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.]
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."