To remember the mercies of God is to make good use of them. To what end has he blessed us with the gift of faith? That it should simply distinguish us from those who do not possess it, and to lie idle and fruitless in our soul? Vain ornament, indeed, that honors neither the giver nor him who receives it. You are a Catholic in name, and you do not forget it. Is it enough to remember that? Oh! answer God to-day. Do you remember when Sunday morning comes, and the priest is ascending the altar, that you are a Catholic, and where a Catholic should be found then? Do you remember when the Church is calling her children to the confession of their sins, and to the Holy Communion at the joyful Easter time, that you are a Catholic, and what it behooves a Catholic to do then? Do you remember when obscene and blasphemous language is used in your presence that you are a Catholic, and think what part a Catholic should take in that? Tell me, can you lift your heart to Him to-day, and say in truth—My God, Thou knowest that I have not forgotten Thee? "I have chosen the way of truth: Thy judgments I have not forgotten." [Footnote 3]
[Footnote 3: Ps. cxviii. 30.]
[USCCB: Ps. cxix. 30; "The way of loyalty I have chosen; I have set your edicts before me.">[
You got over that illness. I know that you said, "If God spares my life, I will be a changed man—I will be an altered woman. No more will I be seen staggering in drunkenness. No longer will I keep a grog-shop, and stain my hands with the hard-earned and wickedly-squandered money of my neighbor—blood-money, cursed by the cries of the brutally treated wife and the moans of the naked, starved children. No longer will I be a nominal Catholic, a standing scandal to unbelievers, and damning my own soul by my criminal neglect of God and contempt of His Holy Church. I will give up all that spite and malice in my heart, and go and be reconciled with those who have injured me for the sake of Him who said, 'Forgive, and you shall be forgiven.'" Do you remember all that? Yes; but what avails such a heartless remembrance as yours has been? Even He has reminded you of your promise and of His mercy from time to time, as He now again reminds you by my mouth. Oh! mock Him not. Better, far better, would it be had you wholly forgotten both promise and mercy. It would not be generous, I allow; but now you are false and treacherous, for the mercy was granted, but the promise remains unfulfilled.
In the sorrow of your stricken spirit, and with the grievous burden of sin lying heavy upon you, your guardian angel took you one day, trembling, anxious, fearful, harassed by the stings of remorse, to the confessional. There you poured out your griefs, and told all the shameful guilt—griefs that seemed eternal, and guilt that no oceans might wash away. And yet, O tender mercy of God! down falls the veil of darkness, and your soul is bathed in light. You, who a moment ago were stumbling in despair at the portals of hell, are now standing before the gates of heaven. You, who had that in your soul which almost drove you to madness, now are in such peace that words fail you, and you weep for very joy. Yes, of a truth God has been very merciful, tenderly merciful to you. Ah! what would you not then do for God—what sacrifices would you not make—what life long resolutions were you not ready to form! Do you not remember? Ah, yes! now I remind you of it. But how long did you remember it to any profit to yourself or praise to God? And tell me, how now? What of your present remembrance? An East Indian having been shown all about the beautiful city of Paris, through its royal palaces, its galleries of art, its manufactories of wondrous scientific and mechanical instruments, manifested, it was observed, but little enthusiasm. The Indian was too proud to show any emotion at sight of the works of strangers. One day he was taken to the Jardin des Plantes, where are cultivated trees, shrubs, and flowers of every clime. Suddenly he stopped short before a tropical tree, fell upon his knees, clasped it lovingly and kissed it, and, as the tears flowed fast down his swarthy cheek, cried out, in his own language, "O tree of my own land! O tree of my own native land, so far away! Let us go back home again."
There are some of you, my brethren, to whom I have shown the picture of a mercy you cannot but remember well. How does the sight of it affect you? Are you moved with that deep emotion such a memory should awaken? Do you hug the memory of that hour of peace to your bosom, and does your heart cry out, "O tender mercy of my God! O sweet hour of peace now so far away! Let me go back to thee again!" Blessed remembrance, as happy for yourself as it is dear to God. You are wise because you keep these things in mind, and have understood the mercies of the Lord, and the praise of the Lord for all the things He hath bestowed upon you.
But can you look at it with indifference, seeing there nothing to stir the depths of your soul, nothing to call forth a grateful aspiration from your breast? Then I think of that uncivilized Indian, and must say: He loved his country better than you love God. He was quick to remember that; you have been quick to forget Him.
I am not asking too much, my brethren, am I? I am not forcing upon your notice a subject out of place at this joyous season, am I? When the absent one returns to the old homestead to spend the Christmas holidays, you who have been the kindest to him, the most lavish in your gifts—you who have been sending him time and again sweet tokens of your remembrance—you do not look for him to think the last about you. Oh! no. You are tempted to hide yourself in sport before he has seen you, that you may enjoy listening to his anxious and hurried questions about you, and his wondering where you are, and a thousand eager expressions, which show that he has been thinking about the pleasant meeting he would have with you all the way home, and that his joy is not full till he can run into your embrace. Oh! his every question almost drags you out from your hiding-place. But suppose you listen in vain for the mention of your name; that in the midst of his joyous congratulations and happy wishes he does not ask where you are, and evinces by no sign that in your absence anything is wanting to him. Oh! the ugly pain at your heart as you steal away to your chamber, unwilling now to be seen, hurt by his forgetfulness, and stung to the very quick by his silent ingratitude.