CHAPTER IX.

FOURTH DEGREE OF THE PASSIVE WAY OF FAITH, WHICH IS THE COMMENCEMENT OF THE DIVINE LIFE—TRANSITION FROM THE HUMAN STATE TO THE DIVINE, AND TO THE RESURRECTION OF THE SOUL IN GOD—DESCRIPTION OF THIS LIFE AND OF ITS PROPERTIES, GRADATIONS, IDENTITY, INDIFFERENCE—SENTIMENTS OF THE SOUL—ITS EXISTENCE IN GOD—ITS PEACE, ETC.—POWER AND VIEWS WITH REGARD TO OTHERS, TO ITSELF, TO ITS CONDITION, TO ITS ACTIONS, TO ITS WORDS, TO ITS FAULTS—MIND OF CHRIST—VARIOUS OBSERVATIONS.

When the torrent begins to lose itself in the sea, it can easily be distinguished. Its movement is perceptible, until at length it gradually loses all form of its own, to take that of the sea. So the soul, leaving this degree, and beginning to lose itself, yet retains something of its own; but in a short time it loses all that it had peculiar to itself. The corpse which has been reduced to ashes is still dust and ashes; but if another person were to swallow those ashes, they would no 194 longer have an identity, but would form part of the person who had taken them. The soul hitherto, though dead and buried, has retained its own being; it is only in this degree that it is really taken out of itself.

All that has taken place up to this point has been in the individual capacity of the creature; but here the creature is taken out of his own capacity to receive an infinite capacity in God Himself. And as the torrent, when it enters the sea, loses its own being in such a way that it retains nothing of it, and takes that of the sea, or rather is taken out of itself to be lost in the sea; so this soul loses the human in order that it may lose itself in the divine, which becomes its being and its subsistence, not essentially, but mystically. Then this torrent possesses all the treasures of the sea, and is as glorious as it was formerly poor and miserable.

It is in the tomb that the soul begins to resume life, and the light enters insensibly. Then it can be truly said that “The people which sat in darkness saw great light; and to them which sat in the region and shadow of death light is sprung 195 up” (Matt. iv. 16). There is a beautiful figure of this resurrection in Ezekiel (chap. xxxvii.), where the dry bones gradually assume life: and then there is that other passage, “The hour is coming, and now is, when the dead shall hear the voice of the Son of God; and they that hear shall live” (John v. 25). O you who are coming out of the sepulchre! you feel within yourselves a germ of life springing up little by little: you are quite astonished to find a secret strength taking possession of you: your ashes are reanimated: you feel yourselves to be in a new country. The poor soul, which only expected to remain at rest in its grave, receives an agreeable surprise. It does not know what to think: it supposes that the sun must have shed upon it a few scattered rays through some opening or chink, whose brightness will only last for a moment. It is still more astonished when it feels this secret vigour permeating its entire being, and finds that it gradually receives a new life, to lose it no more for ever, unless it be by the most flagrant unfaithfulness.

But this new life is not like the former one: it is a life in God. It is a perfect life. The soul 196 lives no longer and works no longer of itself, but God lives, acts, and operates in it (Gal. ii. 20); and this goes on increasing, so that it becomes perfect with God's perfection, rich with God's riches, and loving with God's love.

The soul sees now that whatever it owned formerly had been in its own possession: now it no longer possesses, but is possessed: it only takes a new life in order to lose it in God; or rather it only lives with the life of God; and as He is the principle of life, the soul can want nothing. What a gain it has made by all its losses! It has lost the created for the Creator, the nothing for the All in all. All things are given to it, not in itself, but in God; not to be possessed by itself, but to be possessed by God. Its riches are immense, for they are God Himself. It feels its capacity increasing day by day to immensity: every virtue is restored to it, but in God.

It must be remarked, that as it was only despoiled by degrees, so it is only enriched and vivified by degrees. The more it loses itself in God, the greater its capacity becomes; just as the 197 more the torrent loses itself in the sea, the more it is enlarged, having no other limits than those of the sea: it participates in all its properties. The soul becomes strong and firm: it has lost all means, but it has found the end. This divine life becomes quite natural to it. As it no longer feels itself, sees itself, or knows itself, so it no longer sees or understands or distinguishes anything of God as distinct or outside of itself. It is no longer conscious of love, or light, or knowledge; it only knows that God is, and that it no longer lives except in God. All devotion is action, and all action is devotion: all is the same; the soul is indifferent to all, for all is equally God. Formerly it was necessary to exercise virtue in order to perform virtuous works; here all distinction of action is taken away, the actions having no virtue in themselves, but all being God, the meanest action equally with the greatest, provided it is in the order of God and at His time: for all that might be of the natural choice, and not in this order, would have another effect, leading the soul out of God by unfaithfulness. Not that it would be brought out of its degree or its 198 loss, but out of the divine plan, which makes all things one and all things God. So the soul is indifferent as to whether it be in one state or another, in one place or another: all is the same to it, and it lets itself be carried along naturally. It ceases to think, to wish, or to choose for itself; but remains content, without care or anxiety, no longer distinguishing its inner life to speak of it. Indeed it may be said not to possess one: it is no longer in itself; it is all in God. It is not necessary for it to shut itself up within itself; it does not hope to find anything there, and does not seek for it. If a person were altogether penetrated with the sea, having sea within and without, above and below, on every side, he would not prefer one place to another, all being the same to him. So the soul does not trouble itself to seek anything or to do anything; that is, of itself, by itself, or for itself. It remains as it is. But what does it do? Nothing—always nothing. It does what it is made to do, it suffers what it is made to suffer. Its peace is unchangeable, but always natural. It has, as it were, passed into a state of nature; and 199 yet how different from those altogether without God!

The difference is, that it is compelled to action by God without being conscious of it, whereas formerly it was nature that acted. It seems to itself to do neither right nor wrong, but it lives satisfied, peaceful, doing what it is made to do in a steady and resolute manner.

God alone is its guide; for at the time of its loss, it lost its own will. And if you were to ask what are its desires, it could not tell. It can choose for itself no longer: all desire is taken away, because, having found its centre, the heart loses all natural inclination, tendency, and activity, in the same way as it loses all repugnance and contrariety. The torrent has no longer either a declivity or a movement: it is in repose, and at its end.

But with what satisfaction is this soul satisfied? With the satisfaction of God, immense, general, without knowing or understanding what it is that satisfies it; for here all sentiments, tastes, views, particular opinions, however delicate they may be, 200 are taken from it: that certain vague, indefinable something, which formerly occupied without occupying it, is gone, and nothing remains to it. But this insensibility is very different to that of death, burial, and decay. That was a deprivation of life, a distaste, a separation, the powerlessness of the dying united with the insensibility of the dead; but this is an elevation above all these things, which does not remove them, but renders them useless. A dead man is deprived of all the functions of life by the powerlessness of death; but if he were to be raised gloriously, he would be full of life, without having the power to preserve it by means of the senses: and being placed above all means by virtue of his germ of immortality, he would no longer feel that which animated him, although he would know himself to be alive.

In this degree God cannot be tasted, seen, or felt, being no longer distinct from ourselves, but one with us. The soul has neither inclination nor taste for anything: in the period of death and burial it experienced this, but in a very different manner. Then it arose from distaste and powerlessness, but 201 now it is the effect of plenitude and abundance; just as if a person could live on air, he would be full without feeling his plenitude, or knowing in what way he had been satisfied; he would not be empty and unable to eat or to taste, but free from all necessity of eating by reason of his satisfaction, without knowing how the air, entering by all his pores, had penetrated equally at all parts.

The soul here is in God, as in the air which is natural to it, and it is no more sensible of its fulness than we are of the air we breathe. Yet it is full, and nothing is wanting to it; therefore all its desires are taken from it. Its peace is great, but not as it was before. Formerly it was an inanimate peace a certain sepulture, from which there sometimes escaped exhalations which troubled it. When it was reduced to ashes, it was at peace; but it was a barren peace, like that of a corpse, which would be at peace in the midst of the wildest storms of the sea: it would not feel them, and would not be troubled by them, its state of death rendering is insensible. But here the soul is raised, as it were, to a mountain-top, from which it sees the waves 202 rolling and tossing, without fearing their attacks; or rather it is at the bottom of the sea, where there is always tranquillity, even while the surface is agitated. The senses may suffer their sorrows, but at the centre there is always the same calm tranquillity, because He who possesses it is immutable.

This, of course, supposes the faithfulness of the soul; for in whatever state it may be, it is possible for it to recede and fall back into itself. But here the soul progresses infinitely in God; and it is possible for it to advance incessantly; just as, if the sea had no bottom, any one falling into it would sink to infinitude, and going down to greater and greater depths of the ocean, would discover more and more of its beauties and treasures. It is even thus with the soul whose home is in God.

But what must it do in order to be faithful to God? Nothing, and less than nothing. It must simply suffer itself to be possessed, acted upon, and moved without resistance, remaining in the state which is natural to it, waiting for what every moment may bring to it, and receiving it from Him, without either adding to or taking from it; letting itself be 203 led at all times and to any place, regardless of sight or reason, and without thinking of either; letting itself go naturally into all things, without considering what would be best or most plausible; remaining in the state of evenness and stability in which God has placed it, without being troubled to do anything; but leaving to God the care of providing its opportunities, and of doing all for it; not making definite acts of abandonment, but simply resting in the state of abandonment in which it already is, and which is natural to it.

The soul is unable to act in any way of itself without a consciousness of unfaithfulness. It possesses all things by having nothing. It finds a facility for every duty, for speaking and for acting, no longer in its own way, but in God's. Its faithfulness does not consist in ceasing from all activity, like one who is dead, but in doing nothing except by the principle which animates it. A soul in this state has no inclination of its own in anything, but lets itself go as it is led, and beyond that does nothing. It cannot speak of its state, for it does not see it; though there is so much that is extraordinary, it is no longer 204 as it was in the former degrees, where the creature had some part in it, that which was in a great measure its own; but here the most wonderful things are perfectly natural, and are done without thought. It is the same principle that gives life to the soul which acts in it and through it. It has a sovereign power over the hearts of those around it, but not of itself. As nothing belongs to it, it can make no reserves; and if it can say nothing of a state so divine, it is not because it fears vanity, for that no longer exists; it is rather because what it has, while possessing nothing, passes all expression by its extreme simplicity and purity. Not that there are not many things which are but the accessories of this condition, and not the centre, of which it can easily speak. These accessories are like the crumbs which fall from that eternal feast of which the soul begins to partake in time; they are but the sparks which prove the existence of a furnace of fire and flame; but it is impossible to speak of the principle and the end, because only so much can be imparted as God is pleased to give at the moment to be either written or spoken.

205 It may be asked, Is the soul unconscious of its faults, or does it commit none? It does commit them, and is more conscious of them than ever, especially in the commencement of its new life. The faults committed are often more subtile and delicate than formerly. The soul knows them better, because its eyes are open; but it is not troubled by them, and can do nothing to rid itself of them. It is true that, when it has been guilty of unfaithfulness or sin, it is sensible of a certain cloud; but it passes over, without the soul itself doing anything to dispel it, or to cleanse itself; apart from which, any efforts it might make would be useless, and would only serve to increase its impurity; so that it would be deeply sensible that the second stain was worse than the first. It is not a question of returning to God, because a return presupposes a departure; and if we are in God, we have but to abide in Him; just as, when there arises a little cloud in the middle region of air, if the wind blows, it moves the clouds, but does not dissipate them; if, on the contrary, the sun shines forth, they will soon be dispelled. The more subtile and delicate 206 the clouds are, the more quickly they will be dissipated.

Oh! if we had sufficient fidelity never to look at ourselves, what progress might we not make! Our sights of ourselves resemble certain plants in the sea, which, just so long as their support lasts, prevent bodies from falling. If the branches are very delicate, the weight of the body forces them down, and we are only delayed for a moment; but if we look at ourselves willingly and long, we shall be delayed just so long a time as the look may occupy, and our loss will be great indeed. The defects of this state are certain light emotions or sights of self, which are born and die in a moment—certain winds of self, which pass over the calm sea, and cause ripples; but these faults are taken from us little by little, and continually become more delicate.

The soul, on leaving the tomb, finds itself, without knowing how, clothed with the inclinations of Christ; not by distinct and natural views of Him, but by its natural condition, finding these inclinations just when they are needed, without thinking of them; as a person who possesses a hidden treasure might find it 207 unexpectedly in the time of his need. The soul is surprised when, without having reflected on the mind and disposition of Christ, it finds them naturally implanted within it. These dispositions of Christ are lowliness, meekness, submission, and the other virtues which He possessed. The soul finds that all these are acting within it, but so easily, that they seem to have become natural to it. Its treasury is in God alone, where it can draw upon it ceaselessly in every time of need, without in any degree diminishing it. It is then that it really “puts on” Jesus Christ (Rom. xiii. 14); and it is henceforth He who acts, speaks, moves in the soul, the Lord Jesus Christ being its moving principle. Now those around it do not inconvenience it; the heart is enlarged to contain them. It desires neither activity nor retreat, but only to be each moment what God makes it to be.

As in this condition the soul is capable of infinite advancement, I leave those who are living in it to write of it, the light not being given me for the higher degrees, and my soul not being sufficiently advanced in God to see or to know them. All that I shall add is, that it is easy to see by the length of 208 the road necessary to be taken in order to arrive at God that the end is not so soon attained as we are apt to imagine, and that even the most spiritual and enlightened mistake the consummation of the passive way of light and love for the end of this one, when in reality it is but the commencement.

I must also remark, that what I have said touching the mind of Christ commences as soon as we enter the way of naked faith. Although the soul in the former degrees has no distinct sights of Christ, it has nevertheless a desire to be conformed to His image. It covets the cross, lowliness, poverty; then this desire is lost, and there remains a secret inclination for the same things, which continually deepens and simplifies, becoming every day more intimate and more hidden. But here the mind of Christ is the mind of the soul, natural and habitual to it, as something no longer distinct from itself, but as its own being and its own life; Christ exercising it without going out of the soul, and the soul exercising it with Him, in Him, without going out of Him; not like something distinct, which it knows, sees, attempts, practises, but as that which is natural to it. All the 209 actions of life, such as breathing, are done naturally, without thought, rule, or measure; and they are done unconsciously by the person who does them. It is thus with the mind of Christ in this degree, which continually develops, as the soul is more transformed in Him, and becomes more thoroughly one with Him.

But are there no crosses in this condition? As the soul is strong with the strength of God Himself, God lays upon it more crosses and heavier ones than before; but they are borne divinely. Formerly the cross charmed it; it was loved and cherished; now it is not thought of, but is suffered to go and come; and the cross itself becomes God, like all other things. This does not involve the cessation of suffering, but of the sorrow, the anxiety, the bitterness of suffering. It is true that the crosses are no longer crosses, but God. In the former stages, the cross is virtue, and is exalted more and more as the condition is more advanced: here the soul feels it to be God, like the rest; all that constitutes the life of this soul, all that it has, moment by moment, being God to it.

210 The outward appearance of these persons is quite ordinary, and nothing unusual is observed in them except by those who are capable of understanding them.

All is seen in God, and in its true light; therefore this state is not subject to deception. There are no visions, revelations, ecstasies, ravishments, or translations. All these things do not belong to this state, which is above them all. This way is simple, pure, and naked, seeing nothing out of God; and thus seeing all as God sees it, and with His eyes.