At St Chad's Cathedral, 1848.
I SUPPOSE it has struck many persons as very remarkable that in the latter times the
strictness and severity in religion of former ages has been so much relaxed. There has
been a gradual abandonment of painful duties which were formerly enforced upon all. Time
was when all persons, to speak generally, abstained from flesh through the whole of Lent.
There have been dispensations on this point again and again, and this very year there is a
fresh one. What is the meaning of this? What are we to gather from it? This is a question
worth considering. Various answers may be given, but I shall confine myself to one of
them.
I answer that fasting is only one branch of a large and momentous duty, the subdual of
ourselves to Christ. We must surrender to Him all we have, all we are. We must keep
nothing back. We must present to Him as captive prisoners with whom He may do what He
will, our soul and body, our reason, our judgement, our affections, our imagination, our
tastes, our appetite. The great thing is to <subdue> ourselves; but as to the
particular form in which the great precept of self-conquest and self-surrender is to be
expressed, that depends on the person himself, and on the time or place. What is good for
one age or person is not good for another.
There are other instances of the same variation. For example, devotion to the saints is
a Catholic practice. It is founded on a clear Catholic doctrine, and the Catholic practice
has been the same from the beginning. It could not possibly change. Yet it is certain that
the prominent object of that devotion has varied at different times, varying now in the
case of individuals, one person having a devotion to one saint, another to another; and in
like manner it has varied in the Church at large for example, quite at first the Martyrs,
as was natural, took up this principal attention. It was natural, when their friends were
dying daily under the sword or at the stake before their eyes, to direct their devotion in
the first instance to their glorified spirits. But when a time of external peace was
granted, then the thought of the Blessed Virgin took up its abode in the hearts of the
faithful, and there was a greater devotion than before to her. And this thought of the
Blessed Virgin has grown stronger and clearer and more influential in the minds of the
Church. The devout servants of Mary were comparatively few in the first ages; now they are
many.
Again, to take another instance, the present war with evil spirits would seem to be
very different from what it was in former ages. They attack a civilized age in a more
subtle way than they attack a rude age. We read in lives of saints and others of the evil
spirit showing himself and fighting with them face to face, but now those subtle and
experienced spirits find it is more to their purpose not to show themselves, or at least
not so much. They find it their interest to let the idea of them die away from the minds
of men that, being unrecognized, they may do the more mischief. And they assault men in a
more subtle way -- not grossly, in some broad temptation, which everyone can understand,
but in some refined way they address themselves to our pride or self-importance, or love
of money, or love of ease, or love of show, or our depraved reason, and thus have really
the dominion over persons who seem at first sight to be quite superior to temptation.
Now, apply these illustrations to the case in point. From what has been said it follows
that you must not suppose that nothing is incumbent on us in the way of mortification,
though you have not to fast so strictly as formerly. It is reasonable to think that some
other duty of the same general kind may take its place; and therefore the permission
granted us in eating may be a suggestion to us to be more severe with ourselves, on the
other hand, in certain other respects.
And this anticipation is confirmed by the history of our Lord's temptation in the
wilderness. It <began>, you will observe, with an attempt on the part of the evil
one to make Him break His fast improperly. It <began>, but it did not end there. It
was but the first of three temptations, and the other two were more addressed to His mind,
not His bodily wants. One was to throw Himself down from the pinnacle, the other the offer
of all the kingdoms of the world. They were more subtle temptations. Now, I have used the
word "subtle" already, and it needs some explanation. By a subtle temptation or
a subtle sin, I mean one which it is very difficult to find out. Everyone knows what it is
to break the ten commandments, the first, the second, the third, and so on. When a thing
is directly commanded and the devil tempts us directly to break it, this is <not> a
subtle temptation but a broad and gross temptation. But there are a great many things
wrong which are not so obviously wrong. They are wrong as leading to what is wrong or the
consequence of what is wrong, or they are wrong because they are the very same thing as
what is forbidden, but dressed up and looking differently. The human mind is very
deceitful; when a thing is forbidden, a man does not like directly to do it, but he goes
to work if he can to get at the forbidden end in some way. It is like a man who has to
make for some place. First he attempts to go straight to it, but finds the way blocked up;
then he goes round about it. At first you would not think he is going in the right
direction; he sets off perhaps at a right angle, but he just makes one little bend, then
another, till at length he gets to his point. Or still more it is like a sailing vessel at
sea with the wind contrary, but, tacking first this way and then that, the mariners
contrive at length to get to their destination. This, then, is a subtle sin, when it at
first seems not to be a sin but comes round to the same point as an open, direct sin.
To take some examples. If the devil tempted one to go out into the highway and rob,
this would be an open, bold temptation. But if he tempted one to do something unfair in
the course of business, which was to one's neighbour's hurt and to one's own advantage, it
would be a more subtle temptation. The man would still take what was his neighbour's, but
his conscience would not be so much shocked. So, equivocation is a more subtle sin than
direct lying. In like manner a person who does not intoxicate himself, may eat too much.
Gluttony is a more subtle sin than drunkenness, because it does not show so much. And
again, sins of the soul are more subtle sins than sins of the body. Infidelity is a more
subtle sin than licentiousness.
Even in our Blessed Lord's case the Tempter began by addressing himself to His bodily
wants. He had fasted forty days, and afterwards was hungered. So the devil tempted Him to
eat. But when He did not consent, then he went on to more subtle temptations. He tempted
Him to spiritual pride, and he tempted Him by ambition or power. Many a man would shrink
from intemperance who yet would not see the sin of his aiming at power or of being proud
of his spiritual attainments; that is, he would confess such things were wrong, but he
would not see that he was guilty of them.
Next I observe that a civilized age is more exposed to subtle sins than a rude age.
Why? For this simple reason, because it is more fertile in excuses and evasions. It can
defend error, and hence can blind the eyes of those who have not very careful consciences.
It can make error plausible, it can make vice look like virtue. It dignifies sin by fine
names; it calls avarice proper care of one's family, or industry; it calls pride
independence; it calls ambition greatness of mind; resentment it calls proper spirit and
sense of honour, and so on.
Such is this age, and hence our self-denial must be very different from what was
necessary for a rude age. Barbarians lately converted, or warlike multitudes, of fierce
spirit and robust power -- nothing can tame them better than fasting. But we are very
different. Whether from the natural course of centuries or from our mode of living, from
the largeness of our towns or other causes, so it is that our powers are weak and we
cannot bear what our ancestors did. Then, again, what numbers there are who anyhow must
have dispensation, whether because their labour is so hard, or because they never have
enough and cannot be called on to stint themselves in Lent. These are reasons for the rule
of fasting not being so strict as once it was. And let me now say that the rule which the
Church now gives us, though indulgent, yet is strict, too. It tries a man. One meal a day
is trial to most people, even though on some days meat is allowed. It is sufficient, with
our weak frames, to be a mortification of sensuality. It serves that end for which all
fasting was instituted. On the other hand, its being so light as it is, so much lighter
than it was in former times, is a suggestion to us that there are other sins and
weaknesses to mortify in us besides gluttony and drunkenness. It is a suggestion to us,
while we strive to be pure and undefiled in our bodies, to be on our guard lest we are
unclean and sinful in our intellects, in our affections, in our wills.
When the old rude age of the world was just ended and an age which is called light and
civilization had begun -- I mean in the sixteenth century- the Providence of Almighty God
raised up two saints. One came from Florence and the other came from Spain, and they met
together in Rome. They were as unlike each other as any two men could be -unlike in their
history, in their character, in the religious institutes which ultimately, by God's
all-directing grace, they were prospered in founding. The Spaniard had been a soldier --
his history was exciting. He had been tossed about the world, and, after his conversion he
founded a company of spiritual knights or cavaliers, as they may be called, who were bound
to a sort of military service to the Holy See. The Florentine had been a saint from a boy;
perhaps he never committed a mortal sin, and he was a stationary, home saint. For sixty
years he lived in Rome and never left it. St Philip Neri is the Florentine, and St
Ignatius is the Spaniard. These two saints, so different from each other, were both great
masters in their own persons of the grace of abstinence and fasting. Their own personal
asceticism was wonderful, and yet these two great lights, though so different from each
other, and so mortified themselves, agreed in this -- not to impose bodily afflictions to
any great extent on their disciples, but mortification of the spirit, of the will, of the
affections, of the tastes, of the judgement, of the reason. They were divinely enlightened
to see that the coming age, at the beginning of which they stood, required more than
anything else not mortification of the body (though it needed that, too, of course), but
more than it, mortification of the reason and the will.
Now then, I have got at length, my brethren, to my practical conclusion. What all of us
want more than anything else, what this age wants, is that its intellect and its will
should be under a law. At present it is lawless; its will is its own law; its own reason
is the standard of all truth. It does not bow to authority, it does not submit to the law
of faith. It is wise in its own eyes and it relies on its own resources. And you, as
living in the world, are in danger of being seduced by it, and being a partner in its sin,
and so coming in at the end for its punishment. Now then, let me, in conclusion, suggest
one or two points in which you may profitably subdue your minds, which require it even
more than your bodies.
For example, in respect to curiosity. What a deal of time is lost, to say nothing else,
in this day by curiosity about things which in no ways concern us. I am not speaking
against interest in the news of the day altogether, for the course of the world must ever
be interesting to a Christian from its bearing upon the fortunes of the Church; but I
speak of vain curiosity, love of scandal, love of idle tales, curious prying into the
private history of people, curiosity about trials and offences, and personal matters, nay
often what is much worse than this, curiosity into sin. What strange, diseased curiosity
is sometimes felt about the history of murders, and of the malefactors themselves! Worse
still, it is shocking to say, but there is so much evil curiosity to know about deeds of
darkness, of which the Apostle says that it is shameful to speak. Many a person, who has
no intention of doing the like, from an evil curiosity reads what he ought not to read.
This is in one shape or other very much the sin of boys, and they suffer for it. The
knowledge of what is evil is the first step in their case to the commission of it. Hence
this is the way in which we are called upon, with this Lent we now begin, to mortify
ourselves. Let us mortify our curiosity.
Again, the desire of knowledge is in itself praiseworthy, but it may be excessive; it
may take us from higher things, it may take up too much of our time it is a vanity. The
preacher makes the distinction between profitable and unprofitable learning when he says:
"The words of the wise are like goads and nails." They excite and stimulate us
and are fixed in our memories. "But further than this, my son, inquire not. Of making
many books there is no end, and much study" (that is, poring over secular subjects)
"is affliction of the flesh. Let us one and all have an end of the discourse: fear
God and keep His commandments, for this is the whole of man." Knowledge is very well
in its place, but it is like flowers without fruit. We cannot feed on knowledge, we cannot
thrive on knowledge. Just as the leaves of the grove are very beautiful but would make a
bad meal, so we shall ever be hungry and never be satisfied if we think to take knowledge
for our food. Knowledge is no food. Religion is our only food. Here then is another
mortification. Mortify your desire of knowledge. Do not go into excess in seeking after
truths which are not religious. Again, mortify your reason. In order to try you, God puts
before you things which are difficult to believe. St Thomas's faith was tried; so is
yours. He said, "My Lord and my God". You say so, too. Bring your proud
intellect into subjection. Believe what you cannot see, what you cannot understand, what
you cannot explain, what you cannot prove, when God says it.
Lastly, bring your will into subjection. We all like our own will -- let us consult the
will of others. Numbers of persons are obliged to do this. Servants are obliged to do the
will of their masters, workmen of their employers, children of their parents, husbands of
their wives. Well, in these cases let your will go with that of those who have a right to
command you. Don't rebel against it. Sanctify what is, after all, a necessary act. Make it
in a certain sense your own, sanctify it, and get merit from it. And again, when you are
your own master, be on your guard against going too much by your own opinion. Take some
wise counsellor or director, and obey him. There are persons who cry out against such
obedience, and call it a number of bad names. They are the very persons who need it. It
would do them much good. They say that men are made mere machines, and lose the dignity of
human nature by going by the word of another. And I should like to know what they become
by going by their own will. I appeal to any candid person and ask whether he would not
confess that, on the whole, the world would be much happier, that individuals would be
much happier, if they had not a will of their own. For one person who has been hurt by
following the direction of another, a hundred persons have been ruined by going by their
own will. But this is another subject.
Source:
This text is part of the Internet
Modern History Sourcebook. The Sourcebook is a collection of public domain and
copy-permitted texts for introductory level classes in modern European and World history.
Unless otherwise indicated the specific electronic form of the document is copyright.
Permission is granted for electronic copying, distribution in print form for educational
purposes and personal use. If you do reduplicate the document, indicate the source. No
permission is granted for commercial use of the Sourcebook.
© Paul Halsall, November 1998
