Page:Sermons by John-Baptist Massillon.djvu/209



It is  a  blessing,  and  a  rare  blessing,  then,  not  to  be  offended  in Jesus  Christ. But what  was  there,  or  what  could  there  be  in  him, who is  the  wisdom  itself,  and  the  glory  of  the  Father,  the  substantial image  of  all  perfection,  which  could  give  subject  of  scandal  to men? His cross,  my  dearest  brethren,  which  was  formerly  the shame of  the  Jews,  and  is,  and  shall  be,  to  the  end  of  ages,  the shame of  the  greatest  part  of  Christians. But, when  I  say  that the cross  of  the  Saviour  is  the  shame  of  the  most  of  Christians, I mean  not  only  the  cross  that  he  bore,  I  mean  more  especially that which  we  are  obliged,  from  his  example,  to  bear;  without which, he  rejects  us  as  his  disciples,  and  denies  us  any  participation of that  glory  into  which  he  has  entered,  through  the  cross  alone.

Behold what  displeases  us,  and  what  we  find  to  complain  of  in our  divine  Saviour. We would  wish,  that,  since  he  was  to  suffer, his sufferings  had  been  a  title,  as  it  were,  of  exemption,  which  had merited to  us  the  privilege  of  not  suffering  with  him. Let us  dispel this  error,  my  dearest  brethren:  the  only  thing  which  depends on us,  is  that  of  rendering  our  sufferings  meritorious;  but  to  suffer, or  not  to  suffer,  is  not  left  to  our  choice. Providence has  so wisely  dispensed  the  good  and  evil  of  this  life,  that  each  in  his  station, however  happy  his  lot  may  appear,  finds  crosses  and  afflictions, which  always  counterbalance  the  pleasures  of  it. There is no  perfect  happiness  on  the  earth;  for  it  is  not  here  the  time  of consolations,  but  the  time  of  sufferance. Grandeur hath  its  subjections and  its  disquiets;  obscurity,  its  humiliations  and  its  scorns; the world,  its  cares  and  its  caprices;  retirement,  its  sadness  and weariness; marriage,  its  antipathies  and  its  frenzies;  friendship, its losses  or  its  perfidies;  piety  itself,  its  repugnances  and  its  disgusts. In a  word,  by  a  destiny  inevitable  to  the  children  of  Adam, each one  finds  his  own  path  strewed  with  brambles  and  thorns. The apparently  happiest  condition  hath  its  secret  sorrows,  which empoison all  its  felicity. The throne  is  the  seat  of  chagrins  equally as the  lowest  place;  superb  palaces  conceal  the  most  cruel  discontents, equally  as  the  hut  of  the  poor  and  of  the  humble  labourer; and, lest  our  place  of  exile  should  become  endeared  to  us,  we  always feel,  in  a  thousand  different  ways,  that  something  is  yet  wanting to  our  happiness.

Nevertheless, destined  to  suffer,  we  cannot  love  the  sufferances; continually stricken  with  some  affliction,  we  are  unable  to  make  a merit  of  our  pains;  never  happy,  our  crosses,  become  necessary, cannot at  least  become  useful  to  us. We are  ingenious  in  depriving ourselves  of  the  merit  of  all  our  sufferances. One while  we