful psalms and anthems. After this pattern ought to be the sorrow of a Christian family, a sorrow that is not violent and noisy, a sorrow that does not pass the bounds of decency, a sorrow, I may say, mingled with joy. How different it is in some families! You come near a house and you hear shrieks the most appalling. You go in and find a woman abandoning herself to the most noisy and violent grief. Her language is little short of blasphemy. She refuses any comfort. She is weeping over a dead husband. Perhaps in life she loved him none too well. Perhaps she made his life bitter enough to him, and often prayed that some harm might happen to him, and that she might see him dead. And now she does see him dead. She will never curse him again, and he will never anger her again. He is dead; and now she breaks out into the most frantic grief, and alarms the neighborhood. She cries; she calls upon God; she throws herself on the corpse. At the funeral her conduct is still more wild and disordered. Now, what is all this? I will not say it is hypocritical, but I say it is brutish. It is not to act as a reasonable being, much less as a Christian. This is the way with some women. The only time they ever show any love to their husbands is when they are dead. Let them be: such grief will not last long. Wait awhile; before her husband's body has well got cold in the ground she will be looking around for another match.

Do not imitate such unchristian conduct. When Death enters your house, do not forget that you are a Christian. Do not indulge your grief. Call to your aid the principles of your faith. You are sad and lonely. Well, is it not better to feel that this life is a state of exile? You have lost your protector. And has not God promised to protect the orphan? You have lost such a good friend, such a bright example. Well, ought you not, then, to rejoice at his safe departure? The early Christians used to carry flowers to the grave, and sing hymns of joy because the toils of a Christian warrior were ended, and he had entered into rest. Hear what the Church sings: "Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord." Will you weep because one you love is taken away from sin, from temptation, from the trouble to come? Will you grieve because he has secured for himself the Blissful and Eternal Vision of God? But you have no confidence that he was good, that he did die in the grace of God. Suppose you are uncertain on that point, is there any thing better than to go with your doubts and fears before the Holy God, and while you offer to Him your trembling prayers for the departed, to adore His Providence and say: "The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away: blessed be the Name of the Lord." [Footnote 212]

[Footnote 212: Job i. 27.]

Dry up your tears, then, O bereaved Christian. "Make mourning for the dead for a day or two," [Footnote 213] says the Holy Scripture. That is, do not abandon yourself to grief. Do not think, because your friend is gone, that God is gone, and Christ is gone, and duty gone. Do not call on others more than is necessary. Resume your ordinary duties as soon as possible—and in these duties you will find the relief which God Himself has provided for our sadness, and His Grace will accompany you in the performance of them.

[Footnote 213: Ecc. xxxviii. 18.]

Another duty to the dead is to perform scrupulously, as far as possible, their last directions. When the patriarch Jacob was dying, he called his son Joseph to his side, and said to him: "Thou shalt show me this kindness and truth, not to bury me in Egypt, but I will sleep with my fathers, and thou shalt take me away out of this land, and bury me in the burying-place of my ancestors." [Footnote 214]

[Footnote 214: Gen. xlvii. 30.]

It was not of itself a very important request; it was, moreover, an inconvenient one. Yet see how promptly and carefully it was complied with. As soon as the days of mourning for Jacob were ended, Joseph went to Pharao and said: "My father made me swear to him, saying, Thou shalt bury me in my sepulchre which I have digged for myself in the land of Canaan. So I will go and bury my father and return. And Pharao said to him, Go up and bury thy father. And they buried him in the land of Canaan, in the double cave which Abraham bought for a burying-place." [Footnote 215]

[Footnote 215: Gen. 1, 4, 5, 13.]

Would that the same piety were always seen among us! A mother dies: the last wishes that she expresses to her children are that they should be true to their holy faith and earnest in seeking the salvation of their souls, and she sends a message to an absent son, which will not reach him in his distant home till long after she is gone, begging him to be faithful and regular in his duties as a Christian. A father dies, and tells his son of a debt, strictly due in justice, but of which there is no record, and where he will find the money to pay it. A poor girl dies, and confides to some one, whom she thinks her friend, the little earnings of her hard labor, asking that it may be sent to her old mother in Ireland. Are these wishes executed? Are these children faithful Catholics? Is that boy, the object of a mother's dying tears and prayers, regular at the sacraments? Has that debt been paid? Did the sad news of the daughter's death go out to the poor mother in the old country, softened with the evidence of that daughter's piety and love? or was the money retained and squandered? What! are you not afraid to add to the sin of irreligion and injustice the crime of breaking faith with the dead? Hear what God says in the Holy Scripture: "The voice of thy brother's blood crieth to Me from the earth." [Footnote 216]

[Footnote 216: Gen. iv. 10.]

The dead have got a voice, then—a voice that cries to God, that cries for vengeance against those who injure them. Pay, then, thy debts to the dead. Redeem the promise thou hast made to the dying. Fulfil thy duties as an executor or administrator with fidelity and justice. Be exact. It is a dead man thou art dealing with. Do not say, he is dead and cannot speak. Hear what the Law of God saith: "Thou shalt not speak evil of the deaf, nor put a stumbling block before the blind: but thou shalt fear the Lord thy God, because I am the Lord." [Footnote 217] Do you understand? God hears for those who cannot hear, He speaks for those who cannot speak; and if thou makest the dead thy enemy, thou hast the Living and Eternal God for a Foe.

[Footnote 217: Levit. xix. 14.]

Another part of our duty to the dead is to treat their bodies with respect, and to give them decent burial. We do this for two reasons: for what they have been, and what they are to be. Their bodies have been the casket which held their souls, and we love their bodies for what their souls have been to God and to us. We love the eye that looked upon us with affection, the mouth that spoke to us words of truth and kindness, we love the ear that listened to our sorrows, and the hand that soothed and blessed us. We love that body which was the soul's instrument here in her works of piety and Christian charity. And we love that body for what it shall be. We see it as it will be when it springs from the grave on the morning of the Resurrection, sparkling with light, beautiful and immortal. And this is why we follow the dead to the grave. We go with them as we go part of the way home with a cherished guest. We go with them in token that the love that united us is not severed by death, but that we are still joined to them in hope and charity. Oh yes, it is right. Let the body be laid out decently; the limbs composed; the eyes closed for their long sleep. And when the time of burial comes, let all the ceremonies of the Holy Church lend their aid. Walk slow; let the priest in surplice and stole go before; light the candles and hold the cross aloft; sing the sweet and solemn chant; carry the body to the church and lay it before the Altar of God; bring incense and holy water, and let there be High Mass for the repose of the soul. Fitting ceremonies! "Beautiful and touching rites! chosen with a heavenly still to comfort the mourner and to honor the dead. But alas! alas! how do we see this duty to the dead sometimes fulfilled! A Catholic is dead. It is true there are candles and holy water, but where are the pious prayers? The neighbors are gathered together, but it is not to pray. The glasses and the pipes speak of a different kind of meeting. Yes, they have come there, there to that chamber, the Court of Death and the Threshold of Eternity, to hold a drunken wake. The night wears on with stories, sometimes even obscene and filthy, and as liquor does its work, curses and blasphemies mingle with the noisy, senseless cries and yells of drunken men. Are these orgies meant to insult the dead? Do these revellers wish to make us believe that their departed friend was, body and soul, the child of Hell as much as they? So the wake is kept, and now for the funeral. The man died early in the week, but of course he must be buried on Sunday. Sunday is the worst day of the week for a funeral, because it is the day appointed for the public worship of God, and it is wrong to draw men away from the church on that day without necessity, yet a funeral must by all means be on a Sunday. And why? Because a greater crowd can be got together on that day, and the object is to have a crowd, and to make people say, such a one had a decent funeral. The family are poor, nevertheless a large number of carriages are hired, and filled with a set of people who regard the whole thing as a picnic or excursion. Some of them have already "taken a drop," and so little sense of religion have they left, that sometimes at the grave itself, sometimes in returning from it, they raise brawls and riots that bring disgrace and contempt at once on the man they have buried and the faith they profess. Do you call this a decent funeral?" I say it is a sin. A sin of pride and ostentation. A sin of scandal and excess. A sin of robbery and cruelty—of robbery and cruelty toward the poor children from whose hungry mouths and naked backs are taken the extravagant expenses of this ambitious display. How much better to have a small funeral! a funeral remarkable for nothing but its modesty and simplicity, to which only the few are called who knew the dead and loved him, who follow him to his long home with serious thoughts, like thinking men and Christians, remembering that before long they must go with him into the grave and lie down beside him, and who return home to remember his soul before God as often as they kneel down to pray.

And this brings me, in the last place, to speak of the duty of praying for the dead. It is a most consoling privilege of our holy faith. Death indeed fixes our eternal condition irrevocably. "If the tree fall to the south or to the north, in what place soever it shall fall, there shall it be." [Footnote 218]

[Footnote 218: Eccles. xi. 3.]

But the good do not always enter heaven immediately. If the sharp process by which God purifies His children on earth has not wrought its full effect, it must be carried on for a while longer in that hidden receptacle in which faithful souls await their summons to the presence of God. And during this period our prayers in their behalf are of great avail. No part of our religion has more undeniable proofs of its antiquity. As far back as the fourth century of the Christian era, St. Cyril testifies that it was the custom "to pray for those who had departed this life, believing it to be a great assistance to those souls for whom prayers are offered while the Holy and Tremendous Sacrifice is going on." [Footnote 219]

[Footnote 219: St. Cyril, Cat., lect. v., n. 9.]

The tombstones of the early Christians attest the same practice, and St. Augustine, speaking not as a doctor, but recording a chapter of his own history, lets us into the innermost feelings of the Church of his day on this subject. In his Confessions he tells us that his mother St. Monica, shortly before her death, looked at him and said: "Lay this body anywhere, be not concerned about that, only I beg of you, that wheresoever you be, you make remembrance of me at the Lord's Altar." And the saint goes on to tell how he fulfilled this request, how after her death the "Sacrifice of our Ransom" was offered for her, and how fervently he continued to pray for her. But his own words are best: "Though my mother lived in such a manner that Thy Name is much praised in her faith and manners, yet * * * I entreat Thee, O God of my heart, for her sins. Hear me, I beseech Thee, through that cure of our wounds that hung upon the Tree, and that sitting now at Thy Right Hand maketh intercession for us. I know that she did mercifully, and from her heart forgave to her debtors their trespasses; do Thou likewise forgive to her her debts, if she hath also contracted any in those many years she lived after the saving water. Forgive them, O Lord, forgive them. * * * Let no one separate her from Thy protection. Let not the lion and the dragon either by force or fraud interpose himself. Let her rest in peace, together with her husband; and do Thou inspire Thy servants that as many as shall read this may remember at Thy Altar Thy handmaid Monica, with Patricius her husband." [Footnote 220]

[Footnote 220: St. Augustine's, Confessions, book ix., c. 13.]

Are we as faithful to pray for our departed friends, and to get prayers said for them? They wait the time of their deliverance with painful longing. They cannot hasten it themselves. They cannot merit. Their hands are tied. They are at our mercy. The Church indeed prays for these in her litanies, her offices, and her Masses, but how little do we, their friends and relations, pray for them. The patriarch Joseph, when he foretold to Pharao's butler, his fellow prisoner, his speedy restoration to honor, said to him: "Only remember me when it shall be well with thee, and do me this kindness to put Pharao in mind to take me out of this prison." [Footnote 221]

[Footnote 221: Gen. xl. 14.]

But the butler, when things prospered with him, forgot his friend. So we forget our friends in the prison of Purgatory. They linger looking for help from us, and it comes not. Oh, pray for the dead. Death does not sever them from hope, from prayer, or from the power of Christ. Did not Martha say to our Lord in reference to her brother Lazarus, who was already dead: "I know that even NOW whatsoever thou wilt ask of God (in his behalf) He will give it thee!" [Footnote 222]

[Footnote 222: St. John xi. 22.]

Yes, Christ's mercy and Christ's Bounty reach even to the regions of the shadow of death. Christ has in His hands gifts even for the dead—gifts of Consolation, of Refreshment, of Quiet, and of Rest. Ask those gifts for those you love. With the widow of Naim carry your dead to the Saviour, let your tears and prayers in their behalf meet His Compassionate Ear and Eye, and He will speak to the dead: "Young man, I say to thee Arise." And the dead shall hear His voice, and shall rise up, not yet to the Resurrection of the Body, not yet to be "delivered to his Master," but to the company of the Angels, to the spirits of the Just, to the home of God, where they shall be "before the Throne of God, and serve Him day and night in His Temple, and He that sitteth on the Throne shall dwell over them. And they shall not hunger nor thirst any more; neither shall the sun fall on them, nor any heat." [Footnote 223]

[Footnote 223: Apoc. vii. 15, 16.]

I have endeavored to-day, my brethren, to speak for the dead. They cannot speak for themselves, but they live, and feel, and think. And sure I am that, if they could speak, their words would not be in substance very different from what I have spoken. They would say: "I want no costly monument. I want no splendid funeral. Still less do I wish that God should be offended on my account. I ask a remembrance mingled with affection and resignation, the rites of the Holy Church, a quiet grave, and now and then a fervent, earnest prayer. And I will not forget you in my prison of hope. I will pray for you, and oh! when the morning comes, and my happy soul is called to Heaven, my first intercession at the throne of God shall be for you, whom I loved so well in life, and who hast not left off thy kindness to the dead.

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Sermon XXVII.
Success The Reward Of Merit.
(Fifteenth Sunday After Pentecost.)

"What things a man shall sow,
them also shall he reap."
—Gal. VI. 8.

To judge by the complaints which we hear continually around us, we might conclude that the commonest thing in the world is for men to fail in their undertakings. Now, I admit that it is a very common thing indeed for men to fail in obtaining what they desire. There are many men who have some darling object of ambition which they cannot reach. But I do not think it is a very frequent thing for men to fail in attaining an end which they steadily aim at, and which they take the proper means to attain. I believe the rule is the other way. I believe success is the ordinary result of well-directed endeavor. I know indeed that the Holy Scriptures tell us that "the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, nor bread to the wise, nor riches to the learned, nor favor to the skilful: but time and chance is all." [Footnote 224]

[Footnote 224: Eccles. ix. 11.]

But surely all that this means is that the providence of God, for its own purposes, sometimes interferes to thwart the best-concerted measures, and to crown feeble attempts with unexpected success. The race is not always to the swift, but ordinarily it is. The battle is not always to the strong, but when it is not, it is an exception to the rule. The rule is, that success commonly attends the employment of proper and judicious means. The experience of life proves that this is true. Let us look around and see if it is not so.

We will look first at the business world. Here at first sight a succession of the most surprising changes meets our eye. Men that were rich a few years ago are now poor. Men that then were poor are now rich. The servant and his master have changed places. If you return to the city after a few years' absence you will find the same handsome houses lining our avenues, but the occupants of many of them will be changed. The same gay carriages roll along the street, but there is always a new set of people riding in them, and they that used to ride now go afoot. What wonder is it that men have imagined Fortune to be blindfold[ed], and the ups and downs of life the chance revolutions of her wheel? But when we look closer, we see this is not the case. For the most part each fall and each success has had an adequate history. There has been a rigid bond of cause and effect. It is only a metaphor when we say that riches have wings. Gold and silver, and real estate, and most kinds of personal property, are solid and substantial, and do not melt away in a night. So, on the other hand, fortunes are not made by accident. The rich man becomes rich by aiming at it and striving for it. He does not need any extraordinary genius perhaps, but he bends his talents, such as they are, to the task. He rises early, he is constantly at his place of business, he keeps himself informed of all its details, he thinks about it. When a favorable opening comes, he takes advantage of it. When a reverse comes, he is not discouraged by it. Other men would be discouraged, but he is not. Perhaps he is in middle life, perhaps he has a growing family, but he looks out for a fresh field of enterprise, and begins anew to battle with the world, and he becomes rich again. His success is owing in part, if you will, to favorable circumstances, but largely to his own energy and industry. These were the conditions, without which no amount of mere external advantages would have insured success.

Again, if we look to the world of Literature and Art, we find the same thing. Disappointed authors and artists often talk as if they were the victims of the world's stupidity or malice; as if men were unable or unwilling to appreciate them. Now, I know it is said that such things have been. There have been men of rare promise, but of a sensitive nature, who have been crushed by coldness and neglect, or by the hard and unfair criticism with which their first attempts were met. But this is far from being a common thing. The world likes to be amused and pleased. It is really interested in having something to praise. This being so, how is it possible for a man of real merit to remain long unrecognized? Who can imagine that the great masterpieces of painting, or the great poems that have come down to us from the past, could have failed to excite the admiration of men? In fact, human judgment, when you take its suffrages over wide tracts and through the lapse of ages, is all but infallible. In a particular place it may be warped by passion; in a particular time it may conform to an artificial standard; but give it time and room, and it is sure with unerring accuracy to detect the beautiful and true. It is as far as possible, then, from being the case that celebrated authors or celebrated artists have become great by accident. There may have been favorable circumstances. There were undoubtedly great gifts of nature; but there was also deep study and painful, persevering toil. I have been told that the manuscripts of a distinguished English poet show so many erasures that hardly a line remains unaltered. The great cathedrals of Europe were the fruit of life-long labor. And these are but instances of a general rule. When we go into the workshops in which some of the beautiful articles of merchandise are manufactured, we see a great fire and hear the clank of machinery, and men are hurrying to and fro, stained with dust and sweat. Now, something like this has been going on to give birth to these beautiful creations in Letters and Arts which have delighted the world. There has been a great fire in the furnace of the brain, and each faculty of the mind has toiled to do its part, and there have been many blows with the pen, the pencil, or the chisel, until the beautiful conception is complete. Such men were successful because they deserved it. The approbation of the world did not create their success, it only recognized it.

I will take one more example of the rule I am illustrating—personal character, reputation. I believe, as a general rule, it is pretty nearly what we deserve. We reap what we sow. People think of us pretty much as we really are. I am not unmindful of the occasional success of hypocrites, nor of the instances, happily not very frequent, of innocent persons overwhelmed by a load of unjust accusation and calumny. Again, I know that when people are angry with us they sometimes say spiteful things which they do not mean, and when they wish to flatter us they say things more complimentary, but just as false. But notwithstanding all this, I affirm that the judgments which people who know us form of us are very nearly correct. Indeed it must be so, for we cannot disguise ourselves altogether, or for a long time. We cannot always wear a mask. An ignorant, ill-bred man may go to a tailor's and dress himself out in fashionable clothes, but the first word he speaks, and the first movement he makes will betray his want of education. So, while we are trying to pass ourselves off for something else than what we are, to a keen observer our habitual thoughts and character will pierce through and discover our true selves. Even what our enemies say about us, when they say what they think, is very likely to be true. Men have no need to invent bad things about us. We have all got faults enough. They have only to seize these, exaggerate them a little, caricature them, separate them from what is good in us, and they will make a picture bad enough, but not too bad to be recognized as ours. Their description of us is like a photographic likeness. It takes away the bloom from the cheek, and the brightness from the eye, and the rich tints from the hair. It notes down each imperfection, each frown and wrinkle and crookedness of feature, and there it is, a hard, severe, but not an untrue likeness. In fact, my brethren, one of the last things I would advise any man to attempt would be to try to seem something he is not. He is almost sure to be unsuccessful. There is a law in the world too strong for him—the law of justice and truth, the law that binds together actions and their consequences, the law that attaches honor to what is good and right, and contempt to what is base and false.

Thus we see on every side illustrations of the rule that our success is in proportion to our merit. We sow what we reap. Much more is this true in regard to religion. You have observed that hitherto I have been obliged to make some qualifications, to make some exceptions in each of the instances I have brought forward. God may prevent our becoming rich, however legitimately we may labor for it, because He sees that riches would not be good for us. Or He may allow our talents to remain unappreciated, and our name to be covered with obloquy, in order to drive us to seek His Eternal Praise. But in religion our labors are sure to meet with success. There is absolutely no exception. Our success will be infallibly in proportion to our endeavors, neither more or less. You know, my brethren, that a doctrine may be familiar to us, but may not always make the same impression on us. We may hear it many times and assent to it, but on some special occasion, it may enter our mind with such force, take such a lively hold of our imagination and heart that it seems new to us. This is what we call coming home to us. Now, I remember an occasion when the doctrine I have just stated thus came home to me. It was on hearing the words of St. Alphonsus: "With that degree of love to God that we possess when we leave this world, and no more, will we pass our eternity." Any thing more startling and awakening I do not remember ever to have heard. Not the thought of the pains of hell, or the horrors of sin, or the bliss of paradise, ever seemed to me so loud a call for action. All of heaven that we shall ever see, we acquire here. Perhaps you too, my brethren, have not realized this sufficiently. The truth is, I think many men act in regard to religion as children and weak-minded persons do in regard to the things of this world—they build "castles in the air." This is a very favorite occupation with some people. They spend hours and even days in it. It is a cheap amusement, and they who follow it do not usually stint themselves in the warmth and color of their pictures. The only difficulty is, to fix a limit to their imaginary splendors. They imagine themselves very rich, worth, say fifty thousand, or a hundred thousand, or five hundred thousand dollars, with beautiful houses and furniture, and all the elegancies of life. Or they imagine themselves very famous, with a reputation as wide as the world, and admiring crowds shouting their praises wherever they go. Now something like this, equally silly and unsubstantial, passes in the minds of many Christians in regard to their hereafter. They imagine that, somehow, one of these days, they will find themselves caught up to the third heaven, borne by angels to the throne of God, crowned with a jewelled crown, seated on a golden throne, with palms in their hands, to sing forever the song of the redeemed. They may be now in mortal sin, they may be in the habit of mortal sin; they may be the slaves of passion, drunkards, impure, dishonest; they may be unwilling to renounce the dangerous occasions of sin; or they may not be so bad as this: they may belong to that class who have their periodic spells of sin and devotion, and are saints or sinners according to the time of the year you take them; or they may belong to a still milder type of ungodliness, those who are negligent and cold-hearted, with a host of venial sins about them, and at intervals, now and then, a mortal sin—no matter: somehow or other, by some kind of a contrivance, all—the relapsed sinner and the habitual sinner, the drunkard, the impure, the dishonest and the profane, the worldly and tepid, the prayerless and presumptuous—all are going to heaven. O miserable delusion! Does the Bible teach us this? When it speaks of a "way" to heaven, does it not mean that all must walk in that way to reach there? When it tells us that "the Judge standeth at the door," does it not mean, to judge us by our actions! Which of the saints was ever wafted to heaven in this passive way? Ah! the apostle tells us, "they were valiant in fight," they fought with the wild beasts of their passions, and put to flight the armies of hell. No: it is an enemy that hath sown among you this Calvinistic poison—yes, this worse than Calvinistic poison, for the Calvinists did but assert that a few elect were saved by a foregone decree, while this practically extends it to every one. Do not believe it. "What a man soweth that shall he reap." "He that soweth to the flesh shall of the flesh reap corruption, and, he that soweth to the Spirit shall of the Spirit reap life everlasting." [Footnote 225]

[Footnote 225: Gal. vi. 8.]

Our days are like a weaver's shuttle, and, as they quickly come and go, they weave the web of our destiny. Each step we take is a step in one of the two paths that fill up the whole field of human probation. Ask the Psalmist who of us shall see heaven, and he will answer you, "Lord, who shall dwell in Thy tabernacle, or who shall rest on Thy holy hill? he that has clean hands and a pure heart." [Footnote 226]

[Footnote 226: Ps. xiv. 1; xxiii. 4.]

Ask the Gospel, Who is that servant whom his Lord at His coming will approve? and it answers: "Even he whose loins are girt about, and whose lights are burning, as a man that waits for his Lord." [Footnote 227]

[Footnote 227: St. Luke xii. 35, 36.]

Would you know who, at the end of the world, shall reap a rich harvest? "They that sow in tears"—in the holy tears of compunction, of the love of God, and of the desire of heaven— "shall reap in joy. And he that now goeth on his way weeping and bearing good seed, shall come again with joy, and bring his sheaves with him." [Footnote 228]

[Footnote 228: Ps. cxxv. 5, 6, 7.]

Let us pause a moment before we conclude to try ourselves by this doctrine. "All the rivers run into the sea;" so all our lives are carrying us on to eternity. Should our lives be cut off at this moment, of what kind of texture would they be found? "In those days," says the prophet, "Israel shall come, they shall make haste and seek the Lord their God. They shall ask the way to Sion, their faces thitherward." [Footnote 229]

[Footnote 229: Jer. i. 4, 5.]

Are our faces, my brethren, turned toward the heavenly city? Are we hastening thither, acknowledging ourselves strangers and pilgrims on the earth? These careless confessions, these heartless prayers, these darling sins, these aimless lives, this tepidity, this indifference and procrastination in spiritual things, what do they indicate? We look at the sky to judge of the weather. We read the newspapers to find out the condition of the country. We watch our symptoms to ascertain the state of our health. Ah! there are indications far more important, to which we ought to take heed. Indications of salvation or reprobation, symptoms of spiritual health or decay, earnests of heaven or hell, marks of Christ or Satan. You remember the story of the old monk who was observed to weep as he sat watching the people going into church, and, being asked the reason, said he saw a man enter, followed by a black demon, who seemed to claim him as his own. So, if we could look into the spiritual world, we should see some men attended by angels who have come to "minister to them as heirs of salvation," while others are surrounded by evil spirits, "come to torment them before their time." Yes, eternity does not wait for the last day. It presses upon us now and here. Each day is a Judgment Day. Each evening, as it falls, finds us gathered at Christ's right hand, driven to His left, or wavering between the two. Why do we not take our place at once, where we shall wish to be found at our Saviour's coming? It is not very long since death took from among us a convert to our holy faith, [Footnote 230] whose life had been rich in good works, who had been a mother to the orphan, and a sister to the outcast and abandoned; and a priest, who visited her on her last illness, told me that he had said to her: "If God were now to raise you up and restore you to health, I would not know how to give you any other advice, than to resume your good works at that point where sickness compelled you to leave them off." Beautiful testimony to a holy life! Cut the thread wherever you will, it is all gold. Stop the Christian where you will, he is on his way to heaven. Be such a life ours. I have said each day is a Judgment Day: let each day merit the approval of Christ. Let our life be a constant preparation for Eternity, remembering that the only heaven the Christian religion offers us, is a heaven that is won by our labors here.

[Footnote 230: Mrs. Geo. Ripley.]

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Sermon XXVIII.
The Mass The Highest Worship.
(Twenty-first Sunday After Pentecost.)

"What shall I offer to the Lord that is worthy?
Wherewith shall I kneel before the High God?"
—Mich. VI.6.

Such is the question which mankind have been asking from the creation of the world. God is so high, so great, so good, so beautiful. He made us. He created us by His Word, and we hang upon His Breath. How shall we worship Him? How shall we express the thoughts of Him that fill our souls? Alas! the words of the lips, the postures of the body, are all inadequate. What shall we do? Shall we, like Cain, gather the fairest fruits and flowers, and bring the basket before the Lord? Or, like Abel, shall we take the firstlings of our flocks, and slay them in His honor? Shall we dress an altar, and pile upon it the smoking victims? Shall we make our children pass through the fire in His Name? Or, like the Indian devotee, shall we throw ourselves under the wheels of the car that carries the image of the Divinity? Such have been the ways in which men have tried to express their devotion to God, but all have been either insufficient or vain. Man's thoughts about God have found no fitting expression. A fire has burned in his heart which no words can utter. Now here, as in so many other ways, Christianity comes to our aid, and places within our reach a perfect and all-sufficient mode of expressing our devotion, a perfect worship. Do you ask me to what I allude? I answer, to the Sacrifice of the Mass.

Let me remind you what the Sacrifice of the Mass is. We Catholics believe that in the Mass Jesus Christ offers His real Body and Blood, under the species of bread and wine, to His Eternal Father, in remembrance of His Death on the Cross. Our Lord's Death on the Cross was in itself complete, and all-sufficient for the purpose for which it was undergone, and need not, indeed could not, be repeated; but His Priestly Office was not exhausted by that offering. In the language of Scripture: "He ever liveth to make intercession for us." [Footnote 231] And, "He is a Priest forever." [Footnote 232]

[Footnote 231: Heb. vii. 25.]

[Footnote 232: Ps. cix. 4.]

In what, then, does our Lord's Priesthood since His Crucifixion consist? In heaven, it consists in presenting Himself to His Father directly and immediately, to plead the merits of His Death and Passion in our behalf; but on earth it consists in representing that Death and Passion in the mystical action which we call the Eucharistic Sacrifice or the Mass; thus fulfilling the words of the prophet in reference to our Lord: "Thou art a Priest forever, after the order of Melchisedec." [Footnote 233:]

[Footnote 233: Ibid.]

The offering, then, which takes place in the Mass is the very same that was made on Calvary, only it is made in a different manner. On the Cross, that offering was made in a direct and absolute manner, it was a bloody Sacrifice; in the Mass, it is made in a mystical and commemorative way, without blood, without suffering, without death. Therefore, in order to understand what takes place in the Mass, we must go back to the Cross. What was it that took place on the Cross? You answer, perhaps, Christ shed His Blood there for the remission of sins. True: the Blood of Christ was the material cause of our Redemption, but that which gave the Blood of Christ its value, that, indeed, which made it a Sacrifice, was the interior dispositions of the Soul of Christ. The Blood of Christ, taken as a mere material thing, could never have effected our reconciliation. What does the Scripture say? "Sacrifice and oblation Thou didst not desire. Burnt-offerings and sin-offerings Thou didst not require. Then I said: Lo, I come to do Thy will O God!" [Footnote 234]

[Footnote 234: Ps. xxxix. 7, 8.]

It was by the obedience of Christ, an obedience practised through His whole life, but of which His Death and Passion were the fullest expression, that Christ, as our elder brother, repaired our disobedience. While our Lord was hanging on the Cross, He exercised every Divine virtue which the soul of man can exercise. He loved. He prayed. He praised. He gave thanks. He supplicated. He made acts of adoration and resignation. In one word, He performed the most perfect act of worship.

Well, it is just the same in the Mass. It would be the greatest mistake to think of the Body and Blood of Christ in the Mass as a sort of dead offering. It is living, and offered by the living Christ. Christ is the Priest of the Mass as well as the victim. It is Christ who celebrates the Mass, and He celebrates it with a warm and living Heart, the same Heart with which He worshipped the Father on Mount Calvary. It is this that makes the Mass what it is. If it were not for this, the Mass would be a carnal sacrifice, infinitely superior, indeed, to those of the Old Law, but of the same order. It is this which makes the Sacrifice of the Mass a reasonable service, a Spiritual Sacrifice.

And now you are prepared to understand my assertion that the Mass supplies the want of the human soul for an adequate mode of approaching God. As a creature before its Creator, you are oppressed with your own inability to worship Him worthily. Do you want a better worship than that which His Eternal Son offers? In the Mass, the Son of God in His Human Nature worships the Father for us. He prays for us; asks pardon for us; gives thanks for us; adores for us. As He is perfect man, He expresses every human feeling; as He is perfect God, His utterances have a complete perfection, an infinite acceptableness. Thus, when we offer Mass, we worship the Father with Christ's worship. It seems to me that the Catholic can have a certain kind of pride in this. He may say, "I know I am weak and as nothing before God, yet I possess a treasure that is worthy to offer Him, I have a prayer to present to Him all-perfect and all-powerful, the prayer of His Only-Begotten Son in whom He is well pleased."

Nor is this all. Christ worships the Father for us in the Mass, not to excuse us from worshipping, but to help us to worship. You remember how, the night before our Saviour died, He took with Him Peter and James and John, and going into the garden of Gethsemane, He said to them, "Tarry ye here, while I go and pray yonder." And how, being removed from them about a stone's cast, He began to pray very earnestly, so that He was in an agony, and the drops of blood fell from His body to the ground; and how He went to them from time to time to urge them to watch and pray along with Him. The weight of all human sorrows was then upon His soul. He was presenting the necessities of the whole human race to His Father, but He would have the apostles, weary as they were, borne down by suffering and fatigue, to join their feeble prayers with His. So, in the Holy Mass, He is withdrawn from us a little distance, making intercessions for us with groanings which cannot be uttered, and He would have us kneel about the temple aisles, adding our poor prayers to His. Our prayers, by being united to His, obtain not only a higher acceptance, but a higher significance. Our obscure aspirations He interprets. What we know not how to ask for, or even to think of, He supplies. What we ask for in broken accents, He puts into glowing words. What we ask for in error and ignorance, He deciphers in wisdom and love. And thus our prayers, as they pass through His Heart, become transfigured and divine.

Oh, what a gift is the Holy Mass! How full an utterance has Humanity found therein for all its woes, its aspirations, its hopes, its affections! How completely is the distance bridged over that separated the creature and the Creator! It was to the Mass that our Lord alluded in His conversation with the woman of Samaria. You remember the incident. The Samaritans were a schismatical sect. They had separated from the Jews, had built a temple on Mount Gerazin, in opposition to the temple of the Jews at Jerusalem, and there they offered sacrifices. Now, this Samaritan woman, when our Lord had entered into conversation with her, put to Him the question which was then in controversy. Which was the right temple? Which was the acceptable sacrifice? Which was the place where men ought to worship—Mount Gerazin; or Mount Sion? And how does our Lord answer her? "Woman, believe Me, the hour cometh, when ye shall neither in this mountain nor yet in Jerusalem adore the Father. The hour cometh and now is, when the true worshipper shall worship the Father in Spirit and in Truth." [Footnote 235]

[Footnote 235: St. John iv. 22, 23.]

The time is coming when a new Sacrifice, a new worship, shall be established, a worship of Spirit and Truth, a worship that shall put to rest the controversy between Samaria and Jerusalem, for it shall be offered in every place. What is that sacrifice? What is that worship? The prophet had foretold it long before: "From the rising of the sun unto the going down thereof, My Name is great among the Gentiles, and IN EVERY PLACE THERE IS SACRIFICE, and there is offered to My Name A CLEAN OBLATION." [Footnote 236]

[Footnote 236: Mal. ii. 11.]

And the whole tradition of the Christian Church, from the very first, tells us that this clean oblation is no other than the Eucharistic Sacrifice, a worship of "Truth," if the presence of Christ can make it true; and of "Spirit," if the Heart of Christ can make it spiritual; a worship that meets all man's wants and befits all God's attributes.

With this conception of the Mass in your minds, you see at once the explanation of some of the ceremonies attending its celebration which seem to Protestants strange and senseless. A Protestant enters a Catholic Church during the time of Mass. The Priest is at the Altar. You cannot hear what he says, he speaks so low and rapidly; and perhaps it would do you no good if you could, for he speaks in Latin; and you say: "What mummery!" "What superstition!" "What an unmeaning service!" But stop awhile. Take our view of the Mass, and see if our custom is so strange. We believe that there is an invisible Priest at the Mass, Christ, the Son of the Living God, Who offers Himself to His Father for us. You know it is related in the Old Testament, that on one day in the year the Jewish High-Priest used to enter into the Holy of Holies, which was separated from the temple by a veil, and there in secrecy perform the rites of expiation, while the people prayed in silence without. So it is at the Mass. You see the Priest lift up the Host before the people. Well, that is the white veil that hides the Holy of Holies from our eyes. Within, our Lord and Saviour mediates with the Father in our behalf. Oh, be still! Speak low! Let not the priest at the altar raise his voice, lest he drown the whispers from that inner shrine. What need for me to know the very words the priest is using? I know what he is doing. I know that this is the hour of grace. Earth has disappeared from me. Heaven is open before me. I am in the presence of God, and I am praying to Him in my own words, and after my own fashion. I am pouring out my joys before Him, or opening to Him the plague of my own heart.

Yes, the Catholic Church has solved the problem of worship. She has a service which unites all the necessary conditions for the public worship of God—a common service, in which all can join; an external service, which takes place before our eyes, which is celebrated with offerings which we ourselves supply, and by a Priest taken from among ourselves; an attractive service; and yet a service perfectly spiritual. The Catholic does not come to church to hear a man pour forth an extempore prayer, and be forced to follow him through all the moods and feelings of his own mind; nor to join in a set form of prayer, which, however beautiful and well arranged, must, from the very nature of the case, fail to express the varying wants and feelings of the different members of the congregation; but he comes to join, after his own fashion, in Christ's own prayer. At the Catholic Altar there is the most complete liberty, the greatest variety, combined with the most perfect unity.

Come, then, children, come to Mass, and bring your merry hearts with you. Come, you that are young and happy, and rejoice before the Lord. Come, you that are old and weary, and tell your loneliness to God. Come, you that are sorely tempted, and ask the help of Heaven. Come, you that have sinned, and weep between the porch and the altar. Come, you that are bereaved, and pour out here your tears. Come, you that are sick, or anxious, or unhappy, and complain to God. Come, you that are prosperous and successful, and give thanks. Christ will sympathize with you. He will rejoice with you, and He will mourn with you. He will gather up your prayers. He will join to them His own Almighty supplications, and that concert of prayer shall enter heaven, louder than the music of angelic choirs, sweeter than the voice of those who sing the song of Moses and the Lamb, more piercing than the cry of the living creatures who rest not day or night, and more powerful and prevailing than the intercession of the Blessed Virgin and all the saints of Paradise together. The Mass a formalism! The Mass an unmeaning service! Why, it is the most beautiful, the most spiritual, the most sublime, the most satisfying worship which the heart of man can even conceive.

And here, too, in this idea of the Mass, we have the answer to another perplexity of Protestants. They cannot understand why we make such a point of attending Mass. They see us go to Mass in all weathers. They see us so particular not to be late at Mass. They see us on Sunday, not sauntering leisurely, as if we were going to a lecture-room, but pressing on with a certain eagerness, as if we had some great business in hand; and they ask what it all means. Is it not superstition? Do we not, like the Pharisees, give an undue value to outward observances? May we not worship God at home just as well? Ah! if it were really only an outward observance. But there is just the difference. There stands one among us whom you know not. We believe that the Saviour is with us, and you do not. We believe this with a certain, simple faith. Come to our churches, and look at our people, the poorest and most ignorant, and see if we do not. It is written on their faces. They may not know how to express themselves, but this is in their hearts. You think we come to Mass because the Church is so strict in requiring us to do so; but the true state of the case is that the law of the Church is so strict because Christ is present in the Mass. You think it is the pomp and glitter of our altars that draws the crowd. Little you know of human nature if you think it can long be held by such things alone. No, we adorn our altars because we believe Christ is present. This is our faith. It is no new thing with us. It is as old as Christianity. It was the comfort of the Christians in the catacombs. It was the glory of St. Basil and St. Ambrose and St. Augustine. It was the meaning of all the glory and magnificence of the Middle Ages. And it is our stay and support in this nineteenth century of knowledge, labor, and disquiet. Yes, strip our altars, leave us only the Corn and the Vine, and a Rock for our altar, and we will worship with posture as lowly and hearts as loving as in the grandest cathedral. Let persecution rise; let us be driven from our churches; we will say Mass in the woods and caverns, as the early Christians did. We know that God is everywhere. We know that Nature is His Temple, wherein pure hearts can find Him and adore Him; but we know that it is in the Holy Mass alone that He offers Himself to His Father as "the Lamb that was slain." How can we forego that sweet and solemn action? How can we deprive ourselves of that heavenly consolation! The sparrow hath found her an house and the turtle a nest where she may lay her young, even thy altars, O Lord of Hosts, my King and my God! Man's heart has found a home and resting-place in this vale of tears. To us the altar is the vestibule of heaven, and the Host its open door.

Yes, and to us the words of the prophet, when he calls the reign of Antichrist "the abomination of desolation," because the Daily Sacrifice shall then be taken away, has a peculiar fitness. It is our delight now to think that, as the sun in its course brings daylight to each successive spot on earth, it ever finds some priest girding himself to go up to the Holy Altar; that thus the earth is belted, from the rising of the sun unto the going down of the same, with a chain of Masses; that as the din of the world commences each day, the groan of the oppressed, the cry of the fearful and troubled, the boast of sin and pride, the wail of sorrow—the voice of Christ ascends at the same time to heaven, supplicating for pardon and peace. But oh! when there shall be no Mass any more, when the sun shall rise only to show that the altar has been torn down, the priests banished, the lights put out; that will be a day of calamity, of darkness and sorrow. Then the beasts will groan, and the cattle low. Then will men's hearts wither for fear. Then will the heavens overhead be brass, and the earth under foot iron, because the corn has languished, the vine no longer yields its fruit. The tie between earth and heaven is broken; sacrifice and libation are cut off from the House of God.

Such be our thoughts, my dear brethren, about the Holy Mass. I have alluded to the efforts which mankind have made to offer a worthy offering to God, sometimes to the extent, even, of sacrificing their own lives and their children. While we abhor these excesses, let us not forget the earnestness which inspired their misguided devotion. And we, to whom God has given a perfect worship, a worship not cruel, but beautiful, inviting, consoling, satisfying, shall we be less devout in offering it? No! come to Mass, and come to pray. When the Lord drew near to Elias on the mount, the prophet wrapped his face in his mantle; so when we come to Mass, let us wrap our souls in a holy recollection of spirit. Remember what is going on. Now pray; now praise; now ask forgiveness; now rest before God in quiet love. So will the Mass be a marvellous comfort and refreshment to you. You know the smell of the incense lingers about the sacred vestments worn at the altar long after the service is over; so your souls shall carry away with them as you leave the church a celestial fragrance, a breath of the odors of Paradise, the token that you have received a blessing from Him whose "fingers drop with sweet-smelling myrrh."

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Sermon XXIX.
The Lessons Of Autumn.
(Last Sunday After Pentecost.)

"All flesh is grass,
and all the glory thereof as the flower of the field.
The grass is withered and the flower is fallen."
—Isaias XL. 6, 7.

It is but a few weeks since you were told that the natural world has lessons of deep spiritual importance to teach us. Our Lord, as we see in the Gospel, sometimes drew the text of His discourse from the flowers of the field, sometimes from the birds of the air; and it must be evident to any reflecting mind that this was not done as a mere exercise of fancy on His part, but was the Divine Interpretation of these messages of love which from the beginning He had commissioned Nature to tell us. Nature, then, is really intended by God to be our Teacher. It is my purpose this morning, to direct your thoughts to one part of its teaching—that is, the spiritual instruction suggested to us by the season of Autumn.

Here, in the Church, where we have always the same doctrines, and the same worship, we might forget how all things without are full of change and decay, were it not that the Church uses Nature as a handmaid, and calls her within the sanctuary to adorn the Altar with her gifts. We miss today the flowers that have been so plentiful all summer, and this tells us what is going on without. The crown of flowers which the Spring brought forth to grace our Easter festival, and which were the truest type of the Resurrection, which made that feast so joyful, have all perished. The rose of Whitsuntide, the floral wealth of Corpus Christi, the white lily of midsummer, have all gone their way. "The glory of Lebanon is departed; the beauty of Carmel and Sharon." In the garden and the field, where so lately there was every kind of fruit and flower that is pleasant to the eye and sweet to the smell or taste—there are now but a few dried leaves, and the skeletons of trees and shrubs shaking and rattling in the wind. Nothing green is left except "the fir-tree and the box-tree and the pine-tree together," patiently enduring cold and snow so as to be on hand when the Holy Night comes round, and the Heavenly Babe is born, to make his humble home glad and beautiful with their green wreaths and branches. The birds that peopled the woods and made them merry with their music have gone south, leaving their summer home silent and desolate. The days are short. Clouds flit across the sky. The air is strong and keen, and men shut it out and make all warm and snug within. Yes, the little time that has elapsed, since we began to number our Sundays from Easter, has been a full cycle of being in the vegetable world. Spring has given place to summer, and summer to autumn. Seed-time and harvest have followed each other, and now the dreary winter has commenced. "The grass is withered and the flower is fallen.

And what does all this mean to us? I am sure all of you understand it well. This season speaks to us in tones that reach every human heart. It tells us that we are dying. It is strange how slow we are to realize this. I look around this church, and I see many dressed in the dark garments that tell they are mourning for the dead. In what house, indeed, is the family unbroken? Where is there not a vacant seat at the table? Who of us has not lost a friend? And yet we rarely think that we too are soon to follow them. Now, God wishes us to think of this. He tells us of it by our reason, He tells us of it by our vacant hearths and homes; He tells us of it by sermons, and by His word, but, not content with this, He makes the natural world, heir with us of the sentence of mortality, a monitor to us of this great truth. "Day unto day uttereth speech if it, and night unto night sheweth knowledge of it." [Footnote 237]

[Footnote 237: Ps xviii. 3.]

But at certain seasons He tells us of it more distinctly and in a greater variety of ways. Would you know what the Autumn teaches? Hear the Holy Ghost, Himself interpret it: "The voice said, cry; and I said, what shall I cry? All Flesh is grass and all the glory thereof as the flower of the field: the grass is withered and the flower is fallen." [Footnote 238] "In the morning man shall grow up like the grass; in the evening he shall fall, grow dry and wither." [Footnote 239] "Man born of a woman, liveth for a short time, and is filled with many miseries. He cometh forth as a flower and is destroyed; he fleeth as a shadow and never continueth in the same state." [Footnote 240]

[Footnote 238: Isaias xl. 6, 7.]

[Footnote 239: Ps. lxxxix. 6.]

[Footnote 240: Job xiv. 1, 2.]

Oh, do not require God always to speak to you in a voice of thunder: listen to Him when He speaks gently. Open your eyes and ears, and receive instruction from the sights and sounds of Nature. We are dying: the sighing winds tell us so. We are dying: the falling leaf tells us how Death will soon have power over us as a leaf carried away by the wind, and pursue us as a dry straw." [Footnote 241] We are dying: the harvest-man is discharged, so "our days are like the days of an hireling, and the end of labor draweth nigh." [Footnote 242] We are dying: the short days tell us that to us "the sun and the light and the moon and the stars will soon be darkened."[Footnote 243]

[Footnote 241: Job xiii. 25.]

[Footnote 242: Job vii. 1.]

[Footnote 243: Eccles. xii. 2.]

We are dying: the earth hath already wrapped itself in its winding-sheet of snow, to foretell to us the time when, stiff and cold, we shall be dressed for the grave. We are all dying. Are you young? Well, the young are dying. Life is but a lingering death. As soon as we are born, we began to draw to our end. Every path in life leads straight to the grave. Are you old? are you sick? Ah! then, there is a voice within you which repeats the warning from without. You are not as strong and well as you once were. Time was you felt within you a fount of health and strength that defied danger and despised precaution. What a strange, fierce joy it was for you to struggle with the buffetings of the wintry blast! But, somehow, you know not how, either it was an accident or an imprudence, there came over you now and then a pain, a cough, a strange weariness, and the raw wind steals away from your cheek the bloom which once it imparted, and sends a chill to your heart. What does it mean? I will tell you. It is the shadow of mortality. You are dying. Men do not realize this. They do not realize it of themselves, and they do not realize it of others. Death is always a surprise and an accident. It is one of the things in the world on which men do not count.

It is something which has nothing to do with us until the doctor stands over us, and says we have but a few days or a few hours to live. We speak of the dead with pity, as if they were the victims of some unlucky chance which we had escaped. This ought not to be so. "It is appointed for man once to die." [Footnote 244]

[Footnote 244: Heb. ix. 27.]

Because we are living, therefore we must die. Adam in Paradise might have escaped death if he would, but since Adam's sin and our loss of integrity, the sentence of death has passed upon all. There is no reflection which a man can make more certainly true than this: I must die. The time is fixed. There shall come to me a day that knows no setting, a night that knows no dawn. The lights shall be lit in the church; the pall spread over the bier; the priest singing Mass at the altar. My body shall lie under that pall, and my name be mentioned in that Mass. From the church my body shall be carried to the grave, and my soul be happy or miserable according to the deeds it hath done on earth. I do not know when I shall die. Youth is no protection against death. Health is no protection against death. I do not know where I shall die. No corner of the earth can hide me from His summons. I do not know how I shall die, whether at home, among my friends, with the rites of the Church, with my reason, with a quiet mind—or abroad, or suddenly, or without the last sacraments, or with a heavy load of sin on my soul, or in a state of insensibility. All these things are uncertain; this only is certain, that I must die—that I must die, that my turn shall come; and others shall speak of me as I speak now of those already dead.

But some of you may say, why tell us this? Life is short at the best, why vex ourselves with thinking of that which we cannot prevent. We have got many projects in hand, many pleasures in prospect, and we do not want to paralyze our energies and sadden our days by meditating always on death. No, my brethren, I do not ask you to think of death in order to paralyze your energies, but to direct them aright; not to sadden your days, but to make them calm and tranquil. I know that a celebrated modern writer has made it a matter of reproach against Christianity that it sends men to learn the solemn lessons of the grave. But surely this reproach is unreasonable. It cannot be denied that men do die. The earth has already many times seen an entire generation of her inhabitants pass away. There are many more sleeping in the ground than live on its surface. Now, if this be so, if death is an inevitable fact in our history, and a fact on which much depends—if this life is not all, but after this life there is an Eternity dependent on our conduct here, it is plain that reason requires us to think of death, and he is foolish who forgets it. Besides, the thought of death is enjoined upon us by the Almighty, as a sure means of salvation: "In all thy works remember thy last end, and thou shalt never sin." [Footnote 245]

[Footnote 245: Eccles. vii. 36.]

And I will say more. The thought of death really contributes to our comfort, because it is the only way of getting rid of the fear of death. Suppose you do refuse to listen to the warnings which Death suggests, are you therefore free from anxiety? Is there no trouble in your conscience? Is there nothing frightful to you in a sleepless night, or a sickbed? would you hear with equanimity that you had a hopeless disease? No, it is the coward that will not think of death, who "all his life through fear of death is subject to slavery." Act like a man. Face this King of Terrors, and you disarm him. His countenance is stern, but his words are kind and friendly. Listen to him, and you will find that he can relax his grim features and smile upon you; and there is nothing can give you such comfort, as for death to come to you with a smiling face. The sting of death is sin: be careful to avoid sin, and then at his coming you can exclaim: "O death, where is thy victory! O death, where is thy sting!" [Footnote 246]

[Footnote 246: I. Cor. xv. 55.]

Oh, it is a shame and a disgrace that Christians think so little about death. Why, death is our best friend and our wisest counsellor. A London anatomist once placed over his dissecting-rooms this inscription: "Hic mors juvat succurrere vitæ;" "Here death helps to succor life." You see the meaning. The physician takes a dead body and studies it, spends days and nights over it, repulsive as it is, in order to learn the secrets of the living frame and how to minister to its complaints. So let the Christian look at death and learn from it how to keep his soul in health, how to secure its everlasting life. It is nothing very terrible that death has to tell us now. The time will come, if we refuse to hear him now, when his words will be terrible; but now, though solemn, though calculated to make us serious and thoughtful, they need not make us gloomy. He says, you have a great work to do, and little time to do it in—time enough, but none to spare. He says to the young: Look at me, look into my face, and see the value of beauty and of pleasure. He says to the proud: Come and see how kings and beggars lie side by side in my dominion. He says to the covetous: Come, open a grave, and see what a man carries away with him when he dies. And he says to all, you must die alone; what you are, what you have made yourself, so must you appear before God, to receive a just and final sentence. This is the sermon of Death, that he has been preaching from the beginning. It never grows old. It has converted more sinners than all missionaries and preachers by any other means. It has made more saints, induced more to embrace a religious life, sent more souls to heaven than any other sermon ever did. Oh! Death is a great preacher. There is no answer to his reasonings, no escape from his appeal. He speaks not, but his silence is eloquent. He makes no gestures, but that motionless arm of his is more expressive than the most impassioned action. There is a story told of a certain man named Guerricus, which shows how powerfully death preaches. This man was a Christian, but one who loved the world too well, and one evening he strayed into a church when the monks were singing matins. The hour, the place, all invited to reflection, and as he stood and listened, one of the monks came forth, and in a loud, clear voice sang the lesson of the day. It was as follows: "And all the time that Adam lived, came to nine hundred and thirty years, and he died. And Seth lived after he begat Enos eight hundred and seven years, and all the years of Seth were nine hundred and twelve years, and he died. And Enos begat Cainan. And all the years of Enos were nine hundred and five years, and he died. And all the days of Cainan were nine hundred and ten years, and he died." [Footnote 247]

[Footnote 247: Gen. v. 5.]

So it came at the end of every period, the same melancholy cadence, Et mortuus est, "and he died." The words rang in the ear of Guerricus. "So then," said he, "that is the end of all. The longest life ends with that record—and he died. So it will one day be said of me." And with this reflection on his mind, he went away and distributed his wealth to the poor, commenced a life of mortification and prayer, and began in good earnest to prepare to die. Happy those who after this example are led by the thought of death to enter on a really devout life! They will not be confounded in the evil day. They will not be afraid of any evil tidings. When the great prophet Elias was about to leave this world, the sons of the prophets came to tell Eliseus of it as a piece of afflicting news, saying: "Dost thou know that the Lord will take away thy master from thee to-day?" [Footnote 248] And he said: "Yes, I know it, hold your peace." So when the good Christian's last hour comes on, and sorrowing friends approach his bed to break it to him that he is dying, he can say, Yes, I know it. It is no news to me. I have long known it. I have expected it. Dying, you say. "So then," I can exclaim with St. Teresa, "the hour is come!" the hour I have so long been waiting for, the hour I have labored for, the hour that is to end my exile here, and unite me for ever to my Saviour and my God!

[Footnote 248: I. Kings ii. 3.]

I tried just now to describe to you the desolation that is now spread over the face of Nature; but a few weeks ago the scene was quite different. The fields were laden with a golden harvest, and the husbandman was gathering it in with joy. He knew that winter was coming, and he prepared for it. In the morning he sowed his seed, and in the evening he withheld not his hand. He labored in the chill, uncertain spring, and in the hot days of summer, and when autumn came, he gathered his fruits into the garner, safe from the frosts of winter. So he who thinks of death makes the most of the spring-time of life, takes care in his youth to plant in his heart the seeds of piety, and to tear up the weeds of vice, guards his soul in the storms of temptation, labors untiringly through the heat and burden of life, and, when his last hour arrives, lies down in peace, confident that he shall enter into those fruits of righteousness which, by patient continuance in well-doing, he has laid up for the time to come.

I commend these thoughts to you all, my brethren; but there are some among you to whom I commend them especially, those, namely, who are to die soon. When the captains of Israel were assembled together at Ramoth-Galaad, the messenger of Eliseus appeared in their midst and said, "I have a message to thee, O prince." And they answered, "To which one of us all?" [Footnote 249] So I feel this morning as if I had a message to some of you in particular, though I do not know who they are. The message is that which Jeremias the prophet sent to Hananias: "Thus saith the Lord, this year shalt thou die." [Footnote 250]

[Footnote 249: IV. Kings ix. 5.]

[Footnote 250: Jer. xxviii. 16.]

How many of those who were alive a year ago are now dead! How many of those who listen to me now will be dead before another year rolls round! Now, to these persons it is a question of the most pressing urgency, "Am I now as I would wish to be when I die? When Death comes, it will not wait because you are laden with sins or unprepared. It will not wait for you to send for the priest or finish your confession, or to receive absolution. At the moment that sentence is given, you must yield up your soul, in whatever state it is. Now, then, is the time to put your house in order. Perhaps you are not a Catholic. You are lingering outside the Church, with misgivings in your heart that only in her fold you can secure your salvation. Will those misgivings help you to die easily? Will those ingenious and far-fetched arguments, by which you fortify yourself against conviction now, give that peace to your soul, which the broad, strong, plain evidence of the Faith imparts to the soul of a Catholic? Would you not like, as you go out of this world, to step on the firm rock of Peter? To go hence "with the sign of faith," with the blessing of the Mother of Saints upon you, and the grace of her sacraments within your heart?

Or, you are a Catholic, but a careless one. You have the load of years of sin on your conscience. When you come to die, will you not wish to have those sins blotted out? Will you then forego as you do now those absolving words which our Lord has promised to ratify in heaven? Will you trust all to the uncertain chance of confession in that hour, or to a doubtful contrition?

Or it is a cloud of venial sins—a veil of worldliness, and selfishness, and unfaithfulness, of omissions and neglects, that darkens your soul. Do you wish to die with that veil not taken away? Do you wish to go before God as careless and as sensual as you are now? Are you spending your time as you would wish to spend the last year of your life? Oh! be diligent. The night cometh. Work while it is day. "Whatsoever thy hand is able to do, do it earnestly; for neither work, nor reason, nor wisdom, nor knowledge shall be in the land of the dead whither thou art hastening." [Footnote 251]

[Footnote 251: Eccles. ix. 10.]

Receive instruction. Be not of the number of those who have foolishly thrown away their salvation.

There are stories of men's passing through grave-yards on dark and stormy nights, and hearing dismal sounds, as of a restless and unhappy soul complaining of its torments. You say it is the wind. Suppose it is: may not the wind be speaking for the dead? Is not the earth for the elect? Does not Nature sympathize with man? Does not every creature groan and travail for our redemption? [Footnote 252] Did not the prophet call upon the fir-trees and the oaks to "howl" for the destruction of Jerusalem! [Footnote 253]

[Footnote 252: Rom. ix. 22.]

[Footnote 253: Zacb. xi. 2.]

Did not the sun hide its face at the crucifixon of our Lord, and the earth tremble under His Cross? And when He comes to judgment will not the stars fall from the sky and the heavens be parted as a scroll? Is not, then, that instinct of humanity right which has understood the fearful sounds and sights of Nature as Divine utterances—pictures and voices of a woe that is unspeakable and indescribable. There is a bird in South America with a cry so melancholy that it is called The Lost Soul. And Nature, that speaks there to the hearts of men by that dismal cry, tells the same story to us by the storm at sea, and the moaning and sighing and shrieking of the wind on a winter's night. What aileth thee, O sea, tossed and driven with the waves? Let the Scriptures answer. "The voice of the Lord is upon the waters, the God of majesty hath thundered, the Lord is upon many waters." [Footnote 254]

[Footnote 254: Ps. xxviii. 3:]

Why does the winter come upon us with desolation and storm? Let the Holy Scripture answer again: "The vineyard is confounded, and the fig-tree hath languished. The pomegranate-tree, and the palm-tree, and the apple-tree, and all the trees of the field shalt wither because joy is withdrawn from the children of men." [Footnote 255]

[Footnote 255: Joel i. 12.]

Yes, there are sad things in nature because there is death and reprobation among men. The days grow short out of sorrow for the lost children of God, and the wintry heavens "are black with clouds, and winds, and rain," because to many "the harvest is past, the summer is ended, and they are not saved." [Footnote 256]

[Footnote 256: Jer. viii. 20.]