Page:Sermons by John-Baptist Massillon.djvu/101

 illusion and  darkness:  it  is,  in  a  word,  that  the  Lord,  by  terrible and secret  judgments,  strikes  them  with  blindness,  and  punishes the corruption  of  their  heart  by  permitting  them  to  be  ignorant  of it. A gross  fall  from  virtue,  if  I  may  venture  to  say  so,  would  to them  be  a  mark  of  the  goodness  and  mercy  of  God. They would then at  least  open  their  eyes;  naked  and  manifest  guilt  would  then carry trouble,  vexation,  and  uneasiness  through  their  conscience; the disease  at  last  discovered,  would  perhaps  induce  them  to  have recourse to  the  remedy;  in  place  of  which,  this  life,  apparently  regular, composes  and  calms  them,  renders  useless  the  example  of fervent  Christians,  persuades  them  that  this  great  fervour  is  unnecessary;  that  it  is  much  more  the  effect  of  temperament  than  of grace;  that  it  is  an  emotion  of  zeal,  rather  than  of  duty;  and  makes them listen  to,  as  vain  exaggerations,  all  that  we  say  with  regard  to a  lukewarm  and  infidel  life. — Second reflection.

In a  word,  the  last  reflection  to  be  made  on  this  great  truth,  is, that such  is  the  nature  of  our  heart,  always  to  remain  much  below what it  at  first  proposed. A thousand  times  we  have  formed  pious resolutions; we  have  projected  to  carry  to  a  certain  point  the  detail of  our  duties  and  conduct,  but  the  execution  has  always  much diminished from  the  ardour  of  our  projects,  and  has  rested  at  a degree  much  below  the  one  to  which  we  wished  to  raise  ourselves. Thus, the  lukewarm  Christian,  proposing  to  himself  no  higher point of  virtue  than  to  shun  guilt,  looking  precisely  to  precept,  that is to  say,  to  that  rigorous  and  precise  point  of  the  law,  immediately below  which  is  prevarication  and  death,  he  infallibly  rests  below, and never  reaches  that  essential  point  which  he  had  proposed  to himself. It is,  therefore,  an  incontestable  maxim,  that  we  must undertake much  to  execute  little,  and  look  very  high  to  attain  at least  the  middle. Now, this  maxim,  so  sure  with  regard  even  to the  most  just,  is  much  more  so  with  respect  to  the  lukewarm and infidel  soul;  for  coldness  more  strongly  binding  all  his  ties, and augmenting  the  weight  of  his  corruption  and  misery,  it  is  principally him  who  ought  to  take  his  grand  flight,  in  order  to  attain at least  the  lowest  degree;  and,  in  his  counsels  with  himself,  propose perfection,  if  he  wishes  to  rest  even  at  the  observance  of  precept. Above all,  it  is  to  him  we  may  truly  say,  that  by  settling  in his  mind  only  to  shun  guilt,  loaded  as  he  is  with  the  weight  of  his coldness and  infidelities,  he  will  always  alight  at  a  place  very  distant from  the  one  he  expected  to  reach;  and  the  line  of  guilt  being immediately below  this  commodious  and  sensual  virtue,  the  very same efforts  he  made,  as  he  thought,  to  shun  it,  will  only  serve to conduct  him  to  it. These are  reasons,  drawn  entirely  from  the weakness the  strengthened  passions  leave  to  the  lukewarm  and  infidel soul,  and  which  inevitably  lead  it  to  ruin.

The only  reason,  however,  you  allege  to  us  for  persevering  in this  dangerous  state,  is,  that  you  are  weak,  and  totally  unable  to support  a  more  retired,  limited,  mortified,  and  perfect  manner  of life. But surely,  it  is  because  you  are  weak,  that  is  to  say,  full  of disgust  for  virtue,  of  love  for  the  world,  and  of  subjection  to  your