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You will suppose that all there is to be seen in
this Mansion has been described already, but there is
much more to come yet, for, as I said, some receive
more and some less. With regard to the nature of
union, I do not think I can say any thing further;
but when the soul to which God grants these favours
prepares itself for them, there are many things to be
said concerning what the Lord works in it. Some of
these I shall say now, and I shall describe that
soul's state. In order the better to explain this, I
will make use of a comparison which is suitable for
the purpose; and which will also show us how,
although this work is performed by the Lord, and we
can do nothing to make His Majesty grant us this
favour, we can do a great deal to prepare ourselves
for it.
You will have heard of the wonderful way in which
silk is made -- a way which no one could invent but
God -- and how it comes from a kind of seed which
looks like tiny peppercorns[129] (I have never seen
this, but only heard of it, so if it is incorrect in
any way the Fault is not mine). When the warm weather
comes, and the mulberry-trees begin to show leaf,
this seed starts to take life; until it has this
sustenance, on which it feeds, it is as dead. The
silkworms feed on the mulberry-leaves until they are
full-grown, when people put down twigs, upon which,
with their tiny mouths, they start spinning silk,
making themselves very tight little cocoons, in which
they bury themselves. Then, finally, the worm, which
was large and ugly, comes right out of the cocoon a
beautiful white butterfly.
Now if no one had ever seen this, and we were only
told about it as a story of past ages, who would
believe it? And what arguments could we find to
support the belief that a thing as devoid of reason
as a worm or a bee could be diligent enough to work
so industriously for our advantage, and that in such
an enterprise the poor little worm would lose its
life? This alone, sisters, even if I tell you no
more, is sufficient for a brief meditation, for it
will enable you to reflect upon the wonders and the
wisdom of our God. What, then, would it be if we knew
the properties of everything? It will be a great help
to us if we occupy ourselves in thinking of these
wonderful things and rejoice in being the brides of
so wise and powerful a King.
But to return to what I was saying. The silkworm is
like the soul which takes life when, through the heat
which comes from the Holy Spirit, it begins to
utilize the general help which God gives to us all,
and to make use of the remedies which He left in His
Church -- such as frequent confessions, good books
and sermons, for these are the remedies for a soul
dead in negligences and sins and frequently plunged
into temptation. The soul begins to live and
nourishes itself on this food, and on good
meditations, until it is full grown -- and this is
what concerns me now: the rest is of little
importance.
When it is full-grown, then, as I wrote at the
beginning, it starts to spin its silk and to build
the house in which it is to die. This house may be
understood here to mean Christ. I think I read or
heard somewhere that our life is hid in Christ, or in
God (for that is the same thing), or that our life is
Christ.[130] (The exact form of this[131] is little
to my purpose.)
Here, then, daughters, you see what we can do, with
God's favour. May His Majesty Himself be our Mansion
as He is in this Prayer of Union which, as it were,
we ourselves spin. When I say He will be our Mansion,
and we can construct it for ourselves and hide
ourselves in it, I seem to be suggesting that we can
subtract from God, or add to Him. But of course we
cannot possibly do that! We can neither subtract
from, nor add to, God, but we can subtract from, and
add to, ourselves, just as these little silkworms do.
And, before we have finished doing all that we can in
that respect, God will take this tiny achievement of
ours, which is nothing at all, unite it with His
greatness and give it such worth that its reward will
be the Lord Himself. And as it is He Whom it has cost
the most, so His Majesty will unite our small trials
with the great trials which He suffered, and make
both of them into one.
On, then, my daughters! Let us hasten to perform this
task and spin this cocoon. Let us renounce our
self-love and self-will, and our attachment to
earthly things. Let us practise penance, prayer,
mortification, obedience, and all the other good
works that you know of. Let us do what we have been
taught; and we have been instructed about what our
duty is. Let the silkworm die -- let it die, as in
fact it does when it has completed the work which it
was created to do. Then we shall see God and shall
ourselves be as completely hidden in His greatness as
is this little worm in its cocoon. Note that, when I
speak of seeing God, I am referring to the way in
which, as I have said, He allows Himself to be
apprehended in this kind of union.
And now let us see what becomes of this silkworm, for
all that I have been saying about it is leading up to
this. When it is in this state of prayer, and quite
dead to the world, it comes out a little white
butterfly. Oh, greatness of God, that a soul should
come out like this after being hidden in the
greatness of God, and closely united with Him, for so
short a time -- never, I think, for as long as half
an hour! I tell you truly, the very soul does not
know itself. For think of the difference between an
ugly worm and a white butterfly; it is just the same
here.
The soul cannot think how it can have merited such
a blessing -- whence such a blessing could have come
to it, I meant to say, for it knows quite well that
it has not merited it at all.[132] It finds itself so
anxious to praise the Lord that it would gladly be
consumed and die a thousand deaths for His sake. Then
it finds itself longing to suffer great trials and
unable to do otherwise. It has the most vehement
desires for penance, for solitude, and for all to
know God. And hence, when it sees God being offended,
it becomes greatly distressed.
In the following Mansion we shall treat of these
things further and in detail, for, although the
experiences of this Mansion and of the next are
almost identical, their effects come to have much
greater power; for, as I have said, if after God
comes to a soul here on earth it strives to progress
still more, it will experience great things.
To see, then, the restlessness of this little
butterfly -- though it has never been quieter or more
at rest in its life! Here is something to praise God
for -- namely, that it knows not where to settle and
make its abode. By comparison with the abode it has
had, everything it sees on earth leaves it
dissatisfied, especially when God has again and again
given it this wine which almost every time has
brought it some new blessing.
It sets no store by the things it did when it was
a worm -- that is, by its gradual weaving of the
cocoon. It has wings now: how can it be content to
crawl along slowly when it is able to fly? All that
it can do for God seems to it slight by comparison
with its desires. It even attaches little importance
to what the saints endured, knowing by experience how
the Lord helps and transforms a soul, so that it
seems no longer to be itself, or even its own
likeness. For the weakness which it used to think it
had when it came to doing penance is now turned into
strength. It is no longer bound by ties of
relationship, friendship or property. Previously all
its acts of will and resolutions and desires were
powerless to loosen these and seemed only to bind
them the more firmly; now it is grieved at having
even to fulfil its obligations in these respects lest
these should cause it to sin against God. Everything
wearies it, because it has proved that it can find no
true rest in the creatures.
I seem to be enlarging on this subject and there is
much more that I could say: anyone to whom God has
granted this favour will realize that I have said
very little. It is not surprising, then, that, as
this little butterfly feels a stranger to things of
the earth, it should be seeking a new resting-place.
But where will the poor little creature go? It cannot
return to the place it came from, for, as has been
said, however hard we try, it is not in our power to
do that until God is pleased once again to grant us
this favour. Ah, Lord! What trials begin afresh for
this soul! Who would think such a thing possible
after it had received so signal a favour? But, after
all,[133] we must bear crosses in one way or another
for as long as we live. And if anyone told me that
after reaching this state he had enjoyed continual
rest and joy, I should say that he had not reached it
at all, but that if he had got as far as the previous
Mansion, he might possibly have experienced some kind
of consolation the effect of which was enhanced by
physical weakness, and perhaps even by the devil, who
gives peace to the soul in order later to wage a far
severer war upon it.
I do not mean that those who attain to this state
have no peace: they do have it, and to a very high
degree, for even their trials are of such sublimity
and come from so noble a source that, severe though
they are, they bring peace and contentment. The very
discontent caused by the things of the world arouses
a desire to leave it, so grievous that any
alleviation it finds can only be in the thought that
its life in this exile is God's will. And even this
is insufficient to comfort it, for, despite all it
has gained, the soul is not wholly resigned to the
will of God, as we shall see later.
It does not fail to act in conformity with God's
will, but it does so with many tears and with great
sorrow at being unable to do more because it has been
given no more capacity. Whenever it engages in
prayer, this is a grief to it. To some extent,
perhaps, it is a result of the great grief caused by
seeing how often God is offended, and how little
esteemed, in this world, and by considering how many
souls are lost, both of heretics and of Moors;
although its greatest grief is over the loss of
Christian souls, many of whom, it fears, are
condemned, though so great is God's mercy that,
however evil their lives have been, they can amend
them and be saved.
Oh, the greatness of God! Only a few years since --
perhaps only a few days -- this soul was thinking of
nothing but itself. Who has plunged it into such
grievous anxieties? Even if we tried to meditate for
years on end, we could not feel this as keenly as the
soul does now. God help me! If I were able to spend
many days and years in trying to realize how great a
sin it is to offend God, and in reflecting that those
who are damned are His children, and my brothers and
sisters, and in meditating upon the dangers in which
we live, and in thinking how good it would be for us
to depart from this miserable life, would all that
suffice? No, daughters; the grief I am referring to
is not like that caused by these kinds of meditation.
That grief we could easily achieve, with the Lord's
help, by thinking a great deal about those things;
but it does not reach to the depths of our being, as
does this grief, which, without any effort on the
soul's part, and sometimes against its will, seems to
tear it to pieces and grind it to powder. What, then,
is this grief? Whence does it come? I will tell you.
Have you not heard concerning the Bride (I said this
a little while back,[134] though not with reference
to the same matter) that God put her in the cellar of
wine and ordained charity in her? Well, that is the
position here. That soul has now delivered itself
into His hands and His great love has so completely
subdued it that it neither knows nor desires anything
save that God shall do with it what He wills. Never,
I think, will God grant this favour save to the soul
which He takes for His very own. His will is that,
without understanding how, the soul shall go thence
sealed with His seal. In reality, the soul in that
state does no more than the wax when a seal is
impressed upon it -- the wax does not impress itself;
it is only prepared for the impress: that is, it is
soft -- and it does not even soften itself so as to
be prepared; it merely remains quiet and consenting.
Oh, goodness of God, that all this should be done at
Thy cost! Thou dost require only our wills and dost
ask that Thy wax may offer no impediment.
Here, then, sisters, you see what our God does to the
soul in this state so that it may know itself to be
His. He gives it something of His own, which is what
His Son had in this life: He can grant us no favour
greater than that. Who could have wanted to depart
from this life more than His Son did? As, indeed, His
Majesty said at the Last Supper: "With desire have I
desired."[135] "Did not the painful death that Thou
wert to die present itself to Thee, O Lord, as
something grievous and terrible?" "No, because My
great love and My desire that souls shall be saved
transcend these pains beyond all comparison and the
very terrible things that I have suffered since I
lived in the world, and still suffer, are such that
by comparison with them these are nothing."
I have often thought about this: I know that the
torment which a certain person of my
acquaintance[136] has suffered, and suffers still, at
seeing the Lord offended, is so intolerable that she
would far sooner die than suffer it. And, I
reflected, if a soul which has so very little charity
by comparison with Christ's that it might be said to
be almost nothing beside His felt this torment to be
so intolerable, what must the feelings of Our Lord
Jesus Christ have been, and what a life must He have
lived, if He saw everything and was continually
witnessing the great offenses which were being
committed against His Father?
I think this must certainly have caused Him much
greater grief than the pains of His most sacred
Passion; for there He could see the end of His
trials; and that sight, together with the
satisfaction of seeing our redemption achieved
through His death, and of proving what love He had
for His Father by suffering so much for Him, would
alleviate His pains, just as, when those who have
great strength of love perform great penances, they
hardly feel them, and would like to do more and more,
and everything that they do seems very small to them.
What, then, would His Majesty feel when He found
Himself able to prove so amply to His Father how
completely He was fulfilling the obligation of
obedience to Him and showing His love for His
neighbour?
Oh, the great delight of suffering in doing the
will of God! But the constant sight of so many
offences committed against His Majesty and so many
souls going to hell must, I think, have been so
painful to Him that, had He not been more than man,
one day of that grief would have sufficed to put an
end to any number of lives that He might have had,
let alone to one.
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