Page:Sermons by John-Baptist Massillon.djvu/298

 as an  excuse  for  all  your  excesses:  that  is  to  say,  that  you  are  delighted in  the  want  of  this  precious  grace;  that  you  continually  say, with satisfaction  to  yourself,  God  wishes  me  not  as  yet;  I  have only to  live,  in  the  meanwhile,  tranquilly  in  guilt;  his  grace  will not come  yet  awhile:  that  is  to  say,  that  you  wish  it  not,  and  that you would  even  be  sorry  were  it  to  come  to  break  those  chains which you  still  love. To you,  the  want  of  grace  ought  to  be  the most fearful  and  the  most  powerful  inducement  to  extricate  yourself from  your  deplorable  state,  and  it  is  the  only  one  which  quiets and stops  you.

Besides, the  more  you  delay,  the  less  will  you  have  of  grace;  for the more  you  delay,  the  more  do  your  crimes  increase,  the  more does God  estrange  himself  from  you;  his  mercies  wear  out,  his  moments of  indulgence  slip  away,  your  measure  becomes  full,  and  the dreadful term  of  his  wrath  approaches;  and  if  it  be  true,  that  you have not  at  present  sufficient  grace  to  be  converted,  you  will  not,  in a  little  time,  have  wherewithal  even  to  comprehend  that  you  have occasion either  for  penitence  or  conversion.

It is  not  grace,  then,  that  you  have  to  accuse,  it  is  yourself. Did Augustine, during  his  feeble  desires  of  conversion,  tax  the  Lord with the  delay  of  his  penitence? Ah! he went  no  farther  for  the reason of  it  than  in  the  weakness  and  licentiousness  of  his  own heart. " I  dragged  on,"  said  he,  "  a  heart  diseased  and  torn  with remorse,  accusing  myself  alone  for  all  my  evils,  and  for  all  the delays  which  I  started  against  a  new  life.  I  turned  me  in  my  chains, as  though  they  should  break  off  themselves,  without  any  effort  on my  part.  For  thee,  Lord,  never  hast  thou  ceased  to  chastise  my heart  with  inward  sorrows,  continually  operating  there,  through  a merciful  severity,  the  most  pungent  remorses,  which  embittered every  comfort  of  my  life.  Nevertheless,  the  amusements  of  the world,  which  I  had  always  and  still  loved,  withheld  me;  they  secretly whispered  to  me,  Thou  meanest,  then,  to  renounce  every pleasure?  From  this  moment,  then,  thou  biddest  an  eternal  farewell to  all  that  hath  hitherto  rendered  life  agreeable  to  thee? What!  shall  it  no  more  be  permitted  to  thee  to  see  those  persons who have  been  so  dear  to  thee? Thou shalt  henceforth  be  separated from  thy  companions  in  pleasure,  be  banished  from  their  assemblies, and  be  obliged  to  deny  thyself  the  most  innocent  delights, and all  the  comforts  of  society. And is  it  possible  that  thou  canst believe thyself  capable  of  supporting  the  sad  weariness  of  a  life  so gloomy,  so  void,  so  uniform,  and  so  different  from  the  one  thou hast hitherto  led?"

Behold, where  this  half-contrite  sinner  found  the  reasons  of  his delays and  of  his  resistance;  it  was  the  dread  of  having  to  renounce his passions,  and  of  being  unable  to  support  the  step  of  a  new  life, and not  any  default  of  grace:  and  such  is  precisely  the  situation  in which  you  are,  and  what  you  say  every  day  to  yourself.

For, after  all,  supposing  that  grace  is  wanting  to  you,  what  do you  thence  conclude? That the  crimes  into  which  you  continually plunge yourself  will  not  condemn  you,  should  death  surprise  you