Page:Sermons by John-Baptist Massillon.djvu/264

 which wash  out  its  stains. Thus, in  the  third  place,  the  sinner  of our  gospel  is  not  contented  with  having  sacrificed  her  hair  and  her perfumes to  Jesus  Christ;  she  prostrates  herself  at  his  feet,  she washes them  with  her  tears,  she  wipes,  she  kisses  them:  and,  as the  third  disorder  of  her  sin  had  been  a  shameful  subjection  of  her senses, she  begins  the  reparation  of  these  criminal  lewdnesses,  by the  humiliation  and  disgust  of  these  lowly  services.

New instruction: — it  is  not  sufficient  to  remove  from  the  passions those  allurements  which  incite  them;  it  is  likewise  necessary that laborious  exertions  of  such  virtues  as  are  most  opposite  to them,  insensibly  repress,  and  recall  them  to  duty  and  order. You were fond  of  gaming,  pleasures,  amusements,  and  every  thing  which composes a  worldly  life;  it  is  doing  little  to  cut  off  from  these  pleasures that  portion  which  may  still  conduct  to  guilt;  if  you  wish that the  love  of  the  world  be  extinguished  in  your  heart,  it  is  necessary that  prayer,  retirement,  silence,  and  acts  of  charity,  succeed to these  dissolute  manners;  and  that,  not  satisfied  with  shunning the crimes  of  the  world,  you  likewise  fly  from  the  world  itself. By giving yourself  up  to  boundless  and  shameful  passions,  you  have fortified the  empire  of  the  senses  and  of  the  flesh;  it  is  necessary that fasting,  watching,  the  yoke  of  mortification,  gradually  extinguish these  impure  fires,  weaken  these  tendencies,  become  ungovernable through  a  long  indulgence  of  voluptuousness,  and  not  only remove guilt  from  you,  but  operate,  as  I  may  say,  to  dry  up  its source in  your  heart. Otherwise, by  sparing,  you  only  render yourself more  miserable:  the  old  attachments  which  you  shall  have broken without  having  weakened,  and,  as  it  were,  rooted  them from your  heart  by  mortification,  will  incessantly  be  renewing  their attacks; your  passions,  become  more  violent  and  impetuous  by being  checked  and  suspended,  without  your  having  weakened  and overcome them,  will  make  you  undergo  agitations  and  storms,  such as you  had  never  experienced  even  in  guilt:  you  will  behold  yourself on  the  point,  every  moment,  of  a  melancholy  shipwreck;  you will never  taste  of  peace  in  this  new  life. You will  find  yourself more weak,  more  exhausted,  more  animated  for  pleasure,  more  easy to be  shaken,  and  more  disgusted  with  the  service  of  God,  in  this state of  imperfect  penitence,  than  you  had  even  been  formerly  in the  midst  of  dissipation;  every  thing  will  become  a  rock  to  you; you will  be  a  continual  temptation  to  yourself;  you  will  be  astonished to  find  within  you  a  still  greater  repugnance  to  duties;  and, as it  is  hardly  possible  to  stand  out  long  against  yourself,  you  will soon become  disgusted  with  a  virtue  by  which  you  suffer  so  much; and, in  consequence  of  your  having  wished  to  be  only  a  tranquil and mitigated  penitent,  you  will  be  an  unhappy  one,  without  consolation, without  peace,  and,  consequently,  without  perseverance. To augment  and  multiply  the  sacrifices  is  to  abridge  the  sufferings in virtue;  and  whatever  we  are  induced  to  spare  to  the  passions, becomes rather  the  punishment  and  the  disgust,  than  the  softening of our  penitence.

The last  disorder  which  had  accompanied  the  sin  of  the  woman