Page:Sermons by John-Baptist Massillon.djvu/103

 fections. He no  longer  experiences  that  love,  those  consolations, which are  the  fruit  of  a  fervent  and  faithful  life:  he  no  longer,  as if  with  a  new  light,  sees  the  holy  truths,  which  confirm  the  soul in its  contempt  for  the  world  and  love  for  the  things  of  heaven; and which,  after  its  departure  hence,  make  it  regard,  with  new  disgust, every  thing  which  foolish  man  admires:  he  leaves  it,  no longer  filled  with  that  lively  faith  which  reckons  as  nothing  all the obstacles  and  disgusts  of  virtue,  and  with  a  holy  zeal  devours all its  sorrows:  he  no  longer  feels,  after  it,  more  love  for  his duty and  horror  at  the  world;  more  determination  to  fly  from its dangers;  more  light  to  know  its  nothingness  and  misery,  and strength to  hate  and  struggle  with  himself;  more  terror  for  the judgments of  God,  and  compunction  for  his  own  weaknesses:  he leaves  it  only  more  fatigued  than  before  with  virtue;  more  filled with the  phantoms  of  the  world,  which,  in  the  moment  when  at the  feet  of  the  Almighty,  have,  it  appears,  agitated  more  briskly his imagination,  blasted  and  stained  by  all  those  images;  more  happy, by  being  quit  of  a  burdensome  duty,  where  he  has  experienced nothing so  agreeable  as  the  pleasure  of  finding  it  over;  more  eager, by amusements  and  infidelities,  to  supply  this  moment  of  weariness and  pain;  in  a  word,  more  distant  from  God,  whom  he  has irritated by  the  infidelity  and  irreverence  of  his  prayer. Such, my brethren,  is  the  fruit  which  he  reaps  from  it. In a  word,  all  the external duties  of  religion,  which  support  and  rouse  piety,  are  no longer  to  the  lukewarm  Christian  but  dead  and  inanimate  customs where his  heart  is  not;  where  there  is  more  of  habit  than  of  love or spirit  of  piety;  and  where  the  only  disposition  he  brings  is  the weariness and  languor  of  always  doing  the  same  thing.

Thus, my  brethren,  the  grace  of  this  soul,  being  continually attacked and  weakened,  either  by  the  practices  of  the  world,  which it allows  itself,  or  by  those  of  piety,  which  it  abuses;  either  by  sensual objects,  which  nourish  its  corruption,  or  by  those  of  religion, which increase  its  disgusts;  either  by  the  pleasures  which  enervate it, or  by  the  duties  which  fatigue  it;  all  uniting  to  make  it  bend toward ruin,  and  nothing  supporting  it; — alas! what fate  can  it promise  itself? Can the  lamp  without  oil  long  continue  to  give  light? The tree  which  no  longer  draws  nourishment  from  the  earth,  can  it fail  to  wither  and  be  devoted  to  the  fire? Now, such  is  the  situation of the  lukewarm  Christian:  entirely  delivered  up  to  himself,  nothing supports him;  surrounded  by  weariness  and  disgusts,  nothing  reanimates him;  full  of  weakness  and  languor,  nothing  protects  him: every consolation  of  the  just  soul  is  to  him  an  increase  of  languor; every thing  which  gives  support  to  a  faithful  Christian,  disgusts and overpowers  his;  whatever  renders  the  yoke  more  easy  to others,  makes  him  more  burdensome;  and  the  succours  of  piety  are no longer  but  his  fatigues  or  his  crimes. Now, in  this  state,  O  my God! almost abandoned  by  thy  grace,  tired  of  thy  yoke,  disgusted with himself,  as  well  as  with  virtue,  weakened  by  diseases  and  their remedies, staggering  at  every  step,  a  breath  overturns  him;  he  himself leans  toward  his  fall,  without  any  additional  or  foreign  impres-