{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_25133/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_25133","id":"gutenberg_25133","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/25133","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Religion/Spirituality","Christianity","Mysticism","Quietism","Spiritual life -- Catholic Church"],"text":"+--------------------------------------------------------------+\n  |                                                              |\n  | Transcriber's note:                                          |\n  |                                                              |\n  | This eBook contains the front matter from a combined edition |\n  | of _A Short Method of Prayer_ and _Spiritual Torrents_, but  |\n  | only contains the text of _Spiritual Torrents_.              |\n  |                                                              |\n  +--------------------------------------------------------------+\n\n\n\n\nA SHORT METHOD OF PRAYER\n\nand\n\nSPIRITUAL TORRENTS.\n\nBY\nJ. M. B. DE LA MOTHE GUYON.\n\n\nTranslated from the Paris Edition of 1790\nBY\nA. W. MARSTON.\n\n\nLONDON:\nSAMPSON LOW, MARSTON, LOW, & SEARLE,\nCROWN BUILDINGS, 188 FLEET STREET.\n1875.\n\n[_All rights reserved._]\n\n\n\n\nPRINTED BY BALLANTYNE AND COMPANY\nEDINBURGH AND LONDON\n\n\n\n\n_PREFACE TO THE ENGLISH PROTESTANT EDITION._\n\n\nSome apology is perhaps needed when a Protestant thus brings before\nProtestant readers the works of a consistent Roman Catholic author. The\nplea must be, that the doctrine and experience described are essentially\nProtestant; and so far from their receiving the assent of the Roman\nCatholic Church, their author was persecuted for holding and\ndisseminating them.\n\nOf the experience of Madame Guyon, it should be borne in mind, that\nthough the glorious heights of communion with God to which she attained\nmay be scaled by the feeblest of God's chosen ones, yet it is by no\nmeans necessary that they should be reached by the same apparently\narduous and protracted path along which she was led.\n\nThe \"Torrents\" especially needs to be regarded rather as an account of\nthe personal experience of the author, than as the plan which God\ninvariably, or even usually, adopts in bringing the soul into a state of\nunion with Himself. It is true that, in order that we may \"live unto\nrighteousness,\" we must be \"dead indeed unto sin;\" and that there must\nbe a crucifixion of self before the life of Christ can be made manifest\nin us. It is only when we can say, \"I am crucified with Christ,\" that we\nare able to add, \"Nevertheless I live, yet not I, but Christ liveth in\nme.\" But it does not follow that this inward death must always be as\nlingering as in the case of Madame Guyon. She tells us herself that the\nreason was, that she was not wholly resigned to the Divine will, and\nwilling to be deprived of the gifts of God, that she might enjoy the\npossession of the Giver. This resistance to the will of God implies\nsuffering on the part of the creature, and chastisement on the part of\nGod, in order that He may subdue to Himself what is not voluntarily\nyielded to Him.\n\nOf the joy of a complete surrender to God, it is not necessary to speak\nhere: thousands of God's children are realising its blessedness for\nthemselves, and proving that it is no hardship, but a joy unspeakable,\nto present themselves a living sacrifice to God, to live no longer to\nthemselves, but to Him that died for them, and rose again.\n\nA simple trust in a living, personal Saviour; a putting away by His\ngrace of all that is known to be in opposition to His will; and an\nentire self-abandonment to Him, that His designs may be worked out in\nand through us; such is the simple key to the hidden sanctuary of\ncommunion.\n\n\n\n\n_A SHORT METHOD OF PRAYER._\n\nCONTENTS.\n\n\n   CHAP.                                                             PAGE\n      I. PRAYER POSSIBLE AT ALL TIMES, BY THE MOST SIMPLE               1\n\n     II. FIRST DEGREE OF PRAYER                                         6\n\n    III. SECOND DEGREE OF PRAYER, CALLED HERE THE PRAYER OF SIMPLICITY 13\n\n     IV. SPIRITUAL DRYNESS                                             16\n\n      V. ABANDONMENT TO GOD                                            18\n\n     VI. SUFFERING                                                     21\n\n    VII. MYSTERIES                                                     23\n\n   VIII. VIRTUE                                                        25\n\n     IX. PERFECT CONVERSION                                            27\n\n      X. HIGHER DEGREE OF PRAYER, THAT OF THE SIMPLE PRESENCE OF GOD   30\n\n     XI. REST IN THE PRESENCE OF GOD--INWARD AND OUTWARD SILENCE       35\n\n    XII. SELF-EXAMINATION AND CONFESSION                               39\n\n   XIII. READING AND VOCAL PRAYER                                      42\n\n    XIV. THE FAULTS AND TEMPTATIONS OF THIS DEGREE                     44\n\n     XV. PRAYER AND SACRIFICE EXPLAINED BY THE SIMILITUDE OF A PERFUME 47\n\n    XVI. THIS STATE NOT ONE OF IDLENESS, BUT OF ACTION                 51\n\n   XVII. DISTINCTION BETWEEN EXTERIOR AND INTERIOR ACTIONS             63\n\n  XVIII. EXHORTATIONS TO PREACHERS                                     71\n\n    XIX. PREPARATION FOR DIVINE UNION                                  77\n\n\n\n\n_SPIRITUAL TORRENTS._\n\nCONTENTS.\n\n\n_PART I._\n\n   CHAP.                                                             PAGE\n      I. THE DIFFERENT WAYS IN WHICH SOULS ARE LED TO SEEK AFTER GOD   91\n\n     II. OF THE FIRST WAY, WHICH IS ACTIVE AND MEDITATIVE              94\n\n    III. OF THE SECOND WAY, WHICH IS THE PASSIVE WAY OF LIGHT         103\n\n     IV. OF THE THIRD WAY, WHICH IS THE PASSIVE WAY OF FAITH,\n             AND OF ITS FIRST DEGREE                                  111\n\n      V. IMPERFECTIONS OF THIS FIRST DEGREE                           125\n\n     VI. SECOND DEGREE OF THE PASSIVE WAY OF FAITH                    139\n\n    VII. SECT. I.--COMMENCEMENT OF THE THIRD DEGREE OF THE PASSIVE\n             WAY OF FAITH--FIRST DEGREE OF THE SPOLIATION OF THE SOUL 151\n\n         SECT. II.--SECOND DEGREE OF THE SPOLIATION OF THE SOUL       164\n\n         SECT. III.--THIRD DEGREE OF SPOLIATION                       169\n\n         SECT. IV.--ENTRANCE INTO MYSTICAL DEATH                      179\n\n   VIII. THIRD DEGREE OF THE PASSIVE WAY OF FAITH, IN ITS\n             CONSUMMATION                                             185\n\n     IX. FOURTH DEGREE OF THE PASSIVE WAY OF FAITH, WHICH IS THE\n             COMMENCEMENT OF THE DIVINE LIFE                          193\n\n\n_PART II._\n\n      I. MORE PARTICULAR DESCRIPTION OF SEVERAL CHARACTERISTICS OF\n             THE RESURRECTION LIFE                                    211\n\n     II. STABILITY, EXPERIENCE, ELEVATION, AND EXTREME PURITY OF THE\n             ABANDONED SOUL                                           221\n\n    III. PERFECT UNION OR DEIFORMITY                                  230\n\n     IV. ACTIONS AND SUFFERINGS OF THOSE IN A STATE OF UNION WITH GOD 239\n\n\n\n\n_SPIRITUAL TORRENTS._\n\nBY\nMADAME J. M. B. DE LA MOTHE-GUYON.\n\n\n\"Let judgment run down as waters; and righteousness as a mighty\nstream.\"--Amos v. 24.\n\n\n\n\nSPIRITUAL TORRENTS.\n\n\n\n\n_PART I._\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\nSOULS UNDER DIVINE INFLUENCE ARE IMPELLED TO SEEK AFTER GOD, BUT IN\nDIFFERENT WAYS--REDUCED TO THREE, AND EXPLAINED BY A SIMILITUDE.\n\n\nAs soon as a soul is brought under divine influence, and its return to\nGod is true and sincere, after the first cleansing which confession and\ncontrition have effected, God imparts to it a certain instinct to return\nto Him in a most complete manner, and to become united to Him. The soul\nfeels then that it was not created for the amusements and trifles of the\nworld, but that it has a centre and an end, to which it must be its aim\nto return, and out of which it can never find true repose. This\ninstinct is very deeply implanted in the soul, more or less in different\ncases, according to the designs of God; but all have a loving impatience\nto purify themselves, and to adopt the necessary ways and means of\nreturning to their source and origin, like rivers, which, after leaving\ntheir source, flow on continuously, in order to precipitate themselves\ninto the sea. You will observe that some rivers move gravely and slowly,\nand others with greater velocity; but there are rivers and _torrents_\nwhich rush with frightful impetuosity, and which nothing can arrest. All\nthe burdens which might be laid upon them, and the obstructions which\nmight be placed to impede their course, would only serve to redouble\ntheir violence. It is thus with souls. Some go on quietly towards\nperfection, and never reach the sea, or only very late, contented to\nlose themselves in some stronger and more rapid river, which carries\nthem with itself into the sea. Others, which form the second class, flow\non more vigorously and promptly than the first. They even carry with\nthem a number of rivulets; but they are slow and idle in comparison\nwith the last class, which rush onward with so much impetuosity, that\nthey are utterly useless: they are not available for navigation, nor can\nany merchandise be trusted upon them, except at certain parts and at\ncertain times. These are bold and mad rivers, which dash against the\nrocks, which terrify by their noise, and which stop at nothing. The\nsecond class are more agreeable and more useful; their gravity is\npleasing, they are all laden with merchandise, and we sail upon them\nwithout fear or peril.\n\nLet us look, with divine aid, at these three classes of persons, under\nthe three figures that I have proposed; and we will commence with the\nfirst, in order to conclude happily with the last.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\nOF THE FIRST WAY, WHICH IS ACTIVE, AND OF MEDITATION--WHAT IT IS--ITS\nWEAKNESSES, HABITS, OCCUPATIONS, ADVANTAGES, ETC.--GENERAL OPINION--WANT\nOF OBSERVATION THE CAUSE OF MOST OF THE DISPUTES AND DIFFICULTIES WHICH\nHAVE ARISEN UPON THE PASSIVE WAY, AND THE ABSURD OBJECTIONS WHICH HAVE\nBEEN MADE TO IT--SOULS FOR MEDITATION--THEY SHOULD BE LED TO IT THROUGH\nTHE AFFECTIONS--OPINION CONCERNING THEIR BARRENNESS AND\nPOWERLESSNESS--SPIRITUAL BOOKS AND AUTHORS ON THE INNER LIFE, IN\nCONTRAST TO OTHERS--CAPACITY AND INCAPACITY OF SOULS--THE SIMPLE ARE\nBETTER THAN THE GREAT REASONERS.\n\n\nThe first class of souls are those who, after their conversion, give\nthemselves up to meditation, or even to works of charity. They perform\nsome exterior austerities; endeavour, little by little, to purify\nthemselves, to rid themselves of certain notable sins, and even of\nvoluntary venial ones. They endeavour, with all their little strength,\nto advance gradually, but it is feebly and slowly.\n\nAs their source is not abundant, the dryness sometimes causes delay.\nThere are even periods, in times of aridity, when they dry up\naltogether. They do not cease to flow from the source, but it is so\nfeebly as to be barely perceptible. These rivers carry little or no\nmerchandise, and, therefore, for the public need, it must be taken to\nthem. It is necessary, at the same time, that art should assist nature,\nand find the means of enlarging them, either by canals, or by the help\nof other rivers of the same kind, which are joined together and united\nto it, which rivers thus joined increase the body of water, and, helping\neach other, put themselves in a condition to carry a few small boats,\nnot to the sea, but to some of the chief rivers, of which we shall speak\nlater. Such beings have usually little depth of spiritual life. They\nwork outwardly, and rarely quit their meditations, so that they are not\nfit for great things. In general they carry no merchandise--that is to\nsay, they can impart nothing to others; and God seldom uses them, unless\nit be to carry a few little boats--that is, to minister to bodily\nnecessities; and in order to be used, they must be discharged into the\ncanals of sensible graces, or united to some others in religion, by\nwhich means several, of medium grace, manage to carry the small boat,\nbut not into the sea itself, which is God: into that they never enter in\nthis life, but only in the next.\n\nIt is not that souls are not sanctified in this way. There are many\npeople, who pass for being very virtuous, who never get beyond it, God\ngiving them lights conformed to their condition, which are sometimes\nvery beautiful, and are the admiration of the religious world. The most\nhighly favoured of this class are diligent in the practice of virtue;\nthey devise thousands of holy inventions and practices to lead them to\nGod, and to enable them to abide in His presence; but all is\naccomplished by their own efforts, aided and supported by grace, and\ntheir own works appear to exceed the work of God, His work only\nconcurring with theirs.\n\nThe spiritual life of this class only thrives in proportion to their\nwork. If this work be removed, the progress of grace within them is\narrested: they resemble pumps, which only yield water in proportion as\nthey are agitated. You will observe in them a great tendency to assist\nthemselves by means of their natural sensibilities, a vigorous activity,\na desire to be always doing something more and something new to promote\ntheir perfection, and, in their seasons of barrenness, an anxiety to rid\nthemselves of it. They are subject to great variation: sometimes they do\nwonders, at other times they languish and decline. They have no evenness\nof conduct, because, as the greater part of their religion is in these\nnatural sensibilities, whenever it happens that their sensibilities are\ndry, either from want of work on their part, or from a lack of\ncorrespondence on the part of God, they fall into discouragement, or\nelse they redouble their efforts, in the hope of recovering of\nthemselves what they have lost. They never possess, like others, a\nprofound peace or calmness in the midst of distractions; on the\ncontrary, they are always on the alert to struggle against them or to\ncomplain of them.\n\nSuch minds must not be directed to passive devotion; this would be to\nruin them irrecoverably, taking from them their means of access to God.\nFor as with a person who is compelled to travel, and who has neither\nboat nor carriage, nor any other alternative than that of going on foot,\nif you remove his feet, you place advancement beyond his reach; so with\nthese souls; if you take away their works, which are their feet, they\ncan never advance.\n\nAnd I believe this to be the cause of the contests which now agitate the\nreligious world. Those who are in the _passive_ way, conscious of the\nblessedness they experience in it, would compel all to walk with them;\nthose, on the contrary, who are in what I have termed the state of\n_meditation_, would confine all to their way, which would involve\ninestimable loss.\n\nWhat must be done then? We must take the middle course, and see for\nwhich of the two ways souls are fitted.\n\nThis may be known in some by the opposition they have to remaining at\nrest, and allowing themselves to be led by the Spirit of God; by a\nconfusion of faults and defects into which they fall without being\nconscious of them; or, if they are possessed of natural prudence, by a\ncertain skill in concealing their faults from others and from\nthemselves; by their adherence to their sentiments, and by a number of\nother indications which cannot be explained.\n\nThe way to deliver them from such a state would be, to lead them to live\nless in the intellect and more in the affections, and if it be manifest\nthat they are gradually substituting the one for the other, it is a sign\nthat a spiritual work is being carried on within them.\n\nI am at a loss to understand why so loud a cry is raised against those\nbooks and writers that treat of the inner life. I maintain that they can\ndo no harm, unless it be to some who are willing to lose themselves for\nthe sake of their own pleasure, to whom not only these things, but\neverything else, would be an injury: like spiders, which convert flowers\ninto venom. But they can do no injury to those humble souls who are\ndesirous for perfection, because it is impossible for any to understand\nthem to whom the special light is not accorded; and whatever others may\nread, they cannot rightly understand those conditions which, being\nbeyond the range of imagination, can be known only by experience.\nPerfection goes on with a steady advancement corresponding to the\nprogress of the inner life.\n\nNot that there are no persons advanced in sanctification who have faults\nin appearance even greater than those of others, but they are not the\nsame either as to their nature or their quality.\n\nThe second reason why I say that such books can do no harm is, that they\ndemand so much natural death, so much breaking off, so many things to be\nconquered and destroyed, that no one would ever have strength for the\nundertaking without sincerity of purpose; or even if any one undertook\nit, it would only produce the effect of _meditation_, which is to\nendeavour to destroy itself.\n\nAs for those who wish to lead others in their groove, and not in God's,\nand to place limits to their further advancement--as for those, I say,\nwho know but one way, and would have all the world to walk in it, the\nevils which they bring upon others are irremediable, for they keep them\nall their lives stopping at certain things which hinder God from\nblessing them infinitely.\n\nIt seems to me that we must act in the divine life as in a school. The\nscholars are not kept always in the same class, but are passed on to\nothers more advanced. O human science! you are so little worth, and yet\nwith you men do not fail to take every precaution! O science mysterious\nand divine! you are so great and so necessary; and yet they neglect you,\nthey limit you, they contract you, they do violence to you! Oh, will\nthere never be a school of religion! Alas! by wishing to make it a\nstudy, man has marred it. He has sought to give rules and limits to the\nSpirit of God, who is without limit.\n\nO poor powerless souls! you are better fitted to answer God's purposes,\nand, if you are faithful, your devotion will be more pleasing to Him,\nthan that of those great intellects which make prayer a study rather\nthan a devotion. More than this, I say that such souls as these, who\nappear so powerless and so incapable, are worthy of consideration,\nprovided they only knock at the door, and wait with a humble patience\nuntil it be opened to them. Those persons of great intellect and subtle\nunderstanding, who cannot remain a moment in silence before God, who\nmake a continual Babel, who are so well able to give an account of their\ndevotion in all its parts, who go through it always according to their\nown will, and with the same method, who exercise themselves as they\nwill on any subject which suggests itself to them, who are so well\nsatisfied with themselves and their light, who expatiate upon the\npreparation and the methods for prayer, will make but little advance in\nit; and after ten or twenty years of this exercise, will always remain\nthe same.\n\nAlas! when it is a question of loving a miserable creature, do they use\na method for that? The most ignorant in such a matter are the most\nskilful. It is the same, and yet very different, with divine love.\nTherefore, if one who has never known such religion comes to you to\nlearn it, teach him to love God much, and to let himself go with a\nperfect abandonment into love, and he will soon know it. If it be a\nnature slow to love, let him do his best, and wait in patience till love\nitself make itself beloved in its own way, and not in yours.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\nOF THE SECOND WAY OF THE RETURN OF THE SOUL TO GOD, WHICH IS THE PASSIVE\nWAY, BUT ONE OF LIGHT, AND OF TWO KINDS OF INTRODUCTION TO\nIT--DESCRIPTION OF THIS CLASS, AND OF THEIR STRIKING ADVANTAGES--VARIOUS\nNECESSARY PRECAUTIONS AND OBSERVATIONS CONCERNING THIS CLASS, THEIR\nCONDUCT, PERFECTIONS, IMPERFECTIONS, AND EXPERIENCES.\n\n\nThe second class are like those large rivers which move with a slow and\nsteady course. They flow with pomp and majesty; their course is direct\nand easily followed; they are charged with merchandise, and can go on to\nthe sea without mingling with other rivers; but they are late in\nreaching it, being grave and slow. There are even some who never reach\nit at all, and these, for the most part, lose themselves in other larger\nrivers, or else turn aside to some arm of the sea. Many of these rivers\nserve to carry merchandise, and are heavily laden with it. They may be\nkept back by sluices, and turned off at certain points. Such are the\nsouls in the _passive way of sight_. Their strength is very abundant;\nthey are laden with gifts, and graces, and celestial favours; they are\nthe admiration of their generation; and numbers of saints who shine as\nstars in the Church have never passed this limit. This class is composed\nof two kinds. The first commenced in the ordinary way, and have\nafterwards been drawn to passive contemplation. The others have been, as\nit were, taken by surprise; they have been seized by the heart, and they\nfeel themselves loving without having learned to know the object of\ntheir love. For there is this difference between divine and human love,\nthat the latter supposes a previous acquaintance with its object,\nbecause, as it is outside of it, the senses must be taken to it, and the\nsenses can only be taken to it because it is communicated to them: the\neyes see and the heart loves. It is not so with divine love. God, having\nan absolute power over the heart of man, and being its origin and its\nend, it is not necessary that He should make known to it what He is. He\ntakes it by assault, without giving it battle. The heart is powerless\nto resist Him, even though He may not use an absolute and violent\nauthority, unless it be in some cases where He permits it to be so, in\norder to manifest His power. He takes hearts, then, in this way, making\nthem burn in a moment; but usually He gives them flashes of light which\ndazzle them, and lift them nearer to Himself. These persons appear much\ngreater than those of whom I shall speak later, to those who are not\npossessed of a divine discernment, for they attain outwardly to a high\ndegree of perfection, God eminently elevating their natural capacity,\nand replenishing it in an extraordinary manner; and yet they are never\nreally brought to a state of annihilation to self, and God does not\nusually so draw them out of their own being that they become lost in\nHimself. Such characters as these are, however, the wonder and\nadmiration of men. God bestows on them gifts upon gifts, graces upon\ngraces, visions, revelations, inward voices, ecstasies, ravishments, &c.\nIt seems as though God's only care was to enrich and beautify them, and\nto communicate to them His secrets. All joys are theirs.\n\nThis does not imply that they bear no heavy crosses, no fierce\ntemptations: these are the shadows which cause their virtues to shine\nwith greater brilliancy; for these temptations are thrust back\nvigorously, the crosses are borne bravely; they even desire more of\nthem: they are all flame and fire, enthusiasm and love. God uses them to\naccomplish great things, and it seems as though they only need to desire\na thing in order to receive it from God, He finding His delight in\nsatisfying all their desires and doing all their will. Yet in the same\npath there are various degrees of progression, and some attain a far\nhigher standard of perfection than others; their danger lies in fixing\ntheir thoughts upon what God has done for them, thus stopping at the\ngifts, instead of being led through them to the Giver.\n\nThe design of God in the bestowal of His grace, and in the profusion\nwith which He gives it, is to bring them nearer to Himself; but they\nmake use of it for an utterly different end: they rest in it, reflect\nupon it, look at it, and appropriate it; and hence arise vanity,\ncomplaisance, self-esteem, the preference of themselves to others, and\noften the destruction of religious life. These people are admirable, in\nthemselves considered; and sometimes by a special grace they are made\nvery helpful to others, particularly if they have been brought from\ngreat depths of sin. But usually they are less fitted to lead others\nthan those who come after; for being near to God themselves, they have a\nhorror of sin, and often a shrinking from sinners, and never having\nexperienced the miseries they see in others, they are astonished, and\nunable to render either help or advice. They expect too great\nperfection, and do not lead on to it little by little, and if they meet\nwith weak ones, they do not aid them in proportion to their own\nadvancement, or in accordance with God's designs, but often even seek to\navoid them. They find it difficult to converse with those who have not\nreached their own level, preferring a solitary life to all the ministry\nof love. If such persons were heard in conversation by those not\ndivinely enlightened, they would be believed equal to the last class, or\neven more advanced. They make use of the same terms--of DEATH, LOSS OF\nSELF, ANNIHILATION, &c.; and it is quite true that they do die in their\nown way, that they are annihilated and lose themselves, for often their\nnatural sensibilities are lost or suspended in their seasons of\ndevotion; they even lose the habit of making use of them. Thus these\nsouls are passive, but they have light, and love, and strength in\nthemselves; they like to retain something of their own, it may be even\ntheir virtues, but in so delicate a form that only the Divine eye can\ndetect it. Such as these are so laden with merchandise that their course\nis very slow. What must be done with them, then, to lead them out of\nthis way? There is a more safe and certain path for them, even that of\nfaith: they need to be led from the sensible to the supernatural, from\nthat which is known and perceived to the very deep, yet very safe,\ndarkness of faith. It is useless to endeavour to ascertain whether these\nthings be of God or not, since they must be surpassed; for if they are\nof God, they will be carried on by Him, if only we abandon ourselves to\nHim; and if they are not of God, we shall not be deceived by them, if we\ndo not stay at them.\n\nThis class of people find far greater difficulty in entering the way of\nfaith than the first, for as what they already possess is so great, and\nso evidently from God, they will not believe that there is anything\nhigher in the Church of God. Therefore they cling to it.\n\nO God! how many spiritual possessions there are which appear great\nvirtues to those who are not divinely enlightened, and which appear\ngreat and dangerous defects to those who are so! For those in this way\nregard as virtues what others look upon as subtle faults; and even the\nlight to see them in their true colours is not given to them. These\npeople have rules and regulations for their obedience, which are marked\nby prudence; they are strong and vigorous, though they appear dead. They\nare indeed dead as to their own wants, but not as to their foundation.\nSuch souls as these often possess an inner silence, certain sinkings\ninto God, which they distinguish and express well; but they have not\nthat secret longing to be nothing, like the last class. It is true they\ndesire to be nothing by a certain perceptible annihilation, a deep\nhumility, an abasement under the immense weight of God's greatness. All\nthis is an annihilation in which they dwell without being annihilated.\nThey have the feeling of annihilation without the reality, for the soul\nis still sustained by its feelings, and this state is more satisfactory\nto it than any other, for it gives more assurance. This class usually\nare only brought into God by death, unless it be some privileged ones,\nwhom God designs to be the lights of His Church, or whom He designs to\nsanctify more eminently; and such He robs by degrees of all their\nriches. But as there are few sufficiently courageous to be willing,\nafter so much blessedness, to lose it all, few pass this point, God's\nintention perhaps being that they should not pass it, and that, as in\nthe Father's house there are many mansions, they should only occupy this\none. Let us leave the causes with God.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\nOF THE THIRD WAY OF RETURN TO GOD, WHICH IS THE PASSIVE WAY OF FAITH,\nAND OF ITS FIRST DEGREE--DESCRIPTION OF THIS WAY UNDER THE SIMILITUDE OF\nA TORRENT--PROPENSITY OF THE SOUL TOWARDS GOD--ITS PROPERTIES,\nOBSTACLES, AND EFFECTS EXPLAINED BY THE SIMILITUDE OF FIRE--WHAT BEFALLS\nTHE SOUL CALLED TO WALK IN THE PASSIVE WAY OF FAITH--DESCRIPTION OF THE\nFIRST DEGREE OF THIS THIRD WAY, AND OF THE STATE OF THE SOUL IN IT--THE\nREST IT FINDS IN IT WOULD BE HURTFUL IF GOD DID NOT DRAW IT OUT OF IT,\nIN ORDER TO FURTHER ITS ADVANCEMENT.\n\n\nWhat shall we say of the souls in this _third way_, unless it be that\nthey resemble TORRENTS which rise in high mountains? They have their\nsource in God Himself, and they have not a moment's rest until they are\nlost in Him. Nothing stops them, and no burdens are laid upon them. They\nrush on with a rapidity which alarms even the most confident. These\ntorrents flow without order, here and there, wherever they can find a\npassage, having neither regular beds nor an orderly course. They\nsometimes become muddy by passing through ground which is not firm, and\nwhich they bear away with them by their rapidity. Sometimes they appear\nto be irrecoverably lost, then they reappear for a time, but it is only\nto precipitate themselves in another abyss, still deeper than the former\none. It is the sport of these torrents to show themselves, to lose\nthemselves, and to break themselves upon the rocks. Their course is so\nrapid as to be undiscernible; but finally, after many precipices and\nabysses, after having been dashed against rocks, and many times lost and\nfound again, they reach the sea, where they are lost to be found no\nmore. And there, however poor, mean, useless, destitute of merchandise\nthe poor torrent may have been, it is wonderfully enriched, for it is\nnot rich with its own riches, like other rivers, which only bear a\ncertain amount of merchandise or certain rarities, but it is rich with\nthe riches of the sea itself. It bears on its bosom the largest vessels;\nit is the sea which bears them, and yet it is the river, because the\nriver, being lost in the sea, has become one with it.\n\nIt is to be remarked, that the river or torrent thus precipitated into\nthe sea does not lose its nature, although it is so changed and lost as\nnot to be recognised. It will always remain what it was, yet its\nidentity is lost, not as to reality, but as to quality; for it so takes\nthe properties of salt water, that it has nothing peculiar to itself,\nand the more it loses itself and remains in the sea, the more it\nexchanges its own nature for that of the sea. For what, then, is not\nthis poor torrent fitted? Its capacity is unlimited, since it is the\nsame as that of the sea; it is capable of enriching the whole earth. O\nhappy loss! who can set thee forth? Who can describe the gain which has\nbeen made by this useless and good-for-nothing river, despised and\nlooked upon as a mad thing, on which the smallest boat could not be\ntrusted, because, not being able to restrain itself, it would have\ndragged the boat with it. What do you say of the fate of this torrent, O\ngreat rivers! which flow with such majesty, which are the delight and\nadmiration of the world, and glory in the quantity of merchandise spread\nout upon you? The fate of this poor torrent, which you regard with\ncontempt, or at best with compassion, what has it become? What use can\nit serve now, or rather, what use can it not serve? What does it lack?\nYou are now its servants, since the riches which you possess are only\nthe overflow of its abundance, or a fresh supply which you are carrying\nto it.\n\nBut before speaking of the happiness of a soul thus lost in God, we must\nbegin with its origin and go on by degrees.\n\nThe soul, as we have said, having proceeded from God, has a continual\npropensity to return to Him, because, as He is its origin, He is also\nits final end. Its course would be interminable if it were not arrested\nor interrupted by sin and unbelief. Therefore the heart of man is\nperpetually in motion, and can find no rest till it returns to its\norigin and its centre, which is God: like fire, which, being removed\nfrom its sphere, is in continual agitation, and does not rest till it\nhas returned to it, and then, by a miracle of nature, this element, so\nactive itself as to consume everything by its activity, is at perfect\nrest. O poor soul who are seeking happiness in this life! you will never\nfind it out of God. Seek to return to Him: there all your longings and\ntroubles, your agitations and anxieties, will be reduced to perfect\nrest.\n\nIt is to be remarked, that in proportion as fire approaches its centre,\nit always approaches rest, although its swiftness increases. It is the\nsame with the soul: as soon as sin ceases to hold it back, it seeks\nindefatigably to find God; and if it were not for sin, nothing could\nimpede its course, which would be so speedy, that it would soon attain\nits end. But it is also true that, in proportion as it approaches God,\nits speed is augmented, and at the same time becomes more peaceful; for\nthe rest, or rather the peace, since it is not at rest, but is pursuing\na peaceful course, increases so that its peace redoubles its speed, and\nits speed increases its peace.\n\nThe hindrances, then, arise from sins and imperfections, which arrest\nfor a time the course of the soul, more or less, according to the\nmagnitude of the fault. Then the soul is conscious of its activity, as\nthough when fire was going on towards its centre, it encountered\nobstacles, such as pieces of wood or straw: it would resume its former\nactivity in order to consume these obstacles or barriers, and the\ngreater the obstacle the more its activity would increase. If it were a\npiece of wood, a longer and stronger activity would be needed to consume\nit; but if it were only a straw, it would be burned up in a moment, and\nwould but very slightly impede its course. You will notice that the\nobstacles which the fire would encounter would only impart to it a fresh\nstimulus to surmount all which prevented its union with its centre;\nagain, it is to be remarked, that the more obstacles the fire might\nencounter, and the more considerable they might be, the more they would\nretard its course; and if it were continually meeting with fresh ones,\nit would be kept back, and prevented from returning whence it came. We\nknow by experience, that if we continually add fuel to fire, we shall\nkeep it down, and prevent its rising. It is the same with the souls of\nmen. Their instincts and natural propensities lead them towards God.\nThey would advance incessantly, were it not for the hindrances they\nmeet. These hindrances are sins and imperfections, which prove the\ngreater obstacles in the way of their return to God, according as they\nare serious and lasting; so that if they continue in sin, they will\nnever reach their end. Those, therefore, who have not sinned so grossly\nas others, should advance much more rapidly. This usually is the case,\nand yet it seems as though God took pleasure in making \"grace abound\nwhere sin has most abounded\" (Rom. v. 20). I believe that one of the\nreasons of this, to be found in those who have not grossly sinned, is\ntheir estimation of their own righteousness, and this is an obstacle\nmore difficult to surmount then even the grossest sins, because we\ncannot have so great an attachment to sins which are so hideous in\nthemselves, as we have to our own righteousness; and God, who will not\ndo violence to liberty, leaves such hearts to enjoy their holiness at\ntheir own pleasure, while He finds His delight in purifying the most\nmiserable. And in order to accomplish His purpose, He sends a stronger\nand fiercer fire, which consumes those gross sins more easily than a\nslower fire consumes smaller obstacles. It even seems as though God\nloved to set up His throne in these criminal hearts, in order to\nmanifest His power, and to show how He can restore the disfigured soul\nto its original condition, and even make it more beautiful than it was\nbefore it fell. Those then who have greatly sinned, and for whom I now\nwrite, are conscious of a great fire consuming all their sins and\nhindrances; they often find their course impeded by besetting sins, but\nthis fire consumes them again and again, till they are completely\nsubdued. And as the fire thus goes on consuming, the obstacles are more\nand more easily surmounted, so that at last they are no more than\nstraws, which, far from impeding its course, only make it burn the more\nfiercely.\n\nLet us then take the soul in its original condition, and follow it\nthrough its various stages, if God, who inspires these thoughts, which\nonly occur to me as I write, wills that we should do so.\n\nAs God's design for the soul is that it should be lost in Himself, in a\nmanner unknown to ordinary Christians, He begins His work by imparting\nto it a sense of its distance from Him. As soon as it has perceived and\nfelt this distance, the natural inclination which it has to return to\nits source, and which has been, as it were, deadened by sin, is revived.\nThen the soul experiences true sorrow for sin, and is painfully\nconscious of the evil which is caused by this separation from God. This\nsentiment thus implanted in the soul leads it to seek the means of\nridding itself of this trouble, and of entering into a certain rest\nwhich it sees from afar, but which only redoubles its anxiety, and\nincreases its desire to pursue it until it finds it.\n\nSome of those who are thus exercised, having never been taught that they\nmust seek to have God within them, and not expect to find Him in outward\nrighteousness, give themselves up to meditation, and seek without what\ncan only be found within. This meditation, in which they seldom succeed,\nbecause God, who has better things in store for them, does not permit\nthem to find any rest in such an experience, only serves to increase\ntheir longing; for their wound is at the heart, and they apply the\nplaster externally, which does but foster the disease, instead of\nhealing it. They struggle a long time with this exercise, and their\nstruggling does but increase their powerlessness; and unless God, who\nHimself assumes the charge of them, sends some messenger to show them a\ndifferent way, they will lose their time, and will lose it just so long\nas they remain unaided. But God, who is abundant in goodness, does not\nfail to send them help, though it may be but passing and temporary. As\nsoon, then, as they are taught that they cannot advance because their\nwound is an internal one, and they are seeking to heal it by external\napplications; when they are led to seek in the depths of their own\nhearts what they have sought in vain out of themselves; then they find,\nwith an astonishment which overwhelms them, that they have within them a\ntreasure which they have been seeking far off. Then they rejoice in\ntheir new liberty; they marvel that prayer is no longer a burden, and\nthat the more they retire within themselves, the more they taste of a\ncertain mysterious something which ravishes them and carries them away,\nand they would wish ever to love thus, and thus to be buried within\nthemselves. Yet what they experience, delightful as it may appear, does\nnot stop them, if they are to be led into pure faith, but leads them to\nfollow after something more, which they have not yet known. They are now\nall ardour and love. They seem already to be in Paradise; for what they\npossess within themselves is infinitely sweeter than all the joys of\nearth: these they can leave without pain; they would leave the whole\nworld to enjoy for one hour their present experience. They find that\nprayer has become their continual attitude; their love increases day by\nday, so that their one desire is always to love and never to be\ninterrupted. And as they are not now strong enough to be undisturbed by\nconversation, they shun and fear it; they love to be alone, and to enjoy\nthe caresses of their Beloved. They have within themselves a Counsellor,\nwho lets them find no pleasure in earthly things, and who does not\nsuffer them to commit a single fault, without making them feel by His\ncoldness how much sin is displeasing to Him. This coldness of God, in\ntimes of transgression, is to them the most terrible chastisement. It\nseems as though God's only care were to correct and reprove them, and\nHis one purpose to perfect them. It is a surprise to themselves and to\nothers that they change more in a month by this way, and even in a day,\nthan in several years by the other. O God! it belongs only to Thee to\ncorrect and to purify the hearts of Thy children!\n\nGod has yet another means of chastising the soul, when it is further\nadvanced in the divine life, by making Himself more fully known to it\nafter it falls; then the poor soul is covered with confusion; it would\nrather bear the most severe chastisement than this goodness of God after\nit has sinned.\n\nThese persons are now so full of their own feelings that they want to\nimpart them to others; they long to teach the whole world to love God;\ntheir sentiments towards Him are so deep, so pure, and so disinterested,\nthat those who hear them speak, if they are not divinely enlightened,\nbelieve them to have attained the height of perfection. They are\nfruitful in good works; there is no reasoning here, nothing but a deep\nand burning love. The soul feels itself seized and held fast by a divine\nforce which ravishes and consumes it. It is like intoxicated persons,\nwho are so possessed with wine that they do not know what they are\ndoing, and are no longer masters of themselves. If such as these try to\nread, the book falls from their hands, and a single line suffices them;\nthey can hardly get through a page in a whole day, however assiduously\nthey may devote themselves to it, for a single word from God awakens\nthat secret instinct which animates and fires them, so that love closes\nboth their mouth and their eyes. They cannot utter verbal prayers, being\nunable to pronounce them. A heart which is unaccustomed to this does not\nknow what it means; for it has never experienced anything like it\nbefore, and it does not understand why it cannot pray, and yet it cannot\nresist the power which overcomes it. It cannot be troubled, nor be\nfearful of doing wrong, for He who holds it bound does not permit it\neither to doubt that it is He who thus holds it, or to strive against\nit, for if it makes an effort to pray, it feels that He who possesses it\ncloses its lips, and compels it, by a sweet and loving violence, to be\nsilent. Not that the creature cannot resist and speak by an effort, but\nbesides doing violence to himself he loses this divine peace, and feels\nthat he is becoming dry: he must allow himself to be moved upon by God\nat His will, and not in his own way. The soul in this state imagines\nitself to be in an inward silence, because its working is so gentle, so\neasy, and so quiet that it does not perceive it. It believes itself to\nhave reached the summit of perfection, and it sees nothing before it but\nenjoyment of the wealth it possesses.\n\nThese Christians, so ardent and so desirous after God, begin to rest in\ntheir condition, and gradually and insensibly to lose the loving\nactivity in seeking after God which formerly characterised them, being\nsatisfied with their joy which they substituted for God Himself; and\nthis rest would be to them an irreparable loss, if God, in His infinite\ngoodness, did not draw them out of this state to lead them into one more\nadvanced. But before speaking of it, let us look at the imperfections of\nthis stage.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\nIMPERFECTIONS, INTERIOR AND EXTERIOR, OF THIS FIRST DEGREE--MISTAKES\nTHAT ARE MADE IN IT--ITS PASSIVITY--SPIRITUAL DRYNESS, MINGLED WITH A\nTENDER BUT SELF-INTERESTED LOVE, WHICH NEEDS THE EXPERIENCE AND\nPURIFICATIONS OF THE FOLLOWING DEGREE.\n\n\nThe soul in the degree of which I have just spoken can and does make\ngreat advances, going from love to love, and from cross to cross; but it\nfalls so frequently, and is so selfish, that it may be said to move only\nat a snail's pace, although it appears to itself and to others to\nprogress infinitely. The torrent is now in a flat country, and has not\nyet found the slope of the mountain down which it may precipitate\nitself, and take a course which is never to be stopped.\n\nThe faults of those in this degree are a certain self-esteem, more\nhidden and deeply rooted than it was before they had received these\ngraces and favours from God; a certain secret contempt for others whom\nthey see so far behind themselves, and a certain hardness for sin and\nsinners; a zeal of St John before the descent of the Holy Ghost, when he\nwanted to call down fire from heaven upon the Samaritans to consume\nthem; a certain confidence in their own safety and virtue; a secret\npride, which causes them to grieve specially over the faults which they\ncommit in public: they appropriate the gifts of God, and treat them as\nthough they were their own: they forget weakness and poverty in the\nstrength which they possess; so that they lose all self-distrust. Though\nall this and much more is to be found in persons in this degree, they\nare themselves unconscious of it; but these faults will make themselves\nknown in time. The grace which they feel so strongly in themselves being\nan assurance to them that they have nothing to fear, they allow\nthemselves to speak without being divinely commissioned. They are\nanxious to communicate what they feel to every one else. It is true that\nthey are of use to others, for their burning words take hold of the\nhearts of those who hear them; but apart from the fact that they cannot\ndo the good they would do, if God would have them impart to others what\nthey have received, they are giving out of their necessity and not of\ntheir abundance; so that they exhaust themselves; as you have seen\nseveral pools of water under a fountain. The fountain alone gives out of\nits abundance, and the pools only send into each other of the fulness\nwhich is communicated to them; but if the fountain be closed or turned\naside, and the pools cease to overflow, then as they are cut off from\nthe source, they dry up. This is precisely what happens to those in this\ndegree. They want to be constantly sending out their waters, and it is\nnot till late that they perceive that the water which they had was only\nfor themselves, and that they are not in a state to communicate it,\nbecause they are not connected with the source. They are like bottles of\nscent which are left open: they find so much sweetness in the odour\nwhich they emit that they do not perceive the loss they themselves\nsustain. Yet they appear to practise virtue without any effort, since\nthey are occupied only with a general love, without reason or motive. If\nyou ask them what they do during the day, they will tell you that they\nlove; but if you ask why they love, they will tell you that they do not\nknow; they only know that they love, and that they burn with desire to\nsuffer for the object of their love. You may ask if it is not the sight\nof the sufferings of their Beloved which inspires them with the longing\nto suffer with Him, but they will reply that the thought of His\nsufferings did not even enter their mind. Neither is it the desire to\nimitate the virtues which they see in Him, for they do not think of\nthem, nor the sight of His beauty which enraptures them, for they do not\nlook at it. Only they feel in the depths of their heart a deep wound,\nyet so delightful that they rest in their pain, and find their pleasure\nin their grief.\n\nThey believe now that they have arrived at the consummation of all, for\nthough they are full of the faults I have mentioned, and many others yet\nmore dangerous, which are better perceived in the following degree than\nin this, they rest in their fancied perfection, and stopping at the\nmeans, which they mistake for the end, they would remain stationary, if\nGod did not bring the torrent, which is now like a peaceful lake on a\nmountain-top, to the brow of the hill in order to precipitate it, and to\nstart it on a course which will be more or less rapid according to the\ndepth of its fall.\n\nIt appears to me that even the most advanced in this degree have a habit\nof concealing their faults, both from themselves and others, always\nfinding excuses and extenuations; not designedly, but from a certain\nlove of their own excellence, and a habitual dissimulation under which\nthey hide themselves. The faults which cause them the deepest solicitude\nare those which are most apparent to others. They have a hidden love of\nself, stronger than ever, an esteem for their own position, a secret\ndesire to attract attention, an affected modesty, a facility in judging\nothers, and a preference for private devotion rather than domestic\nduties, which renders them the cause of many of the sins of those around\nthem. This is of great importance. The soul, feeling itself drawn so\nstrongly and sweetly, desires to be always alone and in prayer, which\ngives rise to two evils--the first, that in its seasons of greatest\nliberty it spends too much time in solitude; the second, that when its\nvigour of love is exhausted, as it often is in this way, it has not the\nsame strength in times of dryness; it finds it difficult to remain so\nlong in prayer; it readily shortens the time; its thoughts wander to\nexterior objects; then it is discouraged and cast down, thinking that\nall is lost, and does everything in its power to restore itself to the\npresence and favour of God.\n\nBut if such persons were strong enough to live an even life, and not to\nseek to do more in seasons of abundance than in times of barrenness,\nthey would satisfy every one. As it is, they are troublesome to those\naround them, to whom they cannot condescend, making it a favour to lay\nthemselves out for the satisfaction of others: they preserve an austere\nsilence when it is unnecessary, and at other times talk incessantly of\nthe things of God. A wife has scruples about pleasing her husband,\nentertaining him, walking with him, or seeking to amuse him, but has\nnone about speaking uselessly for two hours with religious devotees.\nThis is a horrible abuse. We ought to be diligent in the discharge of\nall duties, whatever their nature may be; and even if they do cause us\ninconvenience, we shall yet find great profit in doing this, not perhaps\nin the way we imagine, but in hastening the crucifixion of self. It even\nseems as though our Lord shows that such sacrifice is pleasing to Him by\nthe grace which He sheds upon it. I knew a lady who, when playing at\ncards with her husband in order to please him, experienced such deep and\nintimate communion with God as she never felt in prayer, and it was the\nsame with everything she did at her husband's desire; but if she\nneglected these things for others which she thought better, she was\nconscious that she was not walking in the will of God. This did not\nprevent her often committing faults, because the attractions of\nmeditation and the happiness of devotion, which are preferred to these\napparent losses of time, insensibly draw the soul away, and lead it to\nchange its course, and this by most people is looked upon as sanctity.\nHowever, those who are to be taught the way of faith are not suffered\nlong to remain in these errors, because, as God designs to lead them on\nto better things, He makes them conscious of their deficiency. It often\nhappens, too, that persons by means of this death to self, and acting\ncontrary to their natural inclinations, feel themselves more strongly\ndrawn to their inward rest; for it is natural to man to desire most\nstrongly what it is most difficult for him to obtain, and to desire most\nintensely those things which he most earnestly resolves to avoid. This\ndifficulty of being able to enjoy only a partial rest increases the\nrest, and causes them even in activity to feel themselves acted upon so\npowerfully that they seem to have two souls within them, the inner one\nbeing infinitely stronger than the outer. But if they leave their duties\nin order to give the time to devotion, they will find it an empty form,\nand all its joy will be lost. By devotion I do not mean compulsory\nprayer, which is gone through as a duty that must not be avoided;\nneither do I understand by activity the labours of their own choice, but\nthose which come within the range of positive duty. If they have spare\ntime at their disposal, by all means let them spend it in prayer; nor\nmust they lay upon themselves unnecessary burdens, and call them\nobligations. When the taste for meditation is very great, the soul does\nnot usually fall into these last-named errors, but rather into the\nformer one, that of courting retirement. I knew a person who spent more\ntime in prayer when it was painful to her than when she felt it a\ndelight, struggling with the disinclination; but this is injurious to\nthe health, because of the violence which it does to the senses and the\nunderstanding, which being unable to concentrate themselves upon any one\nobject, and being deprived of the sweet communion which formerly held\nthem in subjection to God, endure such torment, that the subject of it\nwould rather suffer the greatest trial than the violence which is\nnecessary to enable it to fix its thoughts on God. The person to whom I\nalluded sometimes passed two or three hours successively in this painful\ndevotion, and she has assured me that the strangest austerities would\nhave been delightful to her in comparison with the time thus spent. But\nas a violence so strong as this in subjects so weak is calculated to\nruin both body and mind, I think it is better not in any way to\nregulate the time spent in prayer by our varying emotions. This painful\ndryness of which I have spoken belongs only to the first degree of\nfaith, and is often the effect of exhaustion; and yet those who have\npassed through it imagine themselves dead, and write and speak of it as\nthe most sorrowful part of the spiritual life. It is true they have not\nknown the contrary experience, and often they have not the courage to\npass through this, for in this sorrow the soul is deserted by God, who\nwithdraws from it His sensible helps, but it is nevertheless caused by\nthe senses, because, being accustomed to see and to feel, and never\nhaving experienced a similar privation, they are in despair, which\nhowever is not of long duration, for the forces of the soul are not then\nin a state to bear for long such a pressure; it will either go back to\nseek for spiritual food, or else it will give all up. This is why the\nLord does not fail to return: sometimes He does not even suffer the\nprayer to cease before He reappears; and if He does not return during\nthe hour of prayer, He comes in a more manifest way during the day.\n\nIt seems as though He repented of the suffering He has caused to the\nsoul of His beloved, or that He would pay back with usury what she has\nsuffered for His love. If this consolation last for many days, it\nbecomes painful. She calls Him sweet and cruel: she asks Him if He has\nonly wounded her that she may die. But this kind Lover laughs at her\npain, and applies to the wound a balm so sweet, that she could ask to be\ncontinually receiving fresh wounds, that she might always find a new\ndelight in a healing which not only restores her former health, but\nimparts one yet more abundant.\n\nHitherto it has only been a play of love, to which the soul would easily\nbecome accustomed if her Beloved did not change His conduct. O poor\nhearts who complain of the flights of love! You do not know that this is\nonly a farce, an attempt, a specimen of what is to follow. The hours of\nabsence mark the days, the weeks, the months, and the years. You must\nlearn to be generous at your own expense, to suffer your Beloved to\ncome and go at His pleasure. I seem to see these young brides. They are\nat the height of grief when their Beloved leaves them: they mourn His\nabsence as if it were death, and endeavour, as far as they can, to\nprevent His departure. This love appears deep and strong, but it is not\nso by any means. It is the pleasure they derive from the sight of their\nBeloved which they mourn after. It is their own satisfaction they seek,\nfor if it were the pleasure of their Beloved, they would rejoice in the\npleasure which He found apart from them, as much as in that which He\nfound with them. So it is self-interested love, though it does not\nappear such to them; on the contrary, they believe that they only love\nHim for what He is. It is true, poor souls, you do love Him for what He\nis, but you love Him because of the pleasure you find in what He is. You\nreply that you are willing to suffer for your Beloved. True, provided He\nwill be the witness and the companion of your suffering. You say you\ndesire no recompense. I agree; but you do desire that He should know of\nyour suffering, and approve of it. You want Him to take pleasure in it.\nIs there anything more plausible than the desire that He for whom we\nsuffer should know it, and approve of it, and take delight in it? Oh,\nhow much you are out in your reckoning! Your jealous Lover will not\npermit you to enjoy the pleasure which you take in seeing His\nsatisfaction with your sorrow. You must suffer without His appearing to\nsee it, or to approve of it, or to know it. That would be too great a\ngratification. What pain would we not suffer on such conditions! What!\nto know that our Beloved sees our woes, and takes an infinite pleasure\nin them! This is too great a pleasure for a generous heart! Yet I am\nsure the greatest generosity of those in this degree never goes beyond\nthis. But to suffer without our Beloved being aware of it, when He seems\nto despise what we do to please Him, and to turn away from it; to have\nonly scorn for what formerly seemed to charm Him; to see Him repay with\na terrible coldness and distance what we do for His sake alone, and with\nterrible flights all our pursuit of Him; to lose without complaint all\nthat He had formerly given as pledges of His love, and which we think\nwe have repaid by our love, our fidelity, and our suffering; not only\nuncomplainingly to suffer ourselves to be thus despoiled, but to see\nothers enriched with our spoils, and nevertheless not to cease to do\nwhat would please our absent Lover; not to cease following after Him;\nand if by unfaithfulness or surprise we stop for a moment, to redouble\nour speed, without fearing or contemplating the precipices, although we\nfall a thousand times, till we are so weary that we lose our strength,\nand die from continual fatigue; when, perhaps, if our Beloved turns and\nlooks upon us, His glance restores life by the exquisite pleasure it\ngives; until at last He becomes so cruel that He lets us die for want of\nhelp: all this, I say, belongs not to this state, but to that which\nfollows. I must remark here, that the degree of which I have been\nspeaking is of very long duration, at least unless God intends the soul\nto make great advances; and many, as I have said, never pass it.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\nSECOND DEGREE OF THE PASSIVE WAY OF FAITH--SHORT DESCRIPTION OF THIS\nDEGREE--ENTRANCE INTO IT AND USELESS EFFORTS TO AVOID IT--GRADATIONS AND\nADVANCEMENTS IN THIS DEGREE, IN WHICH OCCUR FREQUENT MANIFESTATIONS OF\nCHRIST TO THE SOUL--THE USES AND ABUSES WHICH IT MAKES OF THEM, BY WHICH\nIT IS BROUGHT TO MYSTICAL DEATH, OR TO THE THIRD DEGREE OF THIS PASSIVE\nWAY OF FAITH.\n\n\nThe torrent having come to the brow of the hill, enters at the same time\ninto the _second degree of the passive way of faith_. This soul, which\nwas so peacefully resting on the mountain-top, had no thought of leaving\nit. However, for want of a declivity, these waters of Heaven by their\nstay upon earth were becoming tainted; for there is this difference\nbetween stagnant waters which have no outlet, and those which are in\nmotion and have an outlet, that the first, with the exception of the\nsea, and those large lakes which resemble it, grow putrid, and their\nwant of motion causes their destruction. But when, after leaving their\nsource, they have an easy outlet, the more rapidly they flow, the more\nthey are preserved.\n\nYou will remember I remarked before of this soul, that as soon as God\nimparted to it the gift of _passive_ faith, He gave it at the same time\nan instinct to seek after Him as its centre; but in its unfaithfulness\nit stifles by its repose this instinct to seek God, and would remain\nstationary, if God did not revive this instinct by bringing it to the\nedge of the mountain, whence it is compelled to precipitate itself. At\nfirst it is sensible that it has lost that calmness which it expected to\nretain for ever. Its waters, formerly so tranquil, begin to be noisy. A\ntumult is seen in its waves; they run and dash over. But where do they\nrun? Alas! as they imagine, it is to their own destruction. If it were\nin their power to desire anything, they would wish to restrain\nthemselves, and return to their former calm. But this is impossible. The\ndeclivity is found; they must be precipitated from slope to slope. It is\nno longer a question of abyss or of loss. The water, that is the soul,\nalways reappears, and is never lost in this degree. It is embroiled and\nprecipitated; one wave follows another, and the other takes it up and\ncrashes it by its precipitation. Yet this water finds on the slope of\nthe mountain certain flat places where it takes a little relaxation. It\ndelights in the clearness of its waters; and it sees that its falls, its\ncourse, this breaking of its waves upon the rocks, have served to render\nit more pure. It finds itself delivered from its noise and storms, and\nthinks it has now found its resting-place; and it believes this the more\nreadily because it cannot doubt that the state through which it has just\npassed has greatly purified it, for it sees that its waters are clearer,\nand it no longer perceives the disagreeable odour which certain stagnant\nparts had given to it on the top of the mountain; it has even acquired a\ncertain insight into its own condition; it has seen by the troubled\nstate of its passions (the waves) that they were not lost, but only\nasleep. As when it was descending the mountain, on its way to this\nlevel, it thought it was losing its way, and had no hope of recovering\nits lost peace, so now that it no longer hears the dash of its waves,\nthat it finds itself flowing calmly and pleasantly along the sand, it\nforgets its former trouble, and never imagines there will be a return of\nit: it sees that it has acquired fresh purity, and does not fear that it\nwill again become soiled; for here it is not stagnant, but flows as\ngently and brightly as possible. Ah, poor torrent! You think you have\nfound your resting-place, and are firmly established in it! You begin to\ndelight in your waters. The swans glide upon them, and rejoice in their\nbeauty. But what is your surprise while, as you are flowing along so\nhappily, you suddenly encounter a steeper slope, longer and more\ndangerous than the first! Then the torrent recommences its tumult.\nFormerly it was only a moderate noise; now it is insupportable. It\ndescends with a crash and a roar greater than ever. It can hardly be\nsaid to have a bed, for it falls from rock to rock, and dashes down\nwithout order or reason; it alarms every one by its noise; all fear to\napproach it. Ah, poor torrent! what will you do? You drag away in your\nfury all that comes in your way; you feel nothing but the declivity down\nwhich you are hurried, and you think you are lost. Nay, do not fear;\nyou are not lost, but the time of your happiness is not yet come. There\nmust be many more disturbances and losses before then; you have but just\ncommenced your course.\n\nAt last this dashing torrent feels that it has gained the foot of the\nmountain and another level spot. It resumes its former calm, and even a\ndeeper one; and after having passed it may be years in these changes, it\nenters the third degree, before speaking of which I will touch upon the\ncondition of those who enter it, and the first steps in it. The soul\nhaving passed some time in the tranquillity of which we have spoken,\nwhich it imagines it has secured for ever, and having, as it supposes,\nacquired all the virtues in their full extent, believing all its\npassions to be dead; when it is expecting to enjoy with the greatest\nsafety a happiness it has no fear of losing, is astonished to find that,\ninstead of mounting higher, or at least remaining in its present\nposition, it comes to the slope of the mountain. It begins, to its\namazement, to be sensible of an inclination for the things it had given\nup. It sees its deep calm suddenly disturbed; distractions come in\ncrowds, one upon another; the soul finds only stones in its path,\ndryness and aridity. A feeling of distaste comes into prayer. Its\npassions, which it thought were dead, but which were only asleep, all\nrevive.\n\nIt is completely astonished at this change. It would like either to\nreturn to the top of the mountain, or at least to remain where it is;\nbut this cannot be. The declivity is found, and the soul must fall (not\ninto sin, but into a privation of the previous degree and of feeling).\nIt does its best to rise after it falls; it does all in its power to\nrestrain itself, and to cling to some devotional exercise; it makes an\neffort to recover its former peace; it seeks solitude in the hope of\nrecovering it. But its labour is in vain. It resigns itself to suffer\nits dejection, and hates the sin which has occasioned it. It longs to\nput things right, but can find no means of doing it; the torrent must go\non its way; it drags with it all that is opposed to it. Then, seeing\nthat it no longer finds support in God, it seeks it in the creature; but\nit finds none; and its unfaithfulness only increases its apprehension.\nAt last, the poor bride, not knowing what to do, weeping everywhere the\nloss of her Beloved, is filled with astonishment when He again reveals\nHimself to her. At first she is charmed at the sight, as she feared she\nhad lost Him for ever. She is all the more happy, because she finds that\nHe has brought with Him new wealth, a new purity, a great distrust of\nself. She has no longer the desire to stop, as she formerly had; she\ngoes on continuously, but peacefully and gently, and yet she has fears\nlest her peace should be disturbed. She trembles lest she should again\nlose the treasure which is all the dearer to her because she had been so\nsensible of its loss. She is afraid she may displease Him, and that He\nwill leave her again. She tries to be more faithful to Him, and not to\nmake an end of the means.\n\nHowever, this repose carries away the soul, ravishes it, and renders it\nidle. It cannot help being sensible of its peace, and it desires to be\nalways alone. It has again acquired a spiritual greediness. To rob it of\nsolitude is to rob it of life. It is still more selfish than before,\nwhat it possesses being more delightful. It seems to be in a new rest.\nIt is going along calmly, when all at once it comes to another descent,\nsteeper and longer than the former one. It is suddenly seized with a\nfresh surprise; it endeavours to hold itself back, but in vain; it must\nfall; it must dash on from rock to rock. It is astonished to find that\nit has lost its love for prayer and devotion. It does violence to itself\nby continuing in it. It finds only death at every step. That which\nformerly revived it is now the cause of its death. Its peace has gone,\nand has left a trouble and agitation stronger than ever, caused as much\nby the passions, which revive (though against its will) with the more\nstrength as they appeared the more extinct, as by crosses, which\nincrease outwardly, and which it has no strength to bear. It arms itself\nwith patience; it weeps, groans, and is troubled. The Bride complains\nthat her Beloved has forsaken her; but her complaints are unheeded. Life\nhas become death to her. All that is good she finds difficult, but has\nan inclination towards evil which draws her away. But she can find no\nrest in the creature, having tasted of the Creator. She dashes on more\nvehemently; and the steeper the rocks, and the greater the obstacles\nwhich oppose her course, the more she redoubles her speed. She is like\nthe dove from the ark, which, finding no rest for the sole of its foot,\nwas obliged to return. But alas! what could the poor dove have done if,\nwhen it desired to re-enter the ark, Noah had not put out his hand to\ntake it in? It could only have fluttered round about the ark, seeking\nrest but finding none. So this poor dove flutters round the ark till the\nDivine Noah, having compassion on her distress, opens the door and\nreceives her to Himself. Oh, wonderful and loving invention of the\ngoodness of God! He only eludes the search of the soul to make it flee\nmore quickly to Him. He hides Himself that He may be sought after. He\napparently lets her fall, that He may have the joy of sustaining her and\nraising her up. Oh, strong and vigorous ones, who have never experienced\nthese artifices of love, these apparent jealousies, these flights,\nlovely to the soul which has passed them, but terrible to those who\nexperience them! You, I say, who do not know these flights of love,\nbecause you are satisfied with the abiding presence of your Beloved; or,\nif He hide Himself, it is for so short a time that you cannot judge of\nthe joy of His presence by the pain of a long absence; you have never\nexperienced your weakness, and your need of His help; but those who are\nthus forsaken learn to lean no longer on themselves, but only on the\nBeloved. His rigours have rendered His gentleness the more needful for\nthem.\n\nThese persons often commit faults through sheer weakness, and because\nthey are deprived of all sensible support; and these faults so fill them\nwith shame, that, if they could, they would hide themselves from their\nBeloved. Alas! in the terrible confusion into which they are thrown, He\ngives them a glimpse of Himself. He touches them with His sceptre, like\nanother Ahasuerus (Esther v. 2), that they may not die; but His tender\ncaresses only serve to increase their confusion at the thought of having\ndispleased Him. At other times He makes them sensible, by His severity,\nhow much their unfaithfulness displeases Him. Oh! then if they could\nsink into dust, they would. They would do anything to repair the injury\ndone to God; and if, by any slight neglects, which appear crimes to\nthem, they have offended their neighbour, what return are they not\nwilling to make? But it is pitiful to see the state of that one who has\ndriven away her Beloved. She does not cease to run after Him, but the\nfaster she goes, the further He seems to leave her behind; and if He\nstops, it is only for a moment, that she may recover breath. She feels\nnow that she must die; for she no longer finds life in anything; all has\nbecome death to her; prayer, reading, conversation--all is dead: she\nloses the joy of service, or rather, she dies to it, performing it with\nso much pain and weariness, that it is as death to her. At last, after\nhaving fought well, but uselessly, after a long succession of conflicts\nand rest, of lives and deaths, she begins to see how she has abused the\ngrace of God, and that this state of death is better for her than life;\nfor as she sees her Beloved returning, and finds that she possesses Him\nmore purely, and that the state which preceded her rejoicing was a\npurification for her, she abandons herself willingly to _death_, and to\nthe coming and going of her Beloved, giving Him full liberty to go and\ncome as He will. She receives instruction as she is able to bear it.\nLittle by little she loses her joy in herself, and is thus prepared for\na new condition.\n\nBut before speaking of it, let me say, that in proportion as the soul\nadvances, its joys become short, simple, and pure, and its privations\nlong and agonising, until it has lost its _own_ joy, to find it no more:\nand this is the _third degree_, that of _death_, _burial_, and _decay_.\nThis second degree ends in death, and goes no further.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII.\n\n\nSection I.\n\nTHIRD DEGREE OF THE PASSIVE WAY OF FAITH, IN ITS COMMENCEMENT, AND ITS\nPROGRESS BY VARIOUS SPECIAL DEATHS TO A TOTAL DEATH, TO BURIAL, AND TO\nDECAY--DURATION OF THIS TRANSITION, IN WHICH THERE MUST BE NO\nADVANCEMENT BEYOND FAITH, NOR ANY RECEDING--SPOLIATION OF THE SOUL, AND\nTHE THREE DEGREES OF IT--FIRST DEGREE, WHICH CONCERNS GIFTS, GRACES, AND\nFAVOURS, OR ORNAMENTS--ITS NECESSITY AND EFFECTS.\n\n\nYou have seen dying persons who, after they have been believed to be\ndead, have all at once assumed a new strength, and retained it until\ntheir death; as a lamp whose oil is spent flickers in the surrounding\ndarkness, but only to die out the more quickly: thus the soul casts out\nflames, which only last for a moment. It has bravely resisted death; but\nits oil is spent: the Sun of Righteousness has so withered it up, that\nit is forced to die. But does this Sun design anything else with its\nfierce rays, except the consumption of the soul? And the poor soul thus\nburned thinks that it is frozen! The truth is, that the torment it\nsuffers prevents its recognising the nature of its pain. So long as the\nSun was obscured by clouds, and gave out rays to a certain extent\nmoderated, it felt the heat, and thought it was burning, while in\nreality it was but slightly warmed: but when the Sun flashed full upon\nit, then the soul felt itself burning, without believing that it was so\nmuch as warmed. O loving deceit! O sweet and cruel Love! Have you lovers\nonly to deceive them thus? You wound these hearts, and then hide your\ndarts, and make them pursue after that which has wounded them. You\nattract them, and show yourself to them, and when they long to possess\nyou, you flee from them. When you see the soul reduced to the last\nextremity, and out of breath from its constant pursuit, you show\nyourself for a moment that it may recover life, only to be killed a\nthousand times with ever-increasing severity.\n\nO rigorous Lover! innocent murderer! Why dost Thou not kill with a\nsingle blow? Why give wine to an expiring heart, and restore life in\norder to destroy it afresh? This is Thy sport. Thou woundest to the\ndeath; and when Thou seest the victim on the point of expiring, Thou\nhealest one wound in order to inflict another! Alas! usually we die but\nonce; and the very cruellest murderers in times of persecution, though\nthey prolonged life, it is true, yet were content to destroy it but\nonce. But Thou, less compassionate than they, takest away our life time\nafter time, and restorest it again.\n\nO life, which cannot be lost without so many deaths! O death, which can\nonly be attained by the loss of so many lives! Perhaps this soul, after\nthou hast devoured it in Thy bosom, will enjoy its Beloved. That would\nbe too great happiness for it: it must undergo another torture. It must\nbe _buried_ and reduced to _ashes_. But perhaps it will then arrive at\nthe end of its sufferings, for bodies which decay suffer no longer. Oh!\nit is not thus with the soul: it suffers continually; and burial, decay,\nand nothingness are even more sensibly felt by it than death itself.\n\nThis degree of _death_ is extremely long, and as I have said that very\nfew pass the other degrees, so I say that far less pass this one. Many\npeople have been astonished to see very holy persons, who have lived\nlike angels, die in terrible anguish, and even despairing of their\nsalvation. It is because they have died in this mystical death; and as\nGod wished to promote their advancement, because they were near their\nend, He redoubled their sorrow. The work of stripping the soul must be\nleft wholly to God. He will do the work perfectly, and the soul will\nsecond the spoliation and the death, without putting hindrances in the\nway. But to do the work for ourselves is to lose everything, and to make\na vile state of a divine one. There are persons who, hearing of this\nspoliation, have effected it for themselves, and remain always\nstationary; for as the stripping is their own work, God does not clothe\nthem with Himself. The design of God in stripping the soul is to clothe\nit again. He only impoverishes that He may enrich, and He substitutes\n_Himself_ for all that He takes away, which cannot be the case with\nthose whose spoliation is their own work. They indeed lose the gifts of\nGod, but they do not possess God Himself in exchange.\n\nIn this degree the soul has not learned to let itself be stripped,\nemptied, impoverished, killed; and all its efforts to sustain itself\nwill but be its irreparable loss, for it is seeking to preserve a life\nwhich must be lost. As a person wishing to cause a lamp to die out\nwithout extinguishing it, would only have to cease to supply it with\noil, and it would die out of itself; but if this person, while\npersistently expressing a wish that the lamp should go out, continued\nreplenishing it with oil from time to time, the lamp would never go out:\nit is the same with the soul in this degree, which holds on, however\nfeebly, to life. If it consoles itself, does not suffer itself to be\nkilled, in a word, if it performs any actions of life whatever, it will\nthereby retard its death. O poor soul! fight no longer against death,\nand you will live by your death. I seem to see a drowning man before me;\nhe makes every effort to rise to the surface of the water; he holds on\nto anything that offers itself to his grasp; he preserves his life so\nlong as his strength holds out; he is only drowned when that strength\nfails. It is thus with Christians. They endeavour as long as possible to\nprevent their death; it is only the failure of all power which makes\nthem die. God, who wishes to hasten this death, and who has compassion\nupon them, cuts off the hands with which they cling to a support, and\nthus obliges them to sink into the deep. Crosses become multiplied, and\nthe more they increase, the greater is the helplessness to bear them, so\nthat they seem as though they never could be borne. The most painful\npart of this condition is, that the trouble always begins by some fault\nin the sufferer, who believes he has brought it upon himself.\n\nAt last the soul is reduced to utter self-despair. It consents that God\nshould deprive it of the joy of His gifts, and admits that He is just in\ndoing it. It does not even hope to possess these gifts again.\n\nWhen those who are in this condition see others who are manifestly\nliving in communion with God, their anguish is redoubled, and they sink\nin the sense of their own nothingness. They long to be able to imitate\nthem, but finding all their efforts useless, they are compelled to die.\nThey say in the language of Scripture, \"The thing which I greatly feared\nis come upon me\" (Job iii. 25). What! they say, to lose God, and to lose\nHim for ever, without the hope of ever finding Him again! To be deprived\nof love for time and for eternity! To be unable to love Him whom I know\nto be so worthy of my affection!\n\nOh! is it not sufficient, Divine Lover, to cast off your spouse, to turn\naway from her, without compelling her to lose love, and lose it, as it\nseems, for ever? She believes she has lost it, and yet she never loved\nmore strongly or more purely. She has indeed lost the vigour, the\nsensible strength of love; but she has not lost love itself; on the\ncontrary, she possesses it in a greater degree than ever. She cannot\nbelieve this, and yet it is easily known; for the heart cannot exist\nwithout love. If it does not love God, its affection is concentrated\nupon some other object: but here the bride of Christ is far from taking\npleasure in anything. She regards the revolt of her passions and her\ninvoluntary faults as terrible crimes, which draw upon her the hatred\nof her Beloved. She seeks to cleanse and to purify herself, but she is\nno sooner washed than she seems to fall into a slough yet more filthy\nand polluted than that from which she has just escaped. She does not see\nthat it is because she runs that she contracts defilement, and falls so\nfrequently, yet she is so ashamed to run in this condition, that she\ndoes not know where to hide herself. Her garments are soiled; she loses\nall she has in the race.\n\nHer Bridegroom aids in her spoliation for two reasons: the first,\nbecause she has soiled her beautiful garments by her vain complaisances,\nand has appropriated the gifts of God in reflections of self-esteem. The\nsecond, because in running, her course will be impeded by this burden of\nappropriation; even the fear of losing such riches would lessen her\nspeed.\n\nO poor soul! what art thou become? Formerly thou wast the delight of thy\nBridegroom, when He took such pleasure in adorning and beautifying thee;\nnow thou art so naked, so ragged, so poor, that thou darest neither to\nlook upon thyself nor to appear before Him. Those who gaze upon thee,\nwho, after having so much admired thee, see thee now so disfigured,\nbelieve that either thou hast grown mad, or that thou hast committed\nsome great crime, which has caused thy Beloved to abandon thee. They do\nnot see that this jealous Husband, who desires that His bride should be\nHis alone, seeing that she is amusing herself with her ornaments, that\nshe delights in them, that she is in love with herself; seeing this, I\nsay, and that she sometimes ceases looking at Him in order to look at\nherself, and that her love to Him is growing cold because her self-love\nis so strong, is stripping her, and taking away all her beauties and\nriches from before her eyes.\n\nIn the abundance of her wealth, she takes delight in contemplating\nherself: she sees good qualities in herself, which engage her affection,\nand alienate it from her Bridegroom. In her foolishness she does not see\nthat she is only fair with the beauties of her Beloved; and that if He\nremoved these, she would be so hideous that she would be frightened at\nherself. More than this, she neglects to follow Him wherever He goes;\nshe fears lest she may spoil her complexion, or lose her jewels. O\njealous Love! how well is it that thou comest to chastise this proud\none, and to take from her what Thou hast given, that she may learn to\nknow herself, and that, being naked and destitute, nothing may impede\nher course.\n\nThus, then, our Lord strips the soul little by little, robbing her of\nher ornaments, all her gifts, positions, and favours--that is, as to her\nperception or conscious possession of them--which are like jewels that\nweigh her down; then He takes away her natural capacity for good, which\nare her garments; after which He destroys her personal beauty, which\nsets forth divine virtue, which she finds it impossible to practise.\n\nThis spoliation commences with the graces, gifts, and favours of\nconscious love. The bride sees that her husband takes from her, little\nby little, the riches He had bestowed upon her. At first she is greatly\ntroubled by this loss; but what troubles her the most, is not so much\nthe loss of her riches, as the anger of her Beloved; for she thinks it\nis in anger that He thus takes back His gifts. She sees the abuse she\nhad made of them, and the delight she had been taking in them, which so\nfills her with shame that she is ready to die of confusion. She lets Him\ndo as He will, and dares not say, \"Why dost Thou take from me what Thou\nhast given?\" for she sees that she deserves it, and looks on in silence.\n\nThough she keeps silence, it is not so profound now as afterwards; it is\nbroken by mingled sobs and sighs. But she is astonished to find, when\nshe looks at her Bridegroom, that He appears to be angry with her for\nweeping over His justice towards her, in no longer allowing her the\nopportunity of abusing His gifts, and for thinking so lightly of the\nabuse she has made of them. She tries then to let Him know that she does\nnot care about the loss of His gifts, if only He will cease His anger\ntowards her. She shows Him her tears and her grief at having displeased\nHim. It is true that she is so sensible of the anger of her Beloved that\nshe no longer thinks of her riches. After allowing her to weep for a\nlong time, her Lover appears to be appeased. He consoles her, and with\nHis own hand He dries her tears. What a joy it is to her to see the new\ngoodness of her Beloved, after what she has done! Yet He does not\nrestore her former riches, and she does not long for them, being only\ntoo happy to be looked upon, consoled, and caressed by Him. At first she\nreceives His caresses with so much confusion, that she dare not lift her\neyes, but forgetting her past woes in her present happiness, she loses\nherself in the new caresses of her Beloved, and thinking no more of her\npast miseries, she glories and rests in these caresses, and thereby\ncompels the Bridegroom to be angry again, and to despoil her anew.\n\nIt must be observed that God despoils the loss little by little; and the\nweaker the souls may be, the longer the spoliation continues; while the\nstronger they are, the sooner it is completed, because God despoils them\noftener and of more things at once. But however rough this spoliation\nmay be, it only touches superfluities on the outside, that is to say,\ngifts, graces, and favours.\n\nThis leading of God is so wonderful, and is the result of such deep love\nto the soul, that it would never be believed, except by those who have\nexperienced it; for the heart is so full of itself, and so permeated\nwith self-esteem, that if God did not treat it thus, it would be lost.\n\nIt will perhaps be asked, If the gifts of God are productive of such\nevil consequences, why are they given? God gives them, in the fulness of\nHis goodness, in order to draw the soul from sin, from attachment to the\ncreature, and to bring it back to Himself. But these same gifts with\nwhich He gratifies it--that He may wean it from earth and from self to\nlove Him, at least from gratitude--we use to excite our self-love and\nself-admiration, to amuse ourselves with them; and self-love is so\ndeeply rooted in man, that it is augmented by these gifts; for he finds\nin himself new charms, which he had not discovered before; he delights\nin them, and appropriates to himself what belongs only to God. It is\ntrue, God could deliver him from it, but He does not do it, for reasons\nknown only to Himself. The soul, thus despoiled by God, loses a little\nof its self-love, and begins to see that it was not so rich as it\nfancied, but that all its virtue was in Christ; it sees that it has\nabused His grace, and consents that He should take back His gifts. The\nbride says, \"I shall be rich with the riches of my Bridegroom, and\nthough He may keep them, yet, from my union in heart and will with Him,\nthey will still be mine.\" She is even glad to lose these gifts of God;\nshe finds herself unencumbered, better fitted for walking. Gradually she\nbecomes accustomed to this spoliation; she knows it has been good for\nher; she is no longer grieved because of it; and, as she is so\nbeautiful, she satisfies herself that she will not cease to please her\nBridegroom by her natural beauty and her simple garments, as much as she\ncould with all her ornaments.\n\n\nSection II.\n\nSECOND DEGREE OF THE SPOLIATION OF THE SOUL, AS TO ITS GARMENTS, OR ITS\nFACILITY FOR THE EXTERIOR PRACTICE OF VIRTUE--ITS CAUSES, WHICH ARE THE\nAPPROPRIATION OF THESE VIRTUES, AND SATISFACTION IN THEM, INSTEAD OF THE\nRECOGNITION OF NATURAL HELPLESSNESS, AND ABSENCE OF ALL GOOD IN SELF.\n\n\nWhen the poor bride is expecting always to live in peace, in spite of\nthis loss, and sees clearly the good which has resulted to her from it,\nand the harm she had done to herself by the bad use which she had made\nof the gifts which now have been taken from her, she is completely\nastonished to find that the Bridegroom, who had only given her temporary\npeace because of her weakness, comes with yet greater violence to tear\noff her clothing from her.\n\nAlas, poor bride! what wilt thou do now? This is far worse than before,\nfor these garments are necessary to her, and it is contrary to all\npropriety to suffer herself to be stripped of them. Oh! it is now that\nshe makes all the resistance in her power. She brings forward all the\nreasons why her Bridegroom should not thus leave her naked: she tells\nHim that it will bring reproach upon Himself. \"Alas!\" she cries, \"I have\nlost all the virtues which Thou hast bestowed upon me, Thy gifts, the\nsweetness of Thy love! But still I was able to make an outward\nprofession of virtue; I engaged in works of charity; I prayed\nassiduously, even though I was deprived of Thy sensible benefits: but I\ncannot consent to lose all this. I was still clothed according to my\nposition, and looked upon by the world as Thy bride: but if I lose my\ngarments, it will bring shame upon Thee.\" \"It matters not, poor soul;\nthou must consent to this loss also: thou dost not yet know thyself;\nthou believest that thy raiment is thine own, and that thou canst use it\nas thou wilt. But though I acquired it at such a cost, thou hast given\nit back to me as if it were a recompense on thy part for the labours I\nhave endured for Thee. Let it go; thou must lose it.\" The soul having\ndone its best to keep it, lets it go, little by little, and finds itself\ngradually despoiled. It finds no inclination for anything; on the\ncontrary, all is distasteful to it. Formerly it had aversions and\ndifficulties, without absolute powerlessness; but here all power is\ntaken from it: its strength of body and mind fails entirely; the\ninclination for better things alone remains, and this is the last robe,\nwhich must finally be lost.\n\nThis is done very gradually, and the process is extremely painful,\nbecause the bride sees all the while that it has been caused by her own\nfolly. She dares not speak, lest she may irritate the Bridegroom, whose\nanger is worse to her than death. She begins to know herself better, to\nsee that she is nothing in herself, and that all belongs to her\nBridegroom. She begins to distrust herself, and, little by little, she\nloses her self-esteem.\n\nBut she does not yet hate herself, for she is still beautiful, though\nnaked. From time to time she casts a pitiful look towards the\nBridegroom, but she says not a word: she is grieved at His anger. It\nseems to her that the spoliation would be of little moment if she had\nnot offended Him, and if she had not rendered herself unworthy to wear\nher nuptial robes.\n\nIf she was confused when at the first her riches were taken from her,\nher confusion at the sight of her nakedness is infinitely more painful.\nShe cannot bear to appear before her Bridegroom, so deep is her shame.\nBut she must remain, and run hither and thither in this state. What! is\nit not even permitted to her to hide herself? No; she must appear thus\nin public. The world begins to think less highly of her. It says, \"Is\nthis that bride who was once the admiration of angels and of men? See\nhow she has fallen!\" These words increase her confusion, because she is\nwell aware that her Bridegroom has dealt justly with her. She does what\nshe can to induce Him to clothe her a little, but He will do nothing,\nafter having thus stripped her of all, for her garments would satisfy\nher by covering her, and would prevent her seeing herself as she is.\n\nIt is a great surprise to a soul that thinks itself far advanced towards\nperfection to see itself thus despoiled all at once. It imagines the old\nsins, from which it was once purged, must have returned. But it is\nmistaken: the secret is, that she was so hidden by her garments as to be\nunable to see what she was. It is a terrible thing for a soul to be thus\nstripped of the gifts and graces of God, and it is impossible that any\nshould know or imagine what it is without the actual experience of it.\n\n\nSection III.\n\nTHIRD DEGREE OF THE SPOLIATION OF THE SOUL, WHICH CONCERNS ITS BEAUTY,\nOR THE PERCEPTIBLE ACTION OF DIVINE VIRTUE--HOW GOD THUS LEADS THE SOUL\nTO SELF-DESPAIR AND TO TRUE PURITY--INTERVAL OF REST, FOLLOWED BY THE\nINCREASE OF THE PRECEDING OPERATIONS, TILL THEY END IN MYSTIC DEATH.\n\n\nAll this would be but little if the bride still retained her beauty; but\nthe Bridegroom robs her of that also. Hitherto she has been despoiled of\ngifts, graces, and favours (facility for good): she has lost all good\nworks, such as outward charity, care for the poor, readiness to help\nothers, but she has not lost the divine virtues. Here, however, these\ntoo must be lost, so far as their practice is concerned, or rather the\nhabit of exercising them, as acquired by herself, in order to appear\nfair: in reality, they are all the while being more strongly implanted.\nShe loses virtue as virtue, but it is only that she may find it again in\nCHRIST. This degraded bride becomes, as she imagines, filled with pride.\nShe, who was so patient, who suffered so easily, finds that she can\nsuffer nothing. Her senses revolt her by continual distractions. She\ncan no longer restrain herself by her own efforts, as formerly; and what\nis worse, she contracts defilement at every step. She complains to her\nBeloved that the watchmen that go about the city have found her and\nwounded her (Cant. v. 7). I ought, however, to say that persons in this\ncondition do not sin willingly. God usually reveals to them such a\ndeep-seated corruption within themselves, that they cry with Job, \"Oh,\nthat Thou wouldest hide me in the grave, that Thou wouldest keep me in\nsecret, until Thy wrath be past!\" (Job xiv. 13).\n\nIt must not be supposed that either here or at any other stage of\nprogress God suffers the soul really to fall into sin; and so truly is\nthis the case, that though they appear in their own eyes the most\nmiserable sinners, yet they can discover no definite sin of which they\nare guilty, and only accuse themselves of being full of misery, and of\nhaving only sentiments contrary to their desires. It is to the glory of\nGod that, when He makes the soul most deeply conscious of its inward\ncorruption, He does not permit it to fall into sin. What makes its\nsorrow so terrible is, that it is overwhelmed with a sense of the\npurity of God, and that purity makes the smallest imperfection appear as\na heinous sin, because of the infinite distance between the purity of\nGod and the impurity of the creature. The soul sees that it was\noriginally created pure by God, and that it has contracted not only the\noriginal sin of Adam, but thousands of actual sins, so that its\nconfusion is greater than can be expressed. The reason why Christians in\nthis condition are despised by others, is not to be found in any\nparticular faults which are observed in them, but because, as they no\nlonger manifest the same ardour and fidelity which formerly\ndistinguished them, the greatness of their fall is judged from this,\nwhich is a great mistake. Let this serve to explain or modify any\nstatements or representations in the sequel, which may appear to be\nexpressed too strongly, and which those who do not understand the\nexperience might be liable to misinterpret. Observe, also, that when I\nspeak of _corruption_, of _decay_, &c., I mean the destruction of the\nold man by the central conviction, and by an intimate experience of the\ndepth of impurity and selfishness which there is in the heart of man,\nwhich, bringing him to see himself as he is apart from God, causes him\nto cry with David, \"I am a worm and no man\" (Ps. xxii. 6), and with Job,\n\"If I wash myself with snow water, and make my hands never so clean, yet\nshalt Thou plunge me in the ditch, and mine own clothes shall abhor me\"\n(Job ix. 30, 31).\n\nIt is not, then, that this poor bride commits the faults of which she\nimagines herself guilty, for in heart she was never purer than now; but\nher senses and natural powers, particularly the senses, being\nunsupported, wander away. Besides which, as the speed of her course\ntowards God redoubles, and she forgets herself more, it is not to be\nwondered at that in running she soils herself in the muddy places\nthrough which she passes; and as all her attention is directed towards\nher Beloved, although she does not perceive it by reason of her own\ncondition, she thinks no more of herself, and does not notice where she\nsteps. So that, while believing herself most guilty, she does not\nwillingly commit a single sin; though all her sins appear voluntary to\nherself, they are rather faults of surprise, which often she does not\nsee until after they are committed. She cries to her Bridegroom, but He\ndoes not heed her, at least not perceptibly, though He sustains her with\nan invisible hand. Sometimes she tries to do better, but then she\nbecomes worse; for the design of her Bridegroom in letting her fall\n_without wounding herself_ (Ps. xxxvii. 24) is that she should lean no\nlonger on herself; that she should recognise her helplessness; that she\nshould sink into complete self-despair; and that she should say, \"My\nsoul chooseth death rather than life\" (Job vii. 15). It is here that the\nsoul begins truly to _hate itself_ and to _know itself_ as it would\nnever have done if it had not passed through this experience.\n\nAll our natural knowledge of self, whatever may be its degree, is not\nsufficient to cause us really to hate ourselves. \"He that loveth his\nlife shall lose it; and he that hateth his life in this world, shall\nkeep it unto life eternal\" (John xii. 25). It is only such an experience\nas this which can reveal to the soul its infinite depth of misery. No\nother way can give true purity; if it give any at all, it is only\nsuperficial, and not in the depth of the heart, where the impurity is\nseated.\n\nHere God searches the inmost recesses of the soul for that hidden\nimpurity which is the effect of the self-esteem and self-love which He\ndesigns to destroy. Take a sponge which is full of impurities, wash it\nas much as you will, you will clean the outside, but you will not render\nit clean throughout unless you press it, in order to squeeze out all the\nfilth. This is what God does. He squeezes the soul in a painful manner,\nbut He brings out from it that which was the most deeply hidden.\n\nI say, then, that this is the only way in which we can be purified\nradically; and without it we should always be filthy, though outwardly\nwe might appear very clean. It is necessary that God should make the\nsoul thoroughly sensible of its condition. We could never believe,\nwithout the experience, of what nature left to itself is capable. Yes,\nindeed, our own being, abandoned to itself, is worse than all devils.\nTherefore we must not believe that the soul in this state of misery is\nabandoned by God. It was never better sustained; but nature is, as it\nwere, left a little alone, and makes all these ravages without the soul\nin itself taking any part in them. This poor desolate bride, running\nhither and thither in search of her Beloved, not only soils herself\ngrievously, as I have said, by falling into faults of surprise and\nself-esteem, but she wounds herself with the thorns that come in her\nway. She becomes so wearied at length that she is forced to die in her\nrace for want of help; that is, to expect nothing from herself or her\nown activity.\n\nThat which is productive of the highest good to the soul in this\ncondition is that God manifests no pity towards it; and when He desires\nto promote its advancement, He lets it run even to death; if He stops it\nfor a moment, by doing which He ravishes and revives it, it is because\nof its weakness, and in order that its weariness may not compel it to\nrest.\n\nWhen He sees that it is becoming disheartened and inclined to give up\nthe race altogether, He looks upon it for a moment, and the poor bride\nfinds herself wounded anew by this look. She would willingly say to\nHim, \"Alas! why hast Thou thus compelled me to run? Oh, that I could\nfind Thee; and see Thee face to face!\" But alas! when she seems to lay\nhold of Him, He flees from her again. \"I sought Thee,\" she cries, \"but I\nfound Thee not\" (Cant. iii. 1).\n\nAs this look from her Bridegroom has increased her love, she redoubles\nher speed in order to find Him: nevertheless she was delayed just so\nlong as the look lasted, that is, in sensible joy. This is why the\nBridegroom does not often cast such looks upon her, and only when He\nsees that her courage is failing.\n\nThe soul then dies at the end of its race, because all its active\nstrength is exhausted; for though it had been passive, it had not lost\nits active strength, though it had been unconscious of it. The bride\nsaid, \"Draw me, we will run after thee\" (Cant. i. 3). She ran indeed,\nbut how? By the loss of all; as the sun travels incessantly, yet without\nquitting his repose. In this condition she so hates herself, that she\ncan hardly suffer herself. She thinks her Bridegroom has good reason to\ntreat her as He does, and that it is His indignation against her which\nmakes Him leave her. She does not see that it is in order to make her\nrun that He flees, that it is in order that He may purify her that He\nsuffers her to become so soiled. When we put iron in the fire, to purify\nit and to purge it from its dross, it appears at first to be tarnished\nand blackened, but afterwards it is easy to see that it has been\npurified. Christ only makes His bride experience her own weakness, that\nshe may lose all strength and all support in herself, and that, in her\nself-despair, He may carry her in His arms, and she may be willing to be\nthus borne; for whatever her course may be, she walks as a child; but\nwhen she is in God, and is borne by Him, her progress is infinite, since\nit is that of God Himself.\n\nIn addition to all this degradation, the bride sees others adorned with\nher spoils. When she sees a holy soul, she dare not approach it; she\nsees it adorned with all the ornaments which her Bridegroom has taken\nfrom her; but though she admires it, and sinks into the depths of\nnothingness, she cannot desire to have these ornaments again, so\nconscious is she of her unworthiness to wear them. She thinks it would\nbe a profanation to put them upon a person so covered with mud and\ndefilement. She even rejoices to see that, if she fills her Beloved with\nhorror, there are others in whom He can take delight, and whom she\nregards as infinitely happy in having gained the love of her God: as for\nthe ornaments, though she sees others decorated with them, she does not\nsuppose that these are the sources of their happiness. If she sees any\nblessedness in the possession of them, it is because they are the tokens\nof the love of her Beloved. When she is thus sensible of her littleness\nin the presence of such as these, whom she regards as queens, she does\nnot know the good which will result to her from this nakedness, death,\nand decay. Her Bridegroom only unclothes her that He may be Himself her\nclothing: \"Put ye on the Lord Jesus Christ,\" says St Paul (Rom. xiii.\n14). He only kills her that He may be her life: \"If we be dead with\nChrist, we believe that we shall also live with Him.\" He only\nannihilates her that she may be transformed in Himself.\n\nThis loss of virtue is only brought about by degrees, as well as the\nother losses, and this apparent inclination for evil is involuntary; for\nthat evil which makes us so vile in our own eyes is really no evil at\nall.\n\nThe things which bring defilement to these persons are certain faults\nwhich only lie in the feelings. As soon as they see the beauty of a\nvirtue, they seem to be incessantly falling into the contrary vice: for\nexample, if they love truth, they speak hastily or with exaggeration,\nand fancy they lie at every moment, although in fact they do but speak\nagainst their sentiments; and it is thus with all the other virtues; the\nmore important these virtues are, and the more strongly they cling to\nthem, because they appear the more essential, the greater is the force\nwith which they are torn from them.\n\n\nSection IV.\n\nENTRANCE OF THE SOUL INTO MYSTIC DEATH, AS TO ITS SENSIBILITIES, POWERS,\nAND EVEN ITS PERCEIVED FOUNDATION--IMPORTANT OBSERVATIONS ON THIS\nCONDITION.\n\n\nThis poor soul, after having lost its all, must at last lose _its own\nlife_ by an utter self-despair, or rather it must die worn out by\nterrible fatigue. Prayer in this degree is extremely painful, because\nthe soul being no longer able to make use of its own powers, of which it\nseems to be entirely deprived, and God having taken from it a certain\nsweet and profound calm which supported it, is left like those poor\nchildren whom we see running here and there in search of bread, yet\nfinding no one to supply their need, so that the power of prayer seems\nto be as entirely lost as if we had never possessed it; but with this\ndifference, that we feel the pain occasioned by the loss, because we\nhave proved its value by its possession, while others are not sensible\nof the loss, because they have never known its enjoyment. The soul,\nthen, can find no support in the creature; and if it feels itself\ncarried away by the things of earth, it is only by impetuosity, and it\ncan find nothing to satisfy it. Not that it does not seek to abandon\nitself to the things in which it formerly delighted; but alas! it finds\nin them nothing but bitterness, so that it is glad to leave them again,\ntaking nothing back but sadness at its own unfaithfulness.\n\nThe _imagination_ goes altogether astray, and is scarcely ever at rest.\nThe three powers of the soul, the _understanding_, the _memory_, and the\n_will_, by degrees lose their life, so that at length they become\naltogether dead, which is very painful to the soul, especially as\nregards the will, which had been tasting I know not what of sweetness\nand tranquillity, which comforted the other powers in their deadness and\npowerlessness.\n\nThis unexplainable something which sustains the soul at its foundation,\nas it were, is the hardest of all to lose, and that which the soul\nendeavours the most strenuously to retain; for as it is too delicate, so\nit appears the more divine and necessary: it would consent willingly to\nbe deprived of the two other powers, and even of the will, so far as it\nis a distinct and perceived thing, if only this something might be left;\nfor it could bear all its labours if it may have within itself the\nwitness that it is born of God.\n\nHowever, this must be lost, like the rest--that is, as to the\nsentiment--and then the soul enters into the sensible realisation of all\nthe misery with which it is filled. And it is this which really produces\n_the spiritual death_; for whatever misery the soul might endure, if\nthis, I know not what, were not lost, it would not die; and if, on the\nother hand, this were lost without the soul being conscious of its\nmisery, it would be supported, and would not die. It can easily\nunderstand that it must give up all dependence upon its own feelings or\nupon any natural support, but to lose an almost imperceptible comfort,\nand to fall from weakness, to fall into the mire, to this it cannot\nconsent. This is where reason fails, this is where terrible fears fill\nthe heart, which seems to have only sufficient life to be sensible of\nits death.\n\nIt is, then, the loss of this imperceptible support, and the experience\nof this misery, which causes death.\n\nWe should be very careful, in such times as these, not to let our senses\nbe led away willingly to creatures, seeking willingly consolation and\ndiversion. I say _willingly_, for we are incapable of mortifications and\nattentions reflected upon ourselves, and the more we have mortified\nourselves, the stronger will be the bearing in the contrary direction,\nwithout being aware of it; like a madman, who goes wandering about, if\nyou attempt to keep him too rigorously within bounds, apart from its\nbeing useless, it would retard his death.\n\nWhat must we do then? We must be careful to give no support to the\nsenses, to suffer them, and to let them find recreation in innocent\nways; for as they are not capable of an inward operation, by\nendeavouring to restrain them we should injure health, and even mental\nstrength. What I say applies only to this degree; for if we were to make\nthis use of the senses in the time of the strength and activity of\ngrace, we should do wrong; and our Lord Himself in His goodness makes us\nsee the conduct that we should pursue; for at first, He puts such a\npressure on the senses, they have no liberty. They only have to desire\nsomething in order to be deprived of it; God orders it thus that the\nsenses may be drawn from their imperfect operation, to be confined\nwithin the heart; and in severing them outwardly, He binds them inwardly\nso gently, that it costs them little to be deprived of everything; they\neven find more pleasure in this deprivation than in the possession of\nall things. But when they are sufficiently purified, God, who wishes to\ndraw the soul out of itself with a contrary movement, permits the senses\nto expand outwardly, which appears to the soul as a great impurity.\nHowever, it has now happened seasonably, and to endeavour to order\nthings otherwise, would be to purify ourselves in a different way from\nthat which God desires, and therefore to defile ourselves anew.\n\nThis does not prevent our making mistakes in this outward development of\nthe senses; but the confusion which it occasions us, and our fidelity in\nmaking use of it, is the furnace in which we are most quickly purified,\nby dying the soonest to ourselves. It is here also that we lose the\nesteem of men. They look on us with contempt, and say, \"Are not these\nthe persons whom we formerly admired? How are they become thus\ndisfigured?\" \"Alas!\" we reply, \"look not upon me, because I am black\"\n(Cant. i. 6). \"It is the sun which has thus discoloured me.\" It is at\nthis point that we suddenly enter the third degree, that of burial and\ndecay.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII.\n\nTHIRD DEGREE OF THE PASSIVE WAY OF FAITH IN ITS\nCONSUMMATION--CONSUMMATED STATE OF SPIRITUAL\nDEATH--BURIAL--DECAY--ADVICE AS TO THE CONDUCT OF PERSONS IN THESE\nCONDITIONS, WHICH ARE FOLLOWED BY A NEW LIFE.\n\n\nThe torrent, as we have said, has passed through every imaginable\nvicissitude. It has been dashed against rocks; indeed, its course has\nbeen but a succession of falls from rock to rock; but it has always\nreappeared, and we have never seen it really lost. Now it begins to lose\nitself in gulf after gulf. Formerly it still had a course, though it was\nso precipitate, so confused, and so irregular; but here it is engulphed\nwith a yet greater precipitation in unsearchable depths. For a long time\nit disappears altogether from view, then we perceive it slightly, but\nmore by hearing than by sight, and it only appears to be again\nprecipitated in a deeper gulf. It falls from abyss to abyss, from\nprecipice to precipice, until at last it falls into the depths of the\nsea, where, losing all form, it is lost to be found no more, having\nbecome one with the sea itself. The soul, after many deaths, expires at\nlast in the arms of Love; but it does not even perceive those arms. It\nhas no sooner expired, than it loses all vital action, all desire,\ninclination, tendency, choice, repugnance, and aversion. As it draws\nnear to death, it grows weaker; but its life, though languishing and\nagonising, is still life, and \"while there is life there is hope,\" even\nthough death be inevitable. The torrent must be buried out of sight.\n\nO God! what is this? What were only precipices become abysses. The soul\nfalls into a depth of misery from which there is no escape. At first\nthis abyss is small, but the further the soul advances, the stronger\ndoes it appear, so that it goes from bad to worse; for it is to be\nremarked, that when we first enter a degree, there clings to us much\nthat we have brought in with us, and at the end we already begin to feel\nsymptoms of that which is to come. It is also noticeable that each\ndegree contains within it an infinitude of others.\n\nA man, after his death and before his burial, is still among the living:\nhe still has the face of a man, though he is an object of terror; thus\nthe soul, in the commencement of this degree, still bears some\nresemblance to what it was before; there remains in it a certain secret\nimpression of God, as there remains in a dead body a certain animal heat\nwhich gradually leaves it. The soul still practises devotion and prayer,\nbut this is soon taken away from it. It must lose not only all prayer,\nevery gift of God, but God Himself to all appearance--that is, so far as\nHe was possessed selfishly by the _ego_--and not lose Him for one, two,\nor three years, but for ever. All facility for good, all active virtue,\nare taken from it; it is left naked and despoiled of everything. The\nworld, which formerly esteemed it so much, begins to fear it. Yet it is\nno visible sin which produces the contempt of men, but a powerlessness\nto practise its former good works with the same facility. Formerly whole\ndays were spent in the visitation of the sick, often even against\nnatural inclination; such works as these can be practised no longer.\n\nThe soul will soon be in an entire oblivion. Little by little, it loses\neverything in such a degree, that it is altogether impoverished. The\nworld tramples it under foot, and thinks no more of it. O poor soul!\nthou must see thyself treated thus, and see it with terror, without\nbeing able to prevent it. It must suffer itself to be buried, covered\nwith earth, and trodden under foot by all men.\n\nIt is here that heavy crosses are borne, and all the heavier that they\nare believed to be merited. The soul begins to have a horror of itself.\nGod casts it so far off, that He seems determined to abandon it for\never. Poor soul! thou must be patient, and remain in thy sepulchre. It\nis content to remain there, though in terrible suffering, because it\nsees no way of escape from it; and it sees, too, that it is its only fit\nplace, all others being even sadder to it. It flees from men, knowing\nthat they regard it with aversion. They look upon this forlorn Bride as\nan outcast, who has lost the grace of God, and who is only fit to be\nburied in the earth.\n\nThe heart endures its bitterness; but, alas! how sweet this state is\neven now, and how easy it would be to remain in the sepulchre, if it\nwere not necessary to decay! The old man becomes gradually corrupted;\nformerly there were weaknesses and failings, now the soul sees a depth\nof corruption of which it had hitherto been ignorant, for it could not\nimagine what were its self-esteem and selfishness. O God! what horror\nthis soul suffers in seeing itself thus decaying! All troubles, the\ncontempt and aversion of man, affect it no longer. It is even insensible\nto the deprivation of the Sun of Righteousness; it knows that His light\ndoes not penetrate the tomb. But to feel its own corruption, that it\ncannot endure. What would it not rather suffer? But it must experience,\nto the very depths of its being, what it is.\n\nAnd yet, if I could decay without being seen by God, I should be\ncontent: what troubles me is the horror which I must cause Him by the\nsight of my corruption. But, poor desolate one! what canst thou do? It\nshould suffice thee, one would think, to _bear_ this corruption, without\n_loving_ it: but now thou art not even sure that thou dost not desire\nit! The soul is in darkness, without being able to judge whether its\nterrible thoughts proceed from itself or from the evil one.\n\nIt is no longer troubled at being cast off by God; it is so conscious of\nits demerit, that it consents to the deprivation of the sensible\npresence of God. But it cannot endure the thought that the taint of its\ncorruption reaches even to God. It does not wish to sin. Let me decay,\nis its cry, and find my home in the depths of hell, if only I may be\nkept free from sin. It no longer thinks of love, for it believes itself\nto be incapable of affection. It is, in its own opinion, worse than when\nit was in a state of nature, since it is in the state of corruption\nusual to the body deprived of life.\n\nAt length by degrees the soul becomes accustomed to its corruption: it\nfeels it less, and finds it natural, except at certain times, when it is\ntried by various temptations, whose terrible impressions cause it much\nanguish. Ah, poor torrent! wast thou not better off on the mountain-top\nthan here? Thou hadst then some slight corruption, it is true; but now,\nthough thou flowest rapidly, and nothing can stop thee, thou passest\nthrough such filthy places, so tainted with sulphur and saltpetre, that\nthou bearest away their odours with thee.\n\nAt last the soul is reduced to a state of nothingness, and has become\nlike a person who does not exist, and never will exist; it does nothing,\neither good or ill. Formerly it thought of itself now it thinks no\nlonger. All that is of grace is done as if it were of nature, and there\nis no longer either pain or pleasure. All that there is, is that its\nashes remain as ashes, without the hope of ever being anything but\nashes: it is utterly dead, and nothing affects it either from without or\nwithin--that is, it is no longer troubled by any sensible impressions.\nAt last, reduced to nonentity, there is found in the ashes _a germ of\nimmortality_, which lives beneath these ashes, and in due time will\nmanifest its life. But the soul is in ignorance of it, and never expects\nto be revived or raised from the dead.\n\nThe faithfulness of the soul in this condition consists in letting\nitself be buried, crushed, trampled on, without making any more movement\nthan a corpse, without seeking in any way to prevent its putrefaction.\nThere are those who wish to apply balm to themselves. No, no; leave\nyourselves as you are. You must know your corruption, and see the\ninfinite depth of depravity that is in you. To apply balm is but to\nendeavour by good works to hide your corruption. Oh, do it not! You will\nwrong yourselves. God can suffer you; why cannot you suffer yourselves?\nThe soul, reduced to nothingness, must remain in it, without wishing to\nchange its state; and it is then that the torrent loses itself in the\nsea, never to find itself in itself again, but to become one with the\nsea. It is then that this corpse feels without feeling, that it is\ngradually reanimated, and assumes _a new life_; but this is done so\ngradually that it seems like a dream. And this brings us to the last\ndegree, which is the commencement of the _divine and truly inner life_,\nincluding numberless smaller degrees, and in which the advancement is\ninfinite: just as this torrent can perpetually advance in the sea, and\nimbibe more of its nature, the longer it remains in it.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX.\n\nFOURTH DEGREE OF THE PASSIVE WAY OF FAITH, WHICH IS THE COMMENCEMENT OF\nTHE DIVINE LIFE--TRANSITION FROM THE HUMAN STATE TO THE DIVINE, AND TO\nTHE RESURRECTION OF THE SOUL IN GOD--DESCRIPTION OF THIS LIFE AND OF ITS\nPROPERTIES, GRADATIONS, IDENTITY, INDIFFERENCE--SENTIMENTS OF THE\nSOUL--ITS EXISTENCE IN GOD--ITS PEACE, ETC.--POWER AND VIEWS WITH REGARD\nTO OTHERS, TO ITSELF, TO ITS CONDITION, TO ITS ACTIONS, TO ITS WORDS, TO\nITS FAULTS--MIND OF CHRIST--VARIOUS OBSERVATIONS.\n\n\nWhen the torrent begins to lose itself in the sea, it can easily be\ndistinguished. Its movement is perceptible, until at length it gradually\nloses all form of its own, to take that of the sea. So the soul, leaving\nthis degree, and beginning to lose itself, yet retains something of its\nown; but in a short time it loses all that it had peculiar to itself.\nThe corpse which has been reduced to ashes is still dust and ashes; but\nif another person were to swallow those ashes, they would no longer\nhave an identity, but would form part of the person who had taken them.\nThe soul hitherto, though dead and buried, has retained its own being;\nit is only in this degree that it is really taken out of itself.\n\nAll that has taken place up to this point has been in the individual\ncapacity of the creature; but here the creature is taken out of his own\ncapacity to receive an infinite capacity in God Himself. And as the\ntorrent, when it enters the sea, loses its own being in such a way that\nit retains nothing of it, and takes that of the sea, or rather is taken\nout of itself to be lost in the sea; so this soul loses the human in\norder that it may lose itself in the divine, which becomes its being and\nits subsistence, not essentially, but mystically. Then this torrent\npossesses all the treasures of the sea, and is as glorious as it was\nformerly poor and miserable.\n\nIt is in the tomb that the soul begins to resume life, and the light\nenters insensibly. Then it can be truly said that \"The people which sat\nin darkness saw great light; and to them which sat in the region and\nshadow of death light is sprung up\" (Matt. iv. 16). There is a\nbeautiful figure of this resurrection in Ezekiel (chap. xxxvii.), where\nthe dry bones gradually assume life: and then there is that other\npassage, \"The hour is coming, and now is, when the dead shall hear the\nvoice of the Son of God; and they that hear shall live\" (John v. 25). O\nyou who are coming out of the sepulchre! you feel within yourselves a\ngerm of life springing up little by little: you are quite astonished to\nfind a secret strength taking possession of you: your ashes are\nreanimated: you feel yourselves to be in a new country. The poor soul,\nwhich only expected to remain at rest in its grave, receives an\nagreeable surprise. It does not know what to think: it supposes that the\nsun must have shed upon it a few scattered rays through some opening or\nchink, whose brightness will only last for a moment. It is still more\nastonished when it feels this secret vigour permeating its entire being,\nand finds that it gradually receives a new life, to lose it no more for\never, unless it be by the most flagrant unfaithfulness.\n\nBut this new life is not like the former one: it is a _life in God_. It\nis a perfect life. The soul _lives no longer_ and works no longer of\nitself, but _God_ lives, acts, and operates in it (Gal. ii. 20); and\nthis goes on increasing, so that it becomes perfect with God's\nperfection, rich with God's riches, and loving with God's love.\n\nThe soul sees now that whatever it owned formerly had been in its own\npossession: now it no longer possesses, but is possessed: it only takes\na new life in order to lose it in God; or rather it only lives with the\nlife of God; and as He is the principle of life, the soul can want\nnothing. What a gain it has made by all its losses! It has lost the\ncreated for the Creator, the nothing for the All in all. All things are\ngiven to it, not in itself, but in God; not to be possessed by itself,\nbut to be possessed by God. Its riches are immense, for they are God\nHimself. It feels its capacity increasing day by day to immensity: every\nvirtue is restored to it, but in God.\n\nIt must be remarked, that as it was only despoiled by degrees, so it is\nonly enriched and vivified by degrees. The more it loses itself in God,\nthe greater its capacity becomes; just as the more the torrent loses\nitself in the sea, the more it is enlarged, having no other limits than\nthose of the sea: it participates in all its properties. The soul\nbecomes strong and firm: it has lost all means, but it has found the\nend. This divine life becomes quite natural to it. As it no longer feels\nitself, sees itself, or knows itself, so it no longer sees or\nunderstands or distinguishes anything of God as distinct or outside of\nitself. It is no longer conscious of love, or light, or knowledge; it\nonly knows that God is, and that it no longer lives except in God. All\ndevotion is action, and all action is devotion: all is the same; the\nsoul is indifferent to all, for all is equally God. Formerly it was\nnecessary to exercise virtue in order to perform virtuous works; here\nall distinction of action is taken away, the actions having no virtue in\nthemselves, but all being God, the meanest action equally with the\ngreatest, provided it is in the order of God and at His time: for all\nthat might be of the natural choice, and not in this order, would have\nanother effect, leading the soul out of God by unfaithfulness. Not that\nit would be brought out of its degree or its loss, but out of the\ndivine plan, which makes all things one and all things God. So the soul\nis _indifferent_ as to whether it be in one state or another, in one\nplace or another: all is the same to it, and it lets itself be carried\nalong naturally. It ceases to think, to wish, or to choose for itself;\nbut remains content, without care or anxiety, no longer distinguishing\nits inner life to speak of it. Indeed it may be said not to possess one:\nit is no longer in itself; it is all in God. It is not necessary for it\nto shut itself up within itself; it does not hope to find anything\nthere, and does not seek for it. If a person were altogether penetrated\nwith the sea, having sea within and without, above and below, on every\nside, he would not prefer one place to another, all being the same to\nhim. So the soul does not trouble itself to seek anything or to do\nanything; that is, of itself, by itself, or for itself. It remains as it\nis. But what does it do? Nothing--always nothing. It does what it is\nmade to do, it suffers what it is made to suffer. Its peace is\nunchangeable, but always natural. It has, as it were, passed into a\nstate of nature; and yet how different from those altogether without\nGod!\n\nThe difference is, that it is compelled to action by God without being\nconscious of it, whereas formerly it was nature that acted. It seems to\nitself to do neither right nor wrong, but it lives satisfied, peaceful,\ndoing what it is made to do in a steady and resolute manner.\n\nGod alone is its guide; for at the time of its loss, it lost its own\nwill. And if you were to ask what are its desires, it could not tell. It\ncan choose for itself no longer: all desire is taken away, because,\nhaving found its centre, the heart loses all natural inclination,\ntendency, and activity, in the same way as it loses all repugnance and\ncontrariety. The torrent has no longer either a declivity or a movement:\nit is in repose, and at its end.\n\nBut with what satisfaction is this soul satisfied? With the satisfaction\nof God, immense, general, without knowing or understanding what it is\nthat satisfies it; for here all sentiments, tastes, views, particular\nopinions, however delicate they may be, are taken from it: that certain\nvague, indefinable something, which formerly occupied without occupying\nit, is gone, and nothing remains to it. But this insensibility is very\ndifferent to that of death, burial, and decay. That was a deprivation of\nlife, a distaste, a separation, the powerlessness of the dying united\nwith the insensibility of the dead; but this is an _elevation_ above all\nthese things, which does not remove them, but renders them useless. A\ndead man is deprived of all the functions of life by the powerlessness\nof death; but if he were to be raised gloriously, he would be full of\nlife, without having the power to preserve it by means of the senses:\nand being placed above all means by virtue of his germ of immortality,\nhe would no longer feel that which animated him, although he would know\nhimself to be alive.\n\nIn this degree God cannot be tasted, seen, or felt, being no longer\ndistinct from ourselves, but one with us. The soul has neither\ninclination nor taste for anything: in the period of death and burial it\nexperienced this, but in a very different manner. Then it arose from\ndistaste and powerlessness, but now it is the effect of _plenitude_ and\n_abundance_; just as if a person could live on air, he would be full\nwithout feeling his plenitude, or knowing in what way he had been\nsatisfied; he would not be empty and unable to eat or to taste, but free\nfrom all necessity of eating by reason of his satisfaction, without\nknowing how the air, entering by all his pores, had penetrated equally\nat all parts.\n\nThe soul here is in God, as in the air which is natural to it, and it is\nno more sensible of its fulness than we are of the air we breathe. Yet\nit is full, and nothing is wanting to it; therefore all its desires are\ntaken from it. Its peace is great, but not as it was before. Formerly it\nwas an inanimate peace a certain sepulture, from which there sometimes\nescaped exhalations which troubled it. When it was reduced to ashes, it\nwas at peace; but it was a barren peace, like that of a corpse, which\nwould be at peace in the midst of the wildest storms of the sea: it\nwould not feel them, and would not be troubled by them, its state of\ndeath rendering is insensible. But here the soul is raised, as it were,\nto a mountain-top, from which it sees the waves rolling and tossing,\nwithout fearing their attacks; or rather it is at the bottom of the sea,\nwhere there is always tranquillity, even while the surface is agitated.\nThe senses may suffer their sorrows, but at the centre there is always\nthe same calm tranquillity, because He who possesses it is immutable.\n\nThis, of course, supposes the faithfulness of the soul; for in whatever\nstate it may be, it is possible for it to recede and fall back into\nitself. But here the soul progresses infinitely in God; and it is\npossible for it to advance incessantly; just as, if the sea had no\nbottom, any one falling into it would sink to infinitude, and going down\nto greater and greater depths of the ocean, would discover more and more\nof its beauties and treasures. It is even thus with the soul whose home\nis in God.\n\nBut what must it do in order to be faithful to God? Nothing, and less\nthan nothing. It must simply suffer itself to be possessed, acted upon,\nand moved without resistance, remaining in the state which is natural to\nit, waiting for what every moment may bring to it, and receiving it from\nHim, without either adding to or taking from it; letting itself be led\nat all times and to any place, regardless of sight or reason, and\nwithout thinking of either; letting itself go naturally into all things,\nwithout considering what would be best or most plausible; remaining in\nthe state of evenness and stability in which God has placed it, without\nbeing troubled to do anything; but leaving to God the care of providing\nits opportunities, and of doing all for it; not making definite acts of\nabandonment, but simply resting in the state of abandonment in which it\nalready is, and which is natural to it.\n\nThe soul is unable to act in any way of itself without a consciousness\nof unfaithfulness. It possesses all things by having nothing. It finds a\nfacility for every duty, for speaking and for acting, no longer in its\nown way, but in God's. Its faithfulness does not consist in ceasing from\nall activity, like one who is dead, but in doing nothing except by the\nprinciple which animates it. A soul in this state has no inclination of\nits own in anything, but lets itself go as it is led, and beyond that\ndoes nothing. It cannot speak of its state, for it does not see it;\nthough there is so much that is extraordinary, it is no longer as it\nwas in the former degrees, where the creature had some part in it, that\nwhich was in a great measure its own; but here the most wonderful things\nare perfectly natural, and are done without thought. It is the same\nprinciple that gives life to the soul which acts in it and through it.\nIt has a sovereign power over the hearts of those around it, but not of\nitself. As nothing belongs to it, it can make no reserves; and if it can\nsay nothing of a state so divine, it is not because it fears vanity, for\nthat no longer exists; it is rather because what it has, while\npossessing nothing, passes all expression by its extreme simplicity and\npurity. Not that there are not many things which are but the accessories\nof this condition, and not the centre, of which it can easily speak.\nThese accessories are like the crumbs which fall from that eternal feast\nof which the soul begins to partake in time; they are but the sparks\nwhich prove the existence of a furnace of fire and flame; but it is\nimpossible to speak of the principle and the end, because only so much\ncan be imparted as God is pleased to give at the moment to be either\nwritten or spoken.\n\nIt may be asked, Is the soul unconscious of its faults, or does it\ncommit none? It does commit them, and is more conscious of them than\never, especially in the commencement of its new life. The faults\ncommitted are often more subtile and delicate than formerly. The soul\nknows them better, because its eyes are open; but it is not troubled by\nthem, and can do nothing to rid itself of them. It is true that, when it\nhas been guilty of unfaithfulness or sin, it is sensible of a certain\ncloud; but it passes over, without the soul itself doing anything to\ndispel it, or to cleanse itself; apart from which, any efforts it might\nmake would be useless, and would only serve to increase its impurity; so\nthat it would be deeply sensible that the second stain was worse than\nthe first. It is not a question of returning to God, because a _return_\npresupposes a departure; and if we are in God, we have but to abide in\nHim; just as, when there arises a little cloud in the middle region of\nair, if the wind blows, it moves the clouds, but does not dissipate\nthem; if, on the contrary, the sun shines forth, they will soon be\ndispelled. The more subtile and delicate the clouds are, the more\nquickly they will be dissipated.\n\nOh! if we had sufficient fidelity never to look at ourselves, what\nprogress might we not make! Our sights of ourselves resemble certain\nplants in the sea, which, just so long as their support lasts, prevent\nbodies from falling. If the branches are very delicate, the weight of\nthe body forces them down, and we are only delayed for a moment; but if\nwe look at ourselves willingly and long, we shall be delayed just so\nlong a time as the look may occupy, and our loss will be great indeed.\nThe defects of this state are certain light emotions or sights of self,\nwhich are born and die in a moment--certain winds of self, which pass\nover the calm sea, and cause ripples; but these faults are taken from us\nlittle by little, and continually become more delicate.\n\nThe soul, on leaving the tomb, finds itself, without knowing how,\nclothed with the _inclinations_ of Christ; not by distinct and natural\nviews of Him, but by its natural condition, finding these inclinations\njust when they are needed, without thinking of them; as a person who\npossesses a hidden treasure might find it unexpectedly in the time of\nhis need. The soul is surprised when, without having reflected on the\nmind and disposition of Christ, it finds them naturally implanted within\nit. These dispositions of Christ are lowliness, meekness, submission,\nand the other virtues which He possessed. The soul finds that all these\nare acting within it, but so easily, that they seem to have become\nnatural to it. Its treasury is in God alone, where it can draw upon it\nceaselessly in every time of need, without in any degree diminishing it.\nIt is then that it really \"puts on\" Jesus Christ (Rom. xiii. 14); and it\nis henceforth He who acts, speaks, moves in the soul, the Lord Jesus\nChrist being its moving principle. Now those around it do not\ninconvenience it; the heart is enlarged to contain them. It desires\nneither activity nor retreat, but only to be each moment what God makes\nit to be.\n\nAs in this condition the soul is capable of infinite advancement, I\nleave those who are living in it to write of it, the light not being\ngiven me for the higher degrees, and my soul not being sufficiently\nadvanced in God to see or to know them. All that I shall add is, that it\nis easy to see by the length of the road necessary to be taken in order\nto arrive at God that the end is not so soon attained as we are apt to\nimagine, and that even the most spiritual and enlightened mistake the\nconsummation of the _passive way of light and love_ for the end of this\none, when in reality it is but the commencement.\n\nI must also remark, that what I have said touching the _mind_ of Christ\ncommences as soon as we enter the way of _naked faith_. Although the\nsoul in the former degrees has no distinct sights of Christ, it has\nnevertheless a desire to be conformed to His image. It covets the cross,\nlowliness, poverty; then this desire is lost, and there remains a secret\ninclination for the same things, which continually deepens and\nsimplifies, becoming every day more intimate and more hidden. But here\nthe mind of Christ is the mind of the soul, natural and habitual to it,\nas something no longer distinct from itself, but as its own being and\nits own life; Christ exercising it without going out of the soul, and\nthe soul exercising it with Him, in Him, without going out of Him; not\nlike something distinct, which it knows, sees, attempts, practises, but\nas that which is natural to it. All the actions of life, such as\nbreathing, are done naturally, without thought, rule, or measure; and\nthey are done unconsciously by the person who does them. It is thus with\nthe mind of Christ in this degree, which continually develops, as the\nsoul is more transformed in Him, and becomes more thoroughly one with\nHim.\n\nBut are there no crosses in this condition? As the soul is strong with\nthe strength of God Himself, God lays upon it more crosses and heavier\nones than before; but they are borne divinely. Formerly the cross\ncharmed it; it was loved and cherished; now it is not thought of, but is\nsuffered to go and come; and the cross itself becomes God, like all\nother things. This does not involve the cessation of suffering, but of\nthe sorrow, the anxiety, the bitterness of suffering. It is true that\nthe crosses are no longer crosses, but God. In the former stages, the\ncross is virtue, and is exalted more and more as the condition is more\nadvanced: here the soul feels it to be God, like the rest; all that\nconstitutes the life of this soul, all that it has, moment by moment,\nbeing God to it.\n\nThe outward appearance of these persons is quite ordinary, and nothing\nunusual is observed in them except by those who are capable of\nunderstanding them.\n\nAll is seen in God, and in its true light; therefore this state is not\nsubject to deception. There are no visions, revelations, ecstasies,\nravishments, or translations. All these things do not belong to this\nstate, which is above them all. This way is simple, pure, and naked,\nseeing nothing out of God; and thus seeing all as God sees it, and with\nHis eyes.\n\n\n\n\n_PART II._\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\nMORE PARTICULAR DESCRIPTION OF SOME OF THE CHARACTERISTICS OF THE DIVINE\nRESURRECTION LIFE--TRUE LIBERTY AND THE RISEN LIFE, IN DISTINCTION FROM\nTHAT WHICH IS NOT SO, OF WHICH JOB IS AN ILLUSTRATION--COMMENCEMENT OF\nTHE APOSTOLIC LIFE--ITS FUNCTIONS AND ITS FRUITS--ON THE PRACTICE OF\nVIRTUE, PARTICULARLY OF HUMILITY--BLESSEDNESS OF BEING LOST IN\nGOD--RARITY OF PERFECT ABANDONMENT--RAYS OF GLORY ESCAPED FROM WITHIN.\n\n\nI omitted to say that this is where true liberty begins; not, as some\nimagine, a liberty which necessitates idleness; that would be\nimprisonment rather than liberty, fancying ourselves free because,\nhaving an aversion to our own works, we no longer practise them. The\nliberty of which I speak is of a different nature; it does all things\neasily which God would have done, and the more easily in proportion to\nthe duration and the painfulness of the incapacity to do them which we\nhave previously experienced. I confess I do not understand the\nresurrection state of certain Christians, who profess to have attained\nit, and who yet remain all their lives powerless and destitute; for here\nthe soul takes up a true life. The actions of a raised man are the\nactions of life; and if the soul remain lifeless, I say that it may be\ndead or buried, but not risen. A risen soul should be able to perform\nwithout difficulty all the actions which it has performed in the past,\nonly they would be done in God. Did not Lazarus, after his resurrection,\nexercise all the functions of life as formerly, and Jesus Christ after\nHis resurrection was willing to eat and to converse with men. And so of\nthose who believe themselves to be risen with Christ, and who are\nnevertheless stunted in their spiritual growth and incapable of\ndevotion,--I say, that they do not possess a resurrection life, for\nthere everything is restored to the soul a hundred-fold. There is a\nbeautiful illustration of this in the case of Job, whose history I\nconsider a mirror of the spiritual life. First God robbed him of his\nwealth, which we may consider as setting forth gifts and graces; then of\nhis children; this signifies the destruction of natural sensibilities,\nand of our own works, which are as our children and our most cherished\npossessions: then God deprived him of his health, which symbolises the\nloss of virtue; then He touched his person, rendering him an object of\nhorror and contempt. It even appears that this holy man was guilty of\nsin, and failed in resignation; he was accused by his friends of being\njustly punished for his crimes; there was no healthy part left in him.\nBut after he had been brought down to the dunghill, and reduced as it\nwere to a corpse, did not God restore everything to him, his wealth, his\nchildren, his health, and his life?\n\nIt is the same with spiritual resurrection; everything is restored, with\na wonderful power to use it without being defiled by it, clinging to it\nwithout appropriating it as before. All is done in God, and things are\nused as though they were not used. It is here that true liberty and true\nlife are found. \"If we have been planted in the likeness of Christ's\ndeath, we shall be also in the likeness of His resurrection\" (Rom. vi.\n5). Can there be freedom where there are powerlessness and restrictions?\nNo; \"If the Son shall make you free, ye shall be free indeed,\" but with\nHis liberty.\n\nThis is where true liberty begins. Nothing that God desires is difficult\nto us, or costs us anything; and if a person is called to preach, to\ninstruct, &c., he does it with a marvellous facility, without the\nnecessity of preparing a discourse, being well able to practise what\nJesus commanded His disciples, \"Take no thought how or what ye shall\nspeak: for I will give you a mouth and wisdom, which all your\nadversaries shall not be able to gainsay nor resist\" (Matt. x. 19; Luke\nxxi. 15). This is not given till after an experience of powerlessness;\nand the deeper that experience has been, the greater is the liberty. But\nit is useless to endeavour to force ourselves into this condition; for\nas God would not be the source, we should not realise the desired\nresults. It may well be said of this risen life, that all good things\nare given with it. In this state, the soul cannot practise the virtues\nas virtues; it is not even conscious of them; but all the virtues have\nbecome so habitual to it, that it practises them naturally, almost\ninstinctively. When it hears others speak of deep humiliation, it is\nsurprised to find that it experiences nothing of the kind; and if it\nsought to humble itself, it would be astonished, as though it were\nguilty of unfaithfulness, and would even find it impossible, because the\nstate of annihilation through which it has passed has placed it below\nall humiliation; for in order to be humbled, we must _be something_, and\nnothingness cannot be brought lower; its present state has placed it\nabove all humility and all virtue by its transformation into God, so\nthat its powerlessness arises both from its annihilation and its\nelevation. Those persons have nothing outwardly to distinguish them from\nothers, unless it be that they do no harm to any one; for, so far as the\nexterior is concerned, they are very ordinary, and therefore do not\nattract observation, but live in a state of quiet rest, free from all\ncare and anxiety. They experience a deep joy, arising from the absence\nof all fear, or desire, or longing, so that nothing can disturb their\nrepose or diminish their joy. David possessed this experience when he\nsaid, \"The Lord is my light and my salvation, whom shall I fear? The\nLord is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid\" (Ps. xxvii.\n1).\n\nA heart ravished with joy no longer looks at itself, nor thinks of\nitself; and its joy, though great, is not an object of contemplation.\nThe soul is in a state of ravishment and ecstasy which cause no\nuneasiness, because God has enlarged its capacity almost to infinitude.\nThose ecstasies which cause the loss of consciousness are the effect of\nhuman imperfection, and are nevertheless the admiration of men. God is,\nas it were, drawing the soul out of itself that it may be lost in Him;\nbut as it has neither sufficient purity nor strength to bear the\nprocess, it becomes necessary, either that God should cease thus to draw\nit, which involves the cessation of the ecstasy, or that nature should\nsuccumb and die, which not unfrequently happens. But in this\nresurrection life, the ecstasy lasts, not for a few hours only, but for\never, without either violence or variation, God having purified and\nstrengthened the subject of it to the extent necessary to enable it to\nbear this glorious ravishment. It seems to me that when God goes out of\nHimself, He creates an ecstasy,--but I dare not say this for fear of\nteaching an error. What I say then is, that the soul drawn out of itself\nexperiences an inward ecstasy; but a happy one, because it is only drawn\nout of itself in order that it may be drowned and lost in God, quitting\nits own imperfections and its own limited thoughts to participate in\nthose of God.\n\nO happy nothingness! where does its blessedness end? O poverty-stricken,\nweary ones! how well ye are recompensed! O unutterable happiness! O\nsoul! what a gain thou hast made in exchange for all thy losses! Couldst\nthou have believed, when thou wast lying in the dust, that what caused\nthee so much horror could have procured thee so great a happiness as\nthat which thou now possessest? If it had been told thee, thou couldst\nnot have credited it. Learn now by thine own experience how good it is\nto trust in God, and that those who put their confidence in Him shall\nnever be confounded.\n\nO abandonment! what gladness canst thou impart to the soul, and what\nprogress it might have made if it had found thee at first; from how\nmuch weariness it might have been delivered if it had known how to let\nGod work! But, alas! men are not willing to abandon themselves, and to\ntrust only in God. Even those who appear to do it, and who think\nthemselves well established in it, are only abandoned in imagination,\nand not in reality. They are willing to abandon themselves in one thing\nand not in another; they wish to compromise with God, and to place a\nlimit to what they will permit Him to do. They want to give themselves\nup, but on such and such conditions. No; this is not abandonment. An\nentire and total abandonment excepts nothing, keeps back nothing,\nneither death, nor life, nor perfection, nor salvation, nor heaven, nor\nhell. O poor souls! give yourselves up utterly in this abandonment; you\nwill get only happiness and blessing from it. Walk boldly on this stormy\nsea, relying on the word of Jesus, who has promised to take upon Himself\nthe care of all those who will lose their own life, and abandon\nthemselves to Him. But if you sink like Peter, ascribe it to the\nweakness of your faith. If we had the faith calmly, and without\nhesitation, to face all dangers, what good should we not receive! What\ndo you fear, trembling heart? You fear to lose yourself? Alas! for all\nthat you are worth, what would that matter? Yes, you will lose yourself\nif you have strength to abandon yourself to God, but you will be lost in\nHim. O happy loss! I do not know how sufficiently to repeat it. Why can\nI not persuade every one to make this abandonment? and why do men preach\nanything less? Alas! men are so blind that they regard all this as\nfolly, as something fit for women and weak minds; but for great minds it\nis too mean; they must guide themselves by their own meagre share of\nwisdom. This path is unknown to them, because they are wise and prudent\nin themselves; but it is revealed to babes, who can suffer self to be\nannihilated, and who are willing to be moved by God at His pleasure,\nleaving Him to do with them as He will, without resistance, without\nconsidering what others will say. Oh, how difficult it is to this proper\nprudence to become nothing both in its own eyes and in the sight of\nothers! Men say that their one object in life is to glorify God, while\nit is really their own glorification. But to be willing to be nothing in\nthe sight of God, to live in an entire abandonment, in utter\nself-despair, to give themselves to Him when they are the most\ndiscouraged, to leave themselves in His hands, and not to look at self\nwhen they are on the very edge of the abyss; it is this that is so rare,\nand it is this which constitutes perfect abandonment. There sometimes\noccur in this life wonderful manifestations to the natural senses, but\nthis is not usual; it is like Christ on the Mount of Transfiguration.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\nSTABILITY, EXPERIENCES, ELEVATION, EXTREME PURITY, AND PEACE OF THE SOUL\nIN THE CONDITION OF ABANDONMENT--ALL IS PURELY GOD TO IT--FOR ITS LOST\nLIBERTY IT FINDS THAT OF GOD--STATE IN WHICH ALL IS DIVINELY SURE,\nEQUAL, AND INDIFFERENT.\n\n\nThe soul having attained a divine state, is, as I have already said, an\nimmovable rock, proof against all blows or shocks, unless it be when the\nLord desires it to do something contrary to custom; then, if it does not\nyield to His first promptings, it has to suffer the pain of a constraint\nto which it can offer no resistance, and is compelled by a violence,\nwhich cannot be explained, to obey His will.\n\nIt is impossible to tell the strange proofs to which God subjects the\nhearts which are perfectly abandoned, and which offer no resistance to\nHim in anything; neither, if I could speak of them, should I be\nunderstood. All that I can say is, that He does not leave them the\nshadow of anything that could be named, either in God or out of God. And\nHe so raises them above all by the loss of all, that nothing less than\nGod Himself, either in earth or heaven, can stop them. Nothing can harm\nthem, because there is no longer anything hurtful for them, by reason of\ntheir union with God, which, in associating with sinners, contracts no\ndefilement, because of its essential purity.\n\nThis is more real than I can express: the soul participates in the\npurity of God; or rather, all natural purity having been annihilated,\nthe purity of God alone exists in its nothingness; but so truly, that\nthe heart is in perfect ignorance of evil, and powerless to commit it,\nwhich does not however prevent the possibility of its falling; but this\nseldom happens here, because the profound nothingness of the soul does\nnot leave anything that can be appropriated to itself; and it is\nappropriation alone which can cause sin, for that which no longer exists\ncannot sin.\n\nThe peace of those in this condition is so invariable and so profound,\nthat nothing either in earth or hell can disturb it for a moment. The\nsenses are still susceptible to suffering; but when they are\noverpowered by it, and cry out with the anguish, if they are questioned,\nor if they examine themselves, they will find nothing in themselves that\nsuffers: in the midst of the greatest pain, they say that they suffer\nnothing, being unable to admit that they are suffering, because of the\ndivine state of blessedness which reigns in the centre or supreme part.\n\nAnd then there is such an entire and complete separation of the two\nparts, the inferior and the superior, that they live together like\nstrangers; and the most extraordinary trouble does not interrupt the\nperfect peace, tranquillity; joy, and rest of the superior part; as the\njoy of the divine life does not prevent the suffering of the inferior.\n\nIf you wish to attribute any goodness to those who are thus transformed\nin God, they will object to it, not being able to find anything in\nthemselves that can be named, affirmed, or heard. They are in a complete\n_negation_. It is this which causes the difference of terms and\nexpressions employed by writers on this subject, who find a difficulty\nin making themselves understood, except by those whose experience\naccords with their own. Another effect of this negation is, that the\nsoul having lost all that was its own, God having substituted Himself,\nit can attribute nothing either to itself or to God; because it knows\nGod only, of whom it can say nothing. Here all is God to the soul,\nbecause it is no longer a question of seeing all _in_ God; for to see\nthings in God is to distinguish them in Him. For instance, if I enter a\nroom, I see all that is there in addition to the room itself, though it\nbe placed within it; but if all could be transformed into the room\nitself, or else were taken out of it, I should see nothing but the room\nalone. All creatures, _celestial_, _terrestrial_ or _pure\nintelligences_, disappear and fade away, and there remains only God\nHimself, as He was before the creation. The soul sees only God\neverywhere; and all is God; not by thought, sight, or light, but by an\nidentity of condition and a consummation of unity, which rendering it\nGod by participation, without its being able to see itself, prevents it\nseeing anything anywhere; it can see no created being out of the\nUncreated, the only uncreated One being all and in all.\n\nMen would condemn such a state, saying it makes us something less than\nthe meanest insect; and so it does, not by obstinacy and firmness of\npurpose, but by powerlessness to interfere with ourselves. You may ask\none in this condition, \"Who leads you to do such and such a thing? Is it\nGod who has told you to do it, or has made known to you His will\nconcerning it?\" He will reply, \"I know nothing, and I do not think of\nknowing anything: all is God and His will; and I no longer know what is\nmeant by the will of God, because that will has become natural to me.\"\n\"But why should you do this rather than that?\" \"I do not know: I let\nmyself be guided by Him who draws me.\" \"Why so?\" \"He draws me because I,\nbeing no longer anything, am carried along with God, and am drawn by Him\n_alone_. _He_ goes hither and thither: _He_ acts; and I am but an\ninstrument, which I neither see nor regard. I have no longer a separate\ninterest, because by the loss of myself I have lost all self-interest.\nNeither am I capable of giving any reason for my conduct, for I no\nlonger have a conduct: yet I act infallibly so long as I have no other\nprinciple than that of the Infallible One.\"\n\nAnd this blind abandonment is the permanent condition of the soul of\nwhich I speak; because having become one with God, it can see nothing\nbut God; for having lost all separateness, self-possession, and\ndistinction, it can no longer be abandoning itself, because, in order to\nabandon ourselves, we must do something, and have the power of disposing\nof ourselves.\n\nThe soul is in this condition \"hidden _with Christ_ in God\" (Col. iii.\n3); _mingled_ with Him, as the river of which we have spoken is mingled\nwith the sea, so that it can be separated no more. It has the ebb and\nflow of the sea, no longer by choice, will, and liberty, but by nature:\nthe immense sea having absorbed its shallow limited waters, it\nparticipates in all the movements of the sea. It is the sea which bears\nit, and yet it is not borne, since it has lost its own being; and having\nno other motion than that of the sea, it acts as the sea acts: not\nbecause it naturally possesses the same qualities, but because, having\nlost all its natural qualities, it has no others but those of the sea,\nwithout having the power of ever being anything but sea. It is not, as\nI have said, that it does not so retain its own nature, that, if God so\nwilled it, in a moment it could be separated from the sea; but He does\nnot do this. Neither does it lose the nature of the creature; and God\ncould, if He pleased, cast it off from His divine bosom: but He does not\ndo it, and the creature acts as it were divinely.\n\nBut it will be said that by this theory I deprive man of his liberty.\nNot so; he is no longer free except by an excess of liberty, because he\nhas lost freely all created liberty. He participates in the uncreated\nfreedom, which is not contracted, bounded, limited by anything; and the\nsoul's liberty is so great, so broad, that the whole earth appears to it\nas a speck, to which it is not confined. It is free to do all and to do\nnothing. There is no state or condition to which it cannot accommodate\nitself; it can do all things, and yet takes no part in them. O glorious\nstate! who can describe thee, and what hast thou to fear or to\napprehend? O Paul! thou couldst say, \"who shall separate us from the\nlove of Christ?\" \"I am persuaded,\" says the great apostle, \"that\nneither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor\nthings present, nor things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other\ncreature, shall be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in\nChrist Jesus our Lord\" (Rom. viii. 35, 38, 39). Now these words, \"I am\npersuaded,\" exclude all doubt. But what was the foundation of Paul's\nassurance? It was in the infallibility of God alone. The epistles of\nthis great apostle, this mystical teacher, are often read, but seldom\nunderstood; yet all the mystic way, its commencement, its progress, its\nend, are described by St Paul, and even the divine life; but few are\nable to understand it, and those to whom the light is given see it all\nthere clearer than the day.\n\nAh! if those who find it so difficult to leave themselves to God could\nonly experience this, they would confess that though the way might be\narduous, a single day of this life was a sufficient recompense for years\nof trouble. But by what means does God bring the soul here? By ways\naltogether opposed to natural wisdom and imagination. He builds up by\ncasting down; He gives life by killing. Oh! if I could tell what He\ndoes, and the strange means which He uses to bring us here. But silence!\nmen are not able to hear it; those who have experienced it know what it\nis. Here there is no need of place or time; all is alike, all places are\ngood; and wherever the order of God may take us, it is well, because all\nmeans are useless and infinitely surpassed: when we have reached the\nend, there is nothing left to wish for.\n\nHere all is God: God is everywhere and in everything, and therefore to\nthe soul all is the same. Its religion is God Himself, always the same,\nnever interrupted; and if sometimes God pours some stream of His glory\nupon its natural powers and sensibilities, it has no effect upon the\ncentre, which is always the same. The soul is indifferent either to\nsolitude or a crowd: it no longer looks forward to deliverance from the\nbody in order that it may be united to God. It is now not only united,\nbut transformed, changed into the Object of its love, which causes it no\nlonger to think of loving; for it loves God with His own love, and\nnaturally, though not inamissibly.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\nIN WHICH IS EXPLAINED BY A COMPARISON THAT WHICH CONCERNS PERFECT UNION\nOR DEIFORMITY--SECRETS OF GOD REVEALED TO HIS HIDDEN ONES, AND BY THEM\nTO OTHERS--PERMANENCE AND PROGRESS OF THIS CONDITION, THOUGH\nVARIABLE--NATURAL CAPACITY MUST BE LOST--THE PARTICIPATED CAPACITY OF\nGOD BY TRANSFORMATION GLOWS INFINITELY.\n\n\nA similitude occurs to my mind which appears very appropriate to this\nsubject: it is that of grain. First it is separated from the husk, which\nsets forth conversion and separation from sin: when the grain is\nseparate and pure, it must be ground (by affliction, crosses, sickness,\n&c.); when it is thus bruised and reduced to flour, there must still be\ntaken from it, not that which is impure, for this is gone, but all that\nis coarse, that is, the bran; and when there is nothing left but the\nfine flour, then it is made into bread for food. It appears as though\nthe flour were soiled, blackened, and blighted; that its delicacy and\nwhiteness were taken from it, in order that it may be made into a paste\nwhich is far less beautiful than the flour. Lastly, this paste is\nexposed to the heat of the fire. Now this is precisely what happens to\nthe soul of which I have been speaking. But after the bread is baked, it\nis fit for the mouth of the king, who not only unites it to himself by\ncontact with it, but eats it, digests it, consumes it, and annihilates\nit, that it may enter into his composition, and become part of himself.\n\nYou will observe that though the bread has been eaten by the king, which\nis the greatest honour it can receive, and is its end, yet it cannot be\nchanged into his substance unless it be annihilated by digestion, losing\nall its natural form and quality. Oh, how well this sets forth all the\nconditions of the soul; that of union being very different to that of\ntransformation, in which the soul, in order to become one with God,\ntransformed and changed into Him, must not only be eaten, but digested,\nthat, after having lost all that was its own, it may become one with God\nHimself: \"That they all may be one, as Thou, Father, art in me, and I\nin Thee; that they also may be one in us, I in them, and Thou in me,\nthat they may be made perfect in one.\" (John xvii. 21, 23). \"He that is\njoined unto the Lord is one spirit\" (1 Cor. vi. 17).\n\nThis state is very little known, therefore it is not spoken of. O state\nof life! how narrow is the way which leadeth unto thee! O love the most\npure of all, because Thou art God Himself! O love immense and\nindependent, which nothing can limit or straiten!\n\nYet these people appear quite common, as I have said, because they have\nnothing outwardly to distinguish them, unless it be an infinite freedom,\nwhich is often scandalised by those who are limited and confined within\nthemselves, to whom, as they see nothing better than they have\nthemselves, all that is different to what they possess appears evil. But\nthe holiness of these simple and innocent ones whom they despise is a\nholiness incomparably more eminent than all which they consider holy,\nbecause their own works, though performed with such strictness, have no\nmore strength than the principle in which they originate, which is\nalways the effort, though raised and ennobled, of a weak creature; but\nthose who are consummated in the divine union act in God by a principle\nof infinite strength; and thus their smallest actions are more agreeable\nto God than the multitude of heroic deeds achieved by others, which\nappear so great in the sight of men. Therefore those in this degree do\nnot seek for great things to do, resting contented with being what God\nmakes them at each moment. These do more, without doing anything, for\nthe conversion of a kingdom, than five hundred preachers who have not\nattained this condition.\n\nGod sometimes, however, permits these people to be known, though not\nfully. Many people apply to them for instruction, to whom they\ncommunicate a vivifying principle, by means of which many more are won\nto Christ; but this is done, without care or anxiety, by pure\nProvidence. If people only knew the glory which is rendered to God by\nsuch as these, who are scorned by the world, they would be astonished;\nfor it is they who render to God a glory worthy of Himself; because God,\nacting as God within them, brings into them a glory worthy of Him.\n\nOh, how many Christians, quite seraphic in appearance, are far from\nthis! But in this condition, as in all others, there are souls more or\nless divine. God hides them in His bosom, and under the veil of a most\ncommon life, so that they may be known to Him alone, though they are His\ndelight. Here the secrets of God, in Himself and in the hearts of those\nin whom He dwells, are revealed; not by word, sight, or light, but by\nthe science of God, which abides in Him; and when such people have to\nwrite or speak, they are themselves astonished to find that all flows\nfrom a divine centre, without their having been aware that they\npossessed such treasures. They find themselves in a profound science,\nwithout memory or recollection; like an inestimable treasure, which is\nunobserved until there is a necessity for its manifestation; and it is\nin the manifestation to others that they find the revelation to\nthemselves. When they write, they are astonished to find themselves\nwriting of things with which they neither knew nor believed themselves\nto be acquainted; although, as they write, they cannot doubt their\napprehension of them. It is not so with other Christians; their light\nprecedes their experience, as a person sees from afar the things which\nhe does not possess, and describes what he has seen, known, heard, &c.\nBut these are persons who hold a treasure within themselves, which they\ndo not see until after the manifestation, although it is in their\npossession.\n\nYet, after all, this does not well express the idea which I wish to\nconvey. God is in this soul; or rather the soul no longer exists; it no\nlonger acts, but God acts, and it is the instrument. God includes all\ntreasures in Himself, and manifests them through this soul to others;\nand thus, as it draws them from its centre, it becomes aware of their\npresence, though it had never reflected upon them before. I am sure that\nany who have attained this degree will enter into my meaning, and will\neasily distinguish the difference between the states I have described.\nThose whom I mentioned first, see things and enjoy them as we enjoy the\nsun; but the others have become one with the sun itself, which does not\nenjoy nor reflect upon its own light. This condition is permanent, and\nits only vicissitude, so far as its centre is concerned, is a greater\nadvancement in God: and as God is infinite, He can continually make the\nsoul more divine by enlarging its capacity, as the water of which we\nhave spoken expands in proportion as it is lost in the sea, with which\nit mingles incessantly without ever leaving it. It is the same with\nthese souls. All who are in this degree have God, but some more and some\nless fully. They are all full, but all do not possess an equal\nplenitude. A little vase when full is as truly filled as a larger one,\nyet it does not contain an equal quantity. So all these souls are filled\nwith the fulness of God, but it is according to their receptive\ncapacity, which capacity God continually enlarges. Therefore the longer\nChristians live in this divine condition, the more they expand, and\ntheir capacity becomes continually more immense, without anything being\nleft for them to do or desire; for they always possess God in His\nfulness, and He never leaves an empty corner in their hearts. As they\ngrow and enlarge, He fills them with Himself, as we see with the air. A\nsmall room is full of air, but a large one contains more. If you\ncontinually increase the size of a room, in the same proportion the air\nwill enter, infallibly though imperceptibly: and thus, without changing\nits state or disposition, and without any new sensation, the soul\nincreases in capacity and in plenitude. But this growing capacity can\nonly be received in a state of nothingness, because in any other\ncondition there is an opposition to growth.\n\nIt may be well here to explain what may appear a contradiction, when I\nsay, that the soul must be brought to nothing in order to pass into God,\nand that it must lose all that is its own; and yet I speak of capacity\nwhich it retains.\n\nThere are two capacities. One is natural to the creature, and this is\nnarrow and limited: when it is purified, it is fitted to receive the\ngifts of God, but not God Himself; because what we receive within us\nmust of necessity be less than ourselves, as that which is enclosed in a\nvase must be of less extent, though it may be of greater value, than the\nvase which contains it.\n\nBut the capacity of which I speak here is a capacity to extend and to\nlose itself more and more in God, after the soul has lost its\nappropriation, which confined it to itself; and this capacity being no\nlonger restricted nor limited, because its annihilation has deprived it\nof all form, disposes the soul to flow into God, so that it loses\nitself, and flows into Him who is beyond comprehension. The more it is\nlost in Him, the more it develops and becomes immense, participating in\nHis perfections, and being more and more transformed in Him, as water in\ncommunication with its source continually mingles with it. God, being\nour original source, has created us with a nature fit to be united,\ntransformed, and made one with Himself.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\nTHE FIRST MOVEMENTS OF THESE SOULS ARE DIVINE--THEIR SUFFERINGS ARE NOT\nBY REFLECTION, BUT BY IMPRESSION--GREATNESS OF THESE SUFFERINGS, WHICH,\nHOWEVER, DO NOT VARY THEIR REST OR CONTENTMENT BECAUSE OF THEIR\nDEIFICATION, WHICH PROGRESSES INFINITELY, BUT GRADUALLY--THEIR PEACE\nDISTURBED NEITHER BY GOOD NOR EVIL, AS GOD IS NEITHER TROUBLED NOR\nDISTURBED BY THE SIGHT OF MAN'S SIN, ALL THINGS CONTRIBUTING TO HIS\nGLORY.\n\n\nThe soul has now nothing to do but to remain as it is, and to follow\nwithout resistance all the movements of its Guide. All its movements are\nof God, and He guides it infallibly. It is not thus in the inferior\nconditions, unless it be when the soul begins to taste of the centre;\nbut then it is not so infallible, and they would be deceived who applied\nthis rule to any but the most advanced state.\n\nIt is the duty of this soul to follow blindly with reflection all the\nmovings of God. Here all reflection is banished, and the soul would\nfind a difficulty in indulging in it, even if it desired to do so. But\nas by an effort it might accomplish it, this habit should be\nscrupulously avoided; because reflection alone has the power of leading\nman to enter into himself, and of drawing him out of God. Now, I say,\nthat if man does not go out of God he will never sin; and if he sin, it\nis because he has gone out of Him, which can only be the effect of\nappropriation; and the soul can only take itself back from its\nabandonment by reflex action, which would be to it a hell similar to\nthat into which the great angel fell when, looking with complacency upon\nhimself, and preferring himself to God, he became a devil. And this\nstate would be more terrible as that which had been previously attained\nwas more advanced.\n\nIt will be objected that suffering is impossible in this condition, not\nonly as to the centre, but also as to the senses, because in order to\nsuffering there must be reflex action, and it is reflection which\nconstitutes the principal and the most painful part of suffering. All\nthis is true in a certain sense; and as it is a fact that souls far less\nadvanced than these suffer sometimes by reflection, sometimes by\nimpression, I maintain that it is also true that those in this degree\ncannot suffer otherwise than by impression. This does not imply that\nsorrow may not be unlimited, and far more intense than that which is\nreflected, as the burning of one brought into actual contact with fire\nwould be much more severe than that of one who is burned by the\nreflection of fire. It will be said, But God can teach them by means of\nreflection how to suffer. God will not make use of reflection for this\nend. He can show them in a moment what they have to suffer by a direct\nview, and not by a reflected one, as those in heaven see in God that\nwhich is in Him, and that which passes out from Him to His creatures,\nwithout looking at these things or reflecting upon them, but remaining\nabsorbed and lost in God. It is this which deceives so many\nspiritually-minded people, who imagine that nothing can be either known\nor suffered but by reflection. On the contrary, this kind of knowledge\nand suffering is very slight compared to that which is imparted in other\nways.\n\nAll such suffering as can be distinguished and known, though expressed\nin such exaggerated terms, does not equal that of those who do not know\ntheir suffering, and cannot admit that they do suffer, because of the\ngreat separation between the two parts. It is true that they suffer\nextreme pain; it is true that they suffer nothing, and that they are in\na state of perfect contentment.\n\nI believe that, if such a soul were taken to hell, it would suffer all\nthe cruel tortures of its fate in a complete contentment, because of the\nbeatitude of its transformed centre; and this is the cause of the\nindifference which they feel towards all conditions.\n\nAs I have said, this does not prevent their experiencing the extremity\nof suffering, as the extremity of suffering does not hinder their\nperfect happiness. Those who have experienced it will be well able to\nunderstand me.\n\nIt is not here as in the passive state of love. There the soul is filled\nwith a love of suffering and of the good pleasure of God: here it is a\nloss of the will in God by a state of deification, where all is God\nwithout its being recognised as such. The soul is established by its\ncondition in its sovereign, unchangeable good. It is in a perfect\nbeatitude, where nothing can cross its perfect happiness, which is\nrendered its permanent condition; for many possess it temporarily, or\nknow it temporarily, before it becomes their permanent condition. God\ngives first the knowledge of the condition, then a desire for it; then\nHe gives it confusedly and indistinctly; and lastly, He makes it a\nnormal condition, and establishes the soul in it for ever.\n\nIt will be said that when once the soul is established in this\ncondition, nothing more can be done for it. It is just the reverse:\nthere is always an infinitude to be done on the part of God, not on that\nof the creature. God does not make the life divine all at once, but by\ndegrees. Then, as I have said, He enlarges the capacity of the soul, and\ncan continually deify it more and more, God being an unfathomable depth.\n\nO Lord! \"how great is Thy goodness, which Thou hast laid up for them\nthat fear Thee!\" (Ps. xxxi. 19).\n\nIt was the sight of this state of blessedness which elicited such\nfrequent exclamations from David after he had been purified from sin.\n\nBut in conclusion, I say that these persons cannot be troubled by sin,\nbecause, although they hate it infinitely, they no longer suffer from\nit, seeing it as God sees it; and though, if it were necessary, they\nwould give their lives to prevent the commission of a single sin, if God\nso willed it, they are without action, without desire, without\ninclination, without choice, without impatience, in a state of complete\ndeath, seeing things only as God sees them, and judging them only with\nGod's judgment.\n\n\n\n\nTHE END.\n\n\n\n\nPRINTED BY BALLANTYNE AND COMPANY\nEDINBURGH AND LONDON","title":"Spiritual Torrents","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":31492}