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!