Sermons from the Latins/Sermon 17
Quinquagesima Sunday.
Self-sacrifice.
"Behold, we go up to Jerusalem and the Son of man shall be scourged and put to death, but the third day He shall rise again." — Luke xviii. 31-33.
SYNOPSIS.
Ex. : Text.
I. Tribulations: 1. Israelites. 2. Our guilt greater. 3. Our worldliness.
II. Drunkenness: 1. History and guilt. 2. Sea-donkey. 3. Devil ever active.
III. Salvation: 1. One small door. 2. Circe. 3. The blacksmith.
Per. : 1. The cross. 2. Door of jubilee. 3. Foolish virgins.
SERMON.
Brethren, now is the season when we, too, start for the heavenly Jerusalem, through the penitential Lenten exercises and the arduous duties of a mission, and it is God's design that our human nature should be scourged and disciplined, — that it should die to the world, but that after these days it should rise again to a new life of grace. Our nature craves for laborless reward — a thornless rose — but do what we will, the cross comes first, and afterwards, perhaps, the crown. On that day when our first parents, wailing like lost souls, fled from their earthly paradise, tribulation became the common heritage of man. " Cursed be the earth," said the Lord, " thorns and thistles shall it bear you." To punish is God's; 'tis ours to suffer, and happily merit by suffering patiently. When Moses led the chosen people through the Red Sea, they hoped to enter, immediately, the promised land, but finding a vast desert lay between, some were for returning into Egypt and sought to turn the people from their leader. But Moses sent ambassadors to view the land of promise, who returned with messages of comfort and despair,— of comfort because it was a land flowing with milk and honey, and of despair because they found it strongly fortified, with one small entrance guarded by giant warriors. Ah, Brethren, how many, when, through the waters of Baptism or sacramental penance they have fled from the tyranny of sin, are tempted to return because before them lies the seemingly cheerless waste of a virtuous life — because the fierce enemies of their souls so guard the one small door of paradise! They easily forget Paul's words: " that all who piously wish for life in Christ must suffer persecution," and that: " it is only through many tribulations one can enter into the kingdom of God." Not one of those fainthearted Israelites was spared to see the promised land — and yet our inconstancy is guiltier than theirs. Not ten, but tens of thousands have glowingly described our heavenly inheritance. " O Lord of hosts," exclaims the Psalmist, " how lovely are Thy tabernacles." " Without Thee, O Lord," says Isaias, " nor eye can see nor heart conceive what things Thou hast prepared for those that seek Thee." St. Paul assures us that the sufferings of this time bear no proportion to the glory to come. St. John, in his Apocalypse, describes the heavenly Jerusalem, and Christ Himself by word and deed foretold its beauties and its difficult attainment. Tis not without significance that, from the Jordan, Jesus turned Him to the desert, thus teaching us that we, as He, must suffer first and so enter into our glory. The disciple is not above his Master, and Christ has said and proved that the kingdom of heaven suffers violence and by the violent only is attained. I repeat it, Brethren, with such proofs before our eyes — such object-lessons — to turn from our leader makes us guiltier than the faltering Israelites, and against us they will hereafter rise in judgment. If their disloyalty in thought and word deprived them of the sight of Palestine, how hope for heaven, we, disloyal as we are in fact — in deed? How hope for heaven, we, enjoying, as we do, the wondrous advantages of Christianity, and yet more faithless than the oppressed Israelite? Of the ambassadors sent by Moses, two returned bearing between them, on a pole, a huge cluster of grapes. Brethren, that vine-branch is Christ crucified; and he that went before, the Jews of old; and he that followed, the Christian people. We have the Saviour ever at our hand. We labor and are burdened, but He is ever there to refresh us with His graces, and our burden is lightened and our yoke sweetened by the thought that, if such is Christ crucified, what must He be in glory. We should love Christ's yoke and burden, so that, not content with bearing what men have borne of old, we should, by voluntary chastisement, increase at once our labor and reward. Whereas, alas! we rather imitate the sons of Ruben and of Gad, who were content, we are told, with lands to the East of the Jordan, and shirked the work of conquering Palestine. A generous share of this world's gifts is all we worldlings ask: paradise we leave to monks and nuns. If Christ invite us to Jerusalem to a feast or ball, we accompany Him with a will, but when He speaks of being scourged and crucified, we follow Him no longer — like the Apostles, we no longer understand the things He says. Like the rich young man in the Gospel, we would all love to be Apostles, but when we learn that it involves the giving up of all to follow Christ's blood-stained footprints, we sadly turn away. He cries to us: " Blessed are the poor and meek; blessed are they that mourn and suffer persecution for justice' sake," but we cannot, we will not understand the things that are said. There is not a single one of us, perhaps, that does not love the Lord, but we love Him at what we are pleased to call His best, we love Him as He calms the winds and the seas, or stands transfigured on Mount Thabor, or feasting with the publicans and sinners; we love Christ everywhere except Christ crucified. Like the Jews on Calvary, we stand before the Saviour and cry to Him: " Come down from the cross, only come down from the cross, and we will believe in you." Ah! it is so hard to see things as God sees them — to realize the woes in store for them who have their consolation here. Lazarus may be in Abraham's bosom and Dives buried in hell, but the rich man here is our ideal and the beggar is the beggar still. Why, so imbued are we with worldliness that if, perchance, some poor blind sinner turns to God and cries: " Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me," a dozen straightway rebuke him and bid him hold his peace. Those disloyal Israelites sought eagerly to spread disloyalty, and everywhere are found bad Christians, careless Catholics, who would in wisdom fain precede the Lord and still the voice of penitence. O Saviour! during this Lent and Mission, do so afflict those sinful men, so blind them to the world, that with softened hearts and straining ears they may listen for Thy passing footsteps and cry out: " Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me; Son of David, have mercy on me! "
Brethren, there is one sin, especially, at which the Lenten mission aims — the worship of the false god, Bacchus. Some say it is a modern vice, but no, it dates back to the Deluge. Bacchus was worshipped in the Egypt of the Ptolemies, and in ancient Greece and Rome — nations, mind you, now extinct or fallen under Turkish sway. The Roman Senate once forbade this worship — an eloquent contrast to Christian governments that foster it and license it. It is safe to say, in fact, that Bacchus gets more votaries from Christians than from Pagans. They point to us with scorn. Every Christian drunkard delivers to the Gentiles once again the Son of man to be mocked and scourged and spit upon. Ah! when we think how often and how many celebrate the feast of Bacchus — a double feast of the first class, with a vigil and an octave — have we not good cause to fear the history of Jerusalem's destruction will repeat itself? The drunkard is guiltier than the Saviour's crucifiers, for they were irresponsible fanatics, but he deliberately blinds his reason face to face with sin — " a double crime," says Aristotle, deserving double punishment," a crime once under ban of excommunication in the Church. Drunkenness is such folly that, unlike most sins, its very motive is irrational. Every sense will crave its proper object, but that object in excess destroys the sense. The eye craves light, but not the direct rays of the sun; the ear craves sound, but not the shock of an explosion; and an overindulged taste forfeits its power of enjoyment. I will not deny, a little wine may please and benefit betimes, but only as St. Paul prescribes: " a little and that, too, only when necessary for the stomach's sake and one's manifold infirmities." There is danger always, lest, from small libations, one become a too fervent worshipper of Bacchus. " Their God," says St. Paul, " is their belly." A certain fish discovered by Aristotle has its heart in its stomach, and is called the sea-donkey. The drunkard shares the characteristics of that lowly animal; his heart is where his treasure is: he is lazy, stupid, lustful, and open only to one argument— a club. He lacks the higher qualities of the brute — a healthy appetite for water and the power of judging when he has enough. Talk to him of God and his soul — of the Mission or of Lent, and notwithstanding Nature has given Him generous ears, lie cannot hear, he cannot understand. But talk to him of banquet halls and liberal potations, and lo, with ears erect, he is eager to begin. The Holy Ghost and Christ, the Doctors of his soul, denounce the drug as deadly, and though the bottle bear the death's-head label, he will drink it, come what may. Our life is warfare, and, says St. Paul, " whoever striveth for the mastery, refraineth him from all such noxious things, that weaken us or stupefy." Our adversary, the devil, knows no rest and it behooves us, lest we be surprised, to be sober and to watch. Drunkenness led to Noe's shame arid his curses on his family; drunkenness caused Lot's crime and Samson's downfall; it led the Israelites to adore the golden calf, and through it Holofernes lost his head. " Drunkenness," says St. Basil, " is the miner of reason, the waster of our body's strength, it is premature old age and in a little while it is death."
Brethren, there is but one small door to heaven and many seek to enter and are not able. They are larger than the door, puffed up with pride and worldliness, for that small door is Jesus crucified. " I am the door," He says, " and whoso enters by Me shall be saved." History tells of men who sought to open other doors — Mohammed did, and Luther, and modern sinners do, but ah! they lead elsewhere — to hell. There is one small door, too narrow for the rich and corpulent, but wide enough for those who have become as little ones and mortify themselves for love of Christ. Old Homer tells of the enchantress Circe who, by her magic, turned men into beasts, but certain herbs, whose flowers are whitest but whose roots the bitterest, rendered Ulysses proof against her charms. Brethren, such another herb is voluntary penance, bitter to the taste but bearing rarest flowers and fruits and fortifying us against Bacchante's incantations, who fain would make us beasts. In fact, the word tribulation comes from tribular, a thistle, because it pricks our feet and makes us careful how and where we walk. But that is only one of all its heavenly effects, bitter though it be. It is the gall wherewith the young Tobias smeared his father's eyes, for it enables our blinded eyes to shed the scales of sin and see aright. It is the absinthe on the breast of Nature that weans us from this world and concentrates our hearts on God. I remember, when a boy, I wondered why the village blacksmith doused the fire with water to heat the metal quickly. In Scripture figures!, oil is comfort, and tribulation, water; and God afflicts us to prevent the heat of our affections going out to worldly things; to drive it inward and so inflame us with His love.
Brethren, there is to heaven but one small door, so low, indeed, that whoso enters in must bend low down until his body takes almost the form of a cross. Small chance is there for bloated, tipsy revellers to scramble through. Many, too, that seek to enter are not able, since they come too late and find it closed. In great St. Peter's, Rome, there is a little door where one may pass in time of jubilee, but after that not even prince or pontiff is suffered more to enter. Brethren, this Lent, this Mission, is our time of jubilee. Let us beware lest we neglect our final opportunity. Let us beware lest on some future day we stand before the door of jubilee and knocking find it closed, and saying, " Open, O Lord, to us," we hear Him answering, " Amen, I know you not." Let us rather so prepare that knocking He may open to us and say: " Come, ye blessed of My Father, possess the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world."