farther: that they encroach upon limits which they formerly respected: that loose conversations find them more indulgent, evil-speaking more favourable, pleasure less guarded, and the world more anxious for it; that they bring into it a heart already half-gained; that they are sensible of their losses, but feel nothing to repair them: — in a word, that God is almost withdrawn from them, and there is no longer any barrier but their own weakness, between guilt and them. Behold the situation in which you are, and from that judge of the one in which you will soon be.
I know that this state of relaxation and infidelity troubles and disturbs you; that you say every day, that nothing can bestow greater happiness than a detachment from every thing worldly; and that you envy the destiny of those Christians who give themselves up to God without reserve, and no longer keep any terms with the world. But you are deceived: it is not the faith or the fervour of these faithful Christians you envy; you only covet their lot, that happiness and peace which they enjoy in the service of their Master, and which you are incapable of partaking; you only envy them that insensibility and happy indifference to which they have attained for the world and every thing it esteems, your love for which occasions all your troubles, remorses, and secret anguish: but you envy them not the sacrifices they were under the necessity of making, to arrive at their present state of tranquillity; you envy them not the trials they have undergone, in order to merit the precious gift of a lively and fervent faith; you envy the happiness of their state, but you would not wish it to cost you the illusion and sensuality of your own.
The second consequence I draw from the refusal of the grace of protection to the lukewarm Christian, is, that the yoke of our Saviour, to him, becomes burdensome, hard, and insupportable. For, my brethren, by the irregularity of our nature, having lost all taste for righteousness and truth, which, in a state of innocence, formed the happiness of man, we no longer have any feeling or desire but for objects which gratify the senses and passions. The duties of the law of God, which recall us from the senses to the spirit, and make us sacrifice the present impressions of pleasure to the hope of future promises: — these duties, I say, presently fatigue our weakness, because they are continual efforts we make against ourselves. It requires the unction of grace, therefore, to soften the yoke; it is necessary that grace spread secret consolations over its bitterness, and change the sadness of duty into a holy and sensible joy. Now, the lukewarm soul, deprived of this unction, feels only the weight of the yoke, without the consolations which soften it. In this manner, all the duties of piety and religion become insipid to you; works of salvation become wearisome; your conscience, restless and embarrassed by your relaxations and infidelities, of which you cannot justify the innocence, no longer allows you to enjoy either peace or happiness in the service of God. You feel all the weight of the duties to which some remains of faith, and love of ease, hinder you from being unfaithful; but
