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Any one of the motives we have just enumerated should
be sufficient to induce man to give himself wholly to
the service of a Master to whom he is bound by so
many ties of gratitude. But as the generality of men
are more influenced by personal interest than by
motives of justice, we will here make known the
inestimable advantages of virtue in this life and the
next. We will first speak of the greatest among
them: the glory which is the reward of virtue, and
the terrible punishment from which it delivers us.
These two are the principal oars which propel us in
our voyage to eternity. For this reason St. Francis
and our holy Father St. Dominic, both having been
animated by the same spirit, commanded in their rules
the preachers of their orders to make vice and
virtue, reward and punishment, the only subjects of
their sermons, in order to instruct men in the
precepts of the Christian life and to inspire them
with courage to put them into practice. Moreover, it
is a common principle among philosophers that reward
and punishment are the most powerful motives for good
with the mass of mankind. Such, alas, is our misery,
that we are not content with virtue alone; it must be
accompanied with the fear of punishment or the hope
of reward.
But as there is no reward or punishment so worthy of
our consideration as those that never end, we will
treat of eternal glory and eternal misery, together
with death and judgment, which precede them. These
are the most powerful incentives to love virtue and
hate vice, for we are told in Scripture, "In all thy
works remember thy last end, and thou shalt never
sin." (Ecclus. 7:40). The first of these is death.
Let us, then, consider it, for it is a truth which of
all others makes the most impression upon us, from
the fact that it is so undisputed and so frequently
brought before our minds. Especially do we realize
this when we reflect on the particular judgment which
each one must undergo as soon as his soul is
separated from his body. The sentence then passed
will be final; it will endure for all eternity.
Since, then, death is such a powerful motive to turn
us from sin, let us bring this terrible hour more
vividly before us.
Bear in mind, therefore, that you are a man and a
Christian. As man, you must die; as a Christian, you
must, immediately after death, render an account of
your life. The first truth is manifest in our daily
experience, and the second our faith will not permit
us to doubt. No one, whether king or pope, is exempt
from this terrible law. A day will come of which you
will not see the night, or a night which for you,
will have no morning. A time will come, and you know
not whether it be this present day or tomorrow, when
you who are now reading my words, in perfect health
and in full possession of all your faculties, will
find yourself stretched upon a bed of death, a
lighted taper in your hand, awaiting the sentence
pronounced against mankind � a sentence which admits
neither delay nor appeal. Consider, also, how
uncertain is the hour of death. It generally comes
when man is most forgetful of eternal things,
overturning his plans for an earthly future, and
opening before him the appalling vision of eternity.
Therefore, the Holy Scriptures tell us that it comes
as a thief in the night; that is, when men are
plunged in sleep and least apprehensive of danger.
The forerunner of death is usually a grave illness
with its attendant weariness, sufferings, and pains,
which weaken the powers of the body and give entrance
to the king of terrors. Just as an enemy who wishes
to take a citadel destroys the outer fortifications,
so death with its vanguard of sickness breaks down
the strength of the body, and, as it is about to fall
before the repeated assaults of its enemy, the soul,
no longer able to resist, takes its flight from the
ruins. Who can express the anguish of the moment
when the severity of the sickness, or the declaration
of the physician, undeceives us and robs us of all
hope of life? The parting from all we hold dear then
begins to rise before us. Wife, children, friends,
relations, honors, riches are fast passing, with
life, from our feeble grasp. Then follow the terrible
symptoms which precede the awful hour. The coldness
of death seizes our members; the countenance becomes
deathly pale; the tongue refuses to perform its duty;
all the senses, in fine, are in confusion and
disorder in the precipitation of this supreme
departure. Strange resemblance between the beginning and the end
of our pilgrimage! The mystery of suffering seems to
unite them both. The terrified soul then beholds the
approach of that agony which is to terminate its
temporal existence. Before the distracted mind rise
the horror and darkness of the grave, where the
pampered body will become the prey of worms. But
keener still is the suffering which the soul endures
from the suspense and uncertainty of what her fate
will be when she leaves her earthly habitation. You
will imagine that you are in the presence of your
Sovereign Judge, and that your sins rise up against
you to accuse you and complete your condemnation. The
heinousness of the evil you committed with so much
indifference will then be manifest to you. You will
curse a thousand times the day you sinned, and the
shameful pleasure which was the cause of your ruin.
You will be an object of astonishment and wonder to
yourself. "How could I," you will ask, "for love of
the foolish things upon which I set my heart, brave
the torments which I now behold?" The guilty
pleasures will have long since passed away, but their
terrible and irrevocable punishment will continue to
stare you in the face. Side by side with this
appalling eternity of misery you will see the
unspeakable and everlasting happiness which you have
sacrificed for vanities, transitory and sinful
pleasures. Everything you will behold will be
calculated to fill you with terror and remorse. Life
will have been spent; there will be no time for
repentance. Nor will the friends you have loved or
the idols you have adored be able to help you. On the
contrary, that which you have loved during life will
be the cause of your most poignant anguish at the
hour of death. What, then, will be your thoughts at
this supreme hour? To whom will you have recourse?
Whither will you turn? To go forward will be anguish.
To go back impossible. To continue as you are will
not be permitted. "It shall come to pass in that
day, saith the Lord God , that the sun shall go down
at midday, and I will make the earth dark in the
daylight." (Amos. 8:9). Terrible words! Yes, the sun
shall go down at midday; for the sinner at the sight
of his sins, and at the approach of God's justice,
already believes himself abandoned by the Divine
Mercy; and though life still remains, with its
opportunities for penance and reconciliation, yet
fear too often drives hope from the heart, and in
this miserable state he breathes his last sigh in the
darkness of despair. Most powerful is this passion
of fear. It magnifies trifles and makes remote evils
appear as if present. Now, since this is true of a
slight apprehension, what will be the effect of the
terror inspired by a danger so great and imminent?
The sinner, though still in life and surrounded by
his friends, imagines himself already a prey to the
torments of the reprobate. His soul is rent at the
sight of the possessions he must leave, while he
increases his misery by envying the lot of those from
whom he is about to be separated. Yes, the sun sets
for him at midday, for, turn his eyes where he will,
all is darkness. No ray of light or hope illumines
his horizon. If he thinks of God's mercy, he feels
that he has no claim upon it. If he thinks of God's
justice, it is only to tremble for its execution. He
feels that his day is past and that God's time has
come. If he looks back upon his life, a thousand
accusing voices sound in his ears. If he turns to the
present, he finds himself stretched upon a bed of
death. If he looks to the future, he there beholds
his Supreme Judge prepared to condemn him. How can he
free himself from so many miseries and terrors?
If, then, the circumstances which precede our
departure are so terrible, what will be those which
follow? If such be the vigil of this great day, what
will be the day itself? Man's eyes are no sooner
closed in death than he appears before the judgment
seat of God to render an account of every thought,
every word, every action of his life.
If you would learn the severity and rigor of this
judgment, ask not men who live according to the
spirit of this world, for, like the Egyptians of old,
they are plunged in darkness and are the sport of the
most fatal errors. Seek, rather, those who are
enlightened by the true Sun of Justice. Ask the
saints, and they will tell you, more by their actions
than by their words, how terrible is the account we
are to render to God. David was a just man, yet his
prayer was; "Enter not, O Lord, into judgment with
thy servant, for in thy sight no man living shall be
justified." (Ps. 142:2). Arsenius was also a great
saint, and yet at his death he was seized with such
terror at the thought of God's judgment that his
disciples, who knew the sanctity of his life, were
much astonished, and said to him, `Father, why should
you now fear?" To this he replied, "My children, this
is no new fear which is upon me. It is one that I
have known and felt during my whole life." It is said
that St. Agatho at the hour of death experienced like
terror, and having been asked why he, who had led
such a perfect life, should fear, he simply answered,
"The judgments of God are different from the
judgments of men." St. John Climacus gives a not
less striking example of a holy monk, which is so
remarkable that I shall give it as nearly as possible
in the saint's own words: "A religious named Stephen,
who lived in the same desert with us, had a great
desire to embrace a more solitary life. He had
already acquired a reputation for sanctity, having
been favored with the gift of tears and fasting and
other privileges attached to the most eminent
virtues. Having obtained his superior's permission,
he built a cell at the foot of Mount Horeb, where
Elias was honored by his marvelous vision of God.
Though his life here was one of great sanctity, yet,
impelled by desire for still harder labors and
greater perfection, he withdrew to a place called
Siden, inhabited by holy anchorites who lived in the
most complete solitude. Here he continued for some
years in the practice of the severest penance, cut
off from all human intercourse or comfort, for his
hermitage was seventy miles from any human
habitation. As his life approached its term he felt a
desire to return to his first cell at the foot of
Mount Horeb, where dwelt two disciples, natives of
Palestine. Shortly after his arrival he was attacked
by a fatal illness. The day before his death he fell
into a state resembling ecstasy. He gazed first at
one side of his bed, then at the other, and, as if
engaged in conversation with invisible beings who
were demanding an account of his life, was heard
crying out in a loud voice. Sometimes he would say,
'It is true, I confess it; but I have fasted many
years in expiation of that sin'; or, 'It is false;
that offence cannot be laid to my charge'; or again,
'Yes, but I have labored for the good of my neighbor
so many years in atonement thereof.' To other
accusations he was heard to say, 'Alas! I cannot deny
it; I can only cast myself upon God's mercy.'
"Surely this was a thrilling spectacle," continues
the saint. "I cannot describe the terror with which
we assisted at this invisible judgment. O my God!
What will be my fate, if this faithful servant, whose
life was one long penance, knew not how to answer
some of the accusations brought against him? If after
forty years of retirement and solitude, if after
having received the gift of tears, and such command
over nature that, as I am credibly informed, he fed
with his own hand a wild leopard which visited him,
the saintly monk so trembled for judgment, and,
dying, left us in uncertainty as to his fate, what
have we not to fear who lead careless and indifferent
lives?" If you ask me the cause of this terror
with which the saints are filled, I will let St.
Gregory answer for me: "Men aspiring to perfection,"
says the holy Doctor, "constantly reflect upon the
justice of the Sovereign Judge who is to pronounce
sentence upon them in the dread hour which terminates
their earthly career. They unceasingly examine
themselves upon the account they are to render before
this supreme tribunal. And if happily they find
themselves innocent of sinful actions, they still ask
with fear whether they are equally free from the
guilt of sinful thoughts. For if it be comparatively
easy to resist sinful actions, it is more difficult
to conquer in the war which we must wage against evil
thoughts. And though the fear of God's judgment is
always before them, yet it is redoubled at the hour
of death, when they are about to appear before His
inflexible tribunal. At this moment the mind is freed
from the disturbances of the flesh; earthly desires
and delusive dreams fade from the imagination; the
things of this world vanish at the portals of another
life; and the dying man sees but God and himself. If
he recalls no good which he has omitted, yet he feels
that he cannot trust himself to give a correct and
impartial judgment. Hence his fear and terror of the
rigorous account to be exacted of him." (Moral.,
24:16, 17). Do not these words of the great Doctor
prove that this last hour and this supreme tribunal
are more to be dreaded than worldly men imagine? If
just men tremble at this hour, what must be the
terror of those who make no preparation for it, whose
lives are spent in the pursuit of vanities and in
contempt of God's commandments? If the cedar of
Lebanon be thus shaken, how can the reed of the
wilderness stand? "And," as St. Peter tells us, "if
the just man shall scarcely be saved, where shall the
ungodly and the sinner appear?" (1Pet. 4:18).
Reflect, then, on the sentiments that will be yours
when you will stand before the tribunal of God, with
no defenders but your good works, with no companion
but your own conscience. And if then you will not be
able to satisfy your Judge, who will give expression
to the bitterness of your anguish? For the question
at issue is not a fleeting temporal life, but an
eternity of happiness or an eternity of misery.
Whither will you turn? What protection will you seek?
Your tears will be powerless to soften your Judge;
the time for repentance will be past. Little will
honors, dignities, and wealth avail you, for
"Riches," says the Wise Man, "shall not profit in the
day of vengeance, but justice shall deliver a man
from death." (Prov. 11:4). The unhappy soul can
only exclaim with the prophet, "The sorrows of death
have encompassed me, and the perils of hell have
found me." (Ps. 114:3). Unhappy wretch! How swiftly
this hour has come upon me! What does it now avail me
that I had friends, or honors, or dignities or
wealth? All that I can now claim is a few feet of
earth and a windings-sheet. My wealth which I hoarded
I must leave to be squandered by others, while the
sins of injustice which I here committed will pursue
me into the next world and there condemn me to
eternal torments. Of all my guilty pleasures the
sting of remorse alone remains. Why have I made no
preparation for this hour? Why was I deaf to the
salutary warnings I received? "Why have I hated
instruction, and my heart consented not to reproofs,
and have not heard the voice of them that taught me,
and have not inclined my ear to my masters?" (Prov.
5:12-13). To preserve you, my dear Christian, from
these vain regrets, I beg you to gather from what has
been said three considerations, and to keep them
continually before your mind. The first is the
terrible remorse which your sins will awaken in you
at the hour of death; the second is how ardently,
though how vainly, you will wish that you had
faithfully served God during life; and the third is
how willingly you would accept the most rigorous
penance, were you given time for repentance.
Acting on this advice, you will now begin to regulate
your life according as you will then wish to have
done.
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