The Fruit of Sorrows

The tragedies of this world take on their full meaning when one looks at life from a realistic point of view... We should not struggle against what has been decided by God. Men are only instruments, and if this seems obscure to those living in the world, it is not so for those who must share in this work of mercy. Certainly, it is not easy, and we must endure a very painful ordeal, but with the trial come graces, and then sadness is turned into joy.

Believe me, Mama, there is no injustice willingly accepted that does not bear fruit a hundredfold, and receive its just reward, prodigal beyond our comprehension. Do not think that all the sorrows that have overwhelmed our family in recent years are useless. On the contrary, they are necessary, in order that just reparation may be made, and that through this the love of Christ may be given us in all its fullness. The law of life is that some pay for others, young branches full of sap are cut back and old, unproductive boughs left in their place. This seems unjust, and it would be, if compensation far outweighing anything life could offer were not given to these victims, who are by the very fact privileged. Joy, then, not sadness! If life is worth living and if you feel weary and exhausted to the point of death, it is because your soul is famished for the life-giving nourishment which will yield unending joy.

It is only recently that I have come to understand the meaning of the cross. It is at once prodigious and atrocious: prodigious because it gives us life, and atrocious because if we do not accept to be crucified all life is denied us. This is a great mystery, and blessed are the persecuted.

--Jacques Fesch

My heart is moved with pity

To rescue you from your passions, [the Word] took on a body, would you therefore set a yardstick on his great-famed Godhead? Has he sinned, in pitying you? To me, rather, he's the more amazing. For he didn't shave off any bit of Godhead, and still he saved me, stooping as a doctor over my foul-smelling passions. He was a man, but God. David's offspring, but Adam's Maker. A bearer of flesh, but, even so, beyond all body. From a Mother, but she a Virgin. Comprehensible, but immeasurable. And a manger received him, while a star led the Magi, who so came bearing gifts, and fell on bended knee. As a man he entered the arena, but he prevailed, as indomitable, over the tempter in three bouts. Food was set before him, but he fed thousands, and changed the water into wine. He got baptized, but he washed sins clean, but he was proclaimed by the Spirit, in a voice of thunder, to be the Son of the One Uncaused. As a man he took rest, and as God he put to rest the sea. His knees were wearied, but he bolstered the strength and knees of the lame. He prayed, but who was it who heard the petitions of the feeble? He was the sacrifice, but the high priest: making an offering, but himself God. He dedicated his blood to God, and cleansed the entire world. And a cross carried him up, while the bolts nailed fast sin. But what's it for me to say these things? He had company with the dead, but he rose from the dead, and the dead, the bygone, he raised up: there a mortal's poverty, here the incorporeal's wealth. Don't you dishonor, then, his divinity on account of his human things, but, for the divine's sake, hold in renown the earthly form into which, thoughtful towards you, he formed himself, the incorruptible Son.

St. Gregory Nazianzen (died 390) was a monk, a bishop, and a writer of letters, prayers, and poems.

The Holy Name of Mary, St. Bernard of Clairvaux

If the winds of temptations surge, if you run aground on the shoals of troubles, look to this star, call upon Mary! If you are tossed by the winds of pride or ambition or detraction or jealousy, look to this star, call upon Mary! If anger or greed or the allurements of the flesh dash against the boat of your mind, look to Mary! And if you are troubled by the enormity of your sins, confused by the foulness of your conscience, terrified by the horror of the Judgment, so that you begin to be swallowed up by the pit of sadness, the abyss of despair, think of Mary! In dangers, in straits, in perplexity, think of Mary, call upon Mary. Let her name be always in your mouth and in your heart, and, if you would ask for and obtain the help of her prayers, do not forget the example of how she lived. If you follow her, you will not go astray. If you pray to her, you will not despair. If you think of her, you will not be lost. If you cling to her, you will not fall. If she protects you, you will not fear; if she is your guide, you will not tire; if she is favorable to you, you will reach your goal. Thus you will experience personally how rightly it was spoken "And the Virgin's name was Mary."

Saint Bernard of Clairvaux (died 1153) is considered the last of the Fathers of the Church and is a Doctor of the Church.

2 Corinthians 7:9-10

I rejoice now, not because you were saddened, but because you were saddened into repentance; for you were saddened in a godly way, so that you did not suffer loss in anything because of us. For godly sorrow produces a salutary repentance without regret.

Excerpt from "Make us Worthy" by Anthony Esolen

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.

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.