Page:Sermons by John-Baptist Massillon.djvu/262

 for others;  but  I  ask  of  you  who  maintain  their  innocency,  whether you have  never  made  a  bad  use  of  them? Have you  never  made these cares  of  the  body,  these  amusements,  and  these  artifices,  instrumental toward  iniquitous  passions? Have you  never  employed them in  corrupting  hearts,  or  in  nourishing  the  corruption  of  your own? What! your entire  life  has  perhaps  been  one  continued  and deplorable chain  of  passions  and  evils;  you  have  abused  every thing around  you,  and  have  made  them  instrumental  to  your  irregular appetites;  you  have  called  them  all  in  aid  to  that  unfortunate tendency of  your  heart;  your  intentions  have  even  exceeded  your evil; your  eye  hath  never  been  single,  and  you  would  willingly never have  had  that  of  others  to  have  been  so  with  regard  to  you; all your  cares  for  your  person  have  been  crimes;  and  when  there is question  of  returning  to  your  God,  and  of  making  reparation  for a whole  life  of  corruption  and  debauchery,  you  pretend  to  dispute with him  for  vanities,  of  which  you  have  always  made  so  infamous a use? You pretend  to  maintain  the  innocency  of  a  thousand abuses, which,  though  permitted  to  the  rest  of  men,  would  be  forbidden to  you? You enter  into  contestation,  when  it  is  intended to restrict  you  from  the  criminal  pomps  of  the  world;  you,  to  whom the most  innocent,  if  such  there  be,  are  forbidden  in  future,  and whose only  dress  ought  henceforth  to  be  sackcloth  and  ashes? Can you still  pretend  to  justify  cares  which  are  your  inward  shame,  and which have  so  often  covered  you  with  confusion  at  the  feet  of  the sacred tribunal? And should  so  much  contestation  and  so  many explanations be  required,  where  your  own  shame  alone  should amply suffice.

Besides, the  holy  sadness  of  piety  no  longer  looks  upon,  but  with horror, that  which  has  once  been  a  stumbling-block  to  us. The contrite soul  examines  not  whether  he  may  innocently  indulge  in it;  it  suffices  for  him  to  know,  that  it  has  a  thousand  times  been the rock  upon  which  he  has  seen  his  innocence  split. Whatever has been  instrumental  in  leading  him  to  his  evils,  becomes  equally odious in  his  sight  as  the  evils  themselves;  whatever  has  been  assisting to  his  passions,  he  equally  detests  as  the  passions  themselves;  whatever,  in  a  word,  has  been  favourable  to  his  crimes, becomes criminal  in  his  eyes. Should it  even  happen  that  he might  be  disposed  to  accord  it  to  his  weakness,  ah! his zeal,  his compunction, would  reject  the  indulgence,  and  would  adopt  the  interests of  God's  righteousness  against  men;  he  could  not  prevail upon himself  *to  permit  abuses,  which  would  be  the  means  of  recalling to  him  his  past  disorders;  he  would  always  entertain  a  dread that the  same  manner  of  acting  might  recall  the  same  dispositions, and that,  engrossed  by  the  same  cares,  his  heart  would  find  itself the same;  the  sole  image  of  his  past  infidelities  disturbs  and  alarms him; and,  far  from  bearing  about  with  him  their  sad  remains,  he would  wish  to  have  it  in  his  power  to  remove  even  from  the  spots, and to  tear  himself  from  the  occupations  which  renew  their  remembrance. And, surely,  what  kind  of  a  penitence  must  that  be  which still permits  us  to  love  all  those  things  which  have  been  the  occasion