The Master always begins by making himself known, loved, and appreciated in a sensible manner. Later he deprives the soul of these consolations in order to withdraw it from the grossness of the senses and to bring it into more excellent, more intimate, and more enduring union with himself in pure faith and pure spirit. To complete this purification, these deprivations must be followed by sufferings (interior if no other), interior rebelliousness, diabolical temptation, distress, helplessness, and distaste for all good, which themselves can sometimes amount to a kind of agony. All these serve admirably to rid the soul of its self-love and to give it certain features of resemblance to its crucified Spouse. All these agonies are so many blows which God levels at us to make us die to ourselves.The more self-love resists this spiritual death, the more savage these blows appear and the more cruel the agonies. The divine love is a double-edged sword that smites self-love until it is completely destroyed. Our pain has its source in that stout resistance offered by this accursed love of ourselves which hates to relinquish the control it has acquired over our heart and to allow the love of God to reign there in peace. If that love of God finds no obstacle to its divine ardors and no foe to resist it, it will make none but sweet and delightful impressions upon the heart.
Father Jean-Pierre de Caussade, S.J. (died 1751) was a French Jesuit, a writer, and a revered spiritual director.
Showing posts with label pride. Show all posts
Showing posts with label pride. Show all posts
Thursday, January 19, 2012
Thursday, October 13, 2011
When I Survey the Wondrous Cross
When I survey the wondrous cross
On which the Prince of glory died,
My richest gain I count but loss
And pour contempt on all my pride.
See, from His head, His hands, His feet,
Sorrow and love flow mingled down.
Did e'er such love and sorrow meet
Or thorns compose so rich a crown?
Were the whole realm of nature mine
That were a tribute far too small;
Love so amazing, so divine,
Demands my soul, my life, my all.
On which the Prince of glory died,
My richest gain I count but loss
And pour contempt on all my pride.
See, from His head, His hands, His feet,
Sorrow and love flow mingled down.
Did e'er such love and sorrow meet
Or thorns compose so rich a crown?
Were the whole realm of nature mine
That were a tribute far too small;
Love so amazing, so divine,
Demands my soul, my life, my all.
Saturday, October 8, 2011
Excerpt from "Make us Worthy" by Anthony Esolen
Children know they are little, and feel neither pride nor shame in the presence of love. Let us be made such worthy children, to join the feast of the Lamb.
Make Us Worthy, Anthony Esolen
"Lord," said the centurion, abashed that Jesus had offered to visit his dying servant, "I am not worthy that you should enter under my roof, but only say the word and my servant shall be healed." For to enter under a man's roof is to submit to his hospitality, and the centurion -- a Gentile, and a leader of men -- knew that he could provide Jesus nothing to justify such a visit.
"Such faith I have not seen in all Israel!" Jesus exclaimed. "Go, your servant is healed."
We repeat the words of the centurion before receiving the Eucharist at Mass, as we repeat his act of faith, for just as he affirmed the sovereignty of Jesus -- he knew that Jesus did not have to be physically present to heal his servant, for the Lord commands, and his ministers obey -- so we affirm that Christ is present in the sacrament, though we cannot see him by our senses, and that Christ will heal our souls, which otherwise must lie sick unto death. So in the Eucharist Jesus enters under our roofs; but something else happens, more astonishing than that. We enter under his. We are given a foretaste of the wedding feast of the Lamb, the eternal Eucharist of joy and peace.
Won over by Christ
We of all people should know that if we are not worthy to open our homes to Christ, we are surely not worthy that he should open his home, which is Father and Son and the Spirit of Love they breathe, to us, dressed our rags of mortality and sin. But our sense of unworthiness may lead us along one of two paths. We may take the path of pride, disguised as humility, and beg the Lord to ignore us, even to cast us out of the feast into the darkness, where we will be more comfortable, we suppose, wailing and gnashing our teeth. That is, we will take only those gifts we think we deserve, ashamed to accept more. Or, despite our pride, despite even our shame, we will allow ourselves to be won over by Christ, and let him work the great miracle at the heart of the Eucharist. That miracle is not that he should be present to us under the species of bread and wine. It is, finally, that we should be made present to him, as worthy guests, cleansed of sin, well dressed, fit for that wedding feast.
That is the consummate miracle we see performed, quietly, in the final poem of George Herbert's posthumous volume, The Temple. It is well that this poem, simply called "Love," comes last, as if we had proceeded through the church doors and up the aisle, to kneel at last at the communion rail of death, or of that first moment beyond death, when we see the face of the Beloved. So Herbert imagines himself greeted by Love, and his reaction -- in full awareness of his sin -- is to hang back to turn aside. We think that mercy is a sweeter and easier thing than justice, but it is not so; for justice takes us as we are, but mercy assaults us and batters at the gates of our heart, demanding that we be made new. Face to face with Love, the speaker in Herbert's poem, torn by both love and shame, wants to retreat, to go to that place more deserving of his sins. Sometimes sorrow is easier than joy, and despair more comforting than hope.
The feast of Love
But Jesus will not let us go! He who sweat blood in Gethsemane, who was flogged and crowned with thorns, who carried the bitter cross up Calvary, who hung there till his heart burst, who was pierced with a lance for our offenses -- he is going to yield because we are shy? Not so. He took the initiative then, and takes the initiative now. He comes to us before we come to him. He takes us by the hand. He clears our eyes that we may see. He shuts fast the gates of hell so that we may not run away to hide there. He wants us to serve him always by allowing him to serve us, even with that food which is himself. He wants us to enjoy the feast of Love, because that is what he is, and what he would have us be:
Love bade me welcome, but my soul drew back,
Guilty of dust and sin.
But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack
From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning
If I lacked anything.
"A guest," I answered, "worthy to be here."
Love said, "You shall be he."
"I, the unkind, ungrateful? Ah my dear,
I cannot look on thee."
Love took my hand and, smiling, made reply,
"Who made the eyes but I?"
"Truth, Lord, but I have marred them -- let my shame
Go where it doth deserve."
"And know you not," says love, "who bore the blame?"
"My dear, then I will serve."
"You must sit down," says Love, "and taste my meat."
So I did sit and eat.
And that is all, in language so simple a child could understand. But children know they are little, and feel neither pride nor shame in the presence of love. Let us be made such worthy children, to join the feast of the Lamb.
Anthony Esolen is a professor of English at Providence College, and a senior editor of Touchstone Magazine, and a regular contributor to Magnificat. He is the translator and editor of Dante's Divine Comedy, and the author of Ironies of Faith.
"Such faith I have not seen in all Israel!" Jesus exclaimed. "Go, your servant is healed."
We repeat the words of the centurion before receiving the Eucharist at Mass, as we repeat his act of faith, for just as he affirmed the sovereignty of Jesus -- he knew that Jesus did not have to be physically present to heal his servant, for the Lord commands, and his ministers obey -- so we affirm that Christ is present in the sacrament, though we cannot see him by our senses, and that Christ will heal our souls, which otherwise must lie sick unto death. So in the Eucharist Jesus enters under our roofs; but something else happens, more astonishing than that. We enter under his. We are given a foretaste of the wedding feast of the Lamb, the eternal Eucharist of joy and peace.
Won over by Christ
We of all people should know that if we are not worthy to open our homes to Christ, we are surely not worthy that he should open his home, which is Father and Son and the Spirit of Love they breathe, to us, dressed our rags of mortality and sin. But our sense of unworthiness may lead us along one of two paths. We may take the path of pride, disguised as humility, and beg the Lord to ignore us, even to cast us out of the feast into the darkness, where we will be more comfortable, we suppose, wailing and gnashing our teeth. That is, we will take only those gifts we think we deserve, ashamed to accept more. Or, despite our pride, despite even our shame, we will allow ourselves to be won over by Christ, and let him work the great miracle at the heart of the Eucharist. That miracle is not that he should be present to us under the species of bread and wine. It is, finally, that we should be made present to him, as worthy guests, cleansed of sin, well dressed, fit for that wedding feast.
That is the consummate miracle we see performed, quietly, in the final poem of George Herbert's posthumous volume, The Temple. It is well that this poem, simply called "Love," comes last, as if we had proceeded through the church doors and up the aisle, to kneel at last at the communion rail of death, or of that first moment beyond death, when we see the face of the Beloved. So Herbert imagines himself greeted by Love, and his reaction -- in full awareness of his sin -- is to hang back to turn aside. We think that mercy is a sweeter and easier thing than justice, but it is not so; for justice takes us as we are, but mercy assaults us and batters at the gates of our heart, demanding that we be made new. Face to face with Love, the speaker in Herbert's poem, torn by both love and shame, wants to retreat, to go to that place more deserving of his sins. Sometimes sorrow is easier than joy, and despair more comforting than hope.
The feast of Love
But Jesus will not let us go! He who sweat blood in Gethsemane, who was flogged and crowned with thorns, who carried the bitter cross up Calvary, who hung there till his heart burst, who was pierced with a lance for our offenses -- he is going to yield because we are shy? Not so. He took the initiative then, and takes the initiative now. He comes to us before we come to him. He takes us by the hand. He clears our eyes that we may see. He shuts fast the gates of hell so that we may not run away to hide there. He wants us to serve him always by allowing him to serve us, even with that food which is himself. He wants us to enjoy the feast of Love, because that is what he is, and what he would have us be:
Love bade me welcome, but my soul drew back,
Guilty of dust and sin.
But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack
From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning
If I lacked anything.
"A guest," I answered, "worthy to be here."
Love said, "You shall be he."
"I, the unkind, ungrateful? Ah my dear,
I cannot look on thee."
Love took my hand and, smiling, made reply,
"Who made the eyes but I?"
"Truth, Lord, but I have marred them -- let my shame
Go where it doth deserve."
"And know you not," says love, "who bore the blame?"
"My dear, then I will serve."
"You must sit down," says Love, "and taste my meat."
So I did sit and eat.
And that is all, in language so simple a child could understand. But children know they are little, and feel neither pride nor shame in the presence of love. Let us be made such worthy children, to join the feast of the Lamb.
Anthony Esolen is a professor of English at Providence College, and a senior editor of Touchstone Magazine, and a regular contributor to Magnificat. He is the translator and editor of Dante's Divine Comedy, and the author of Ironies of Faith.
Pride and Mortality
Whenever we imagine that we are in control of life -- our own or someone else's -- we have fallen prey to the ancient whisper in the Garden: "You shall be like gods." Mortality is the enduring reminder that we become like God not by our own power but by the power of the cross.
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