* * *
It
is hard to conquer in small things, petty irritations, worries, cares of this
world, likes and dislikes—all of these being subtle temptations, and all
selfish. For instance, very often I find the human voice the most horrible
thing that I know! I will be in a beautiful state of mind, and people around me
will drag me from it with their maddening inanities of conversation. This one will
speak of the weather, and that one of food; another of scandal, another of
amusements. They will talk of their love for a dog, for a horse, for golf, for
men or women; but never do I hear at any time, or anywhere, anyone speak of
their love for God. I must listen to all their loves, but if I should venture
to speak of mine they would look at me amazed; indeed, I never should dare to
do it. And this is perhaps the greatest weakness that I have to fight against
now, and one that spoils the harmony of the mind more than any other—that I
cannot always control myself from secret though unspoken irritation,
impatience, and criticisms; and to criticise is to judge, and in this there is
wrong, and the smallest breeze of wrong is enough to blow to—even to close—the
door into that other lovely world. And not only this, but every such failure is
a disappointment to the Beloved. Many times I say to Him, "What canst Thou
do with us all, Beloved—such a mass of selfish, foolish, blundering, sinful
creatures, all hanging and pulling on to Thee at the same moment?" And I
will be filled with a passionate desire to so progress that I may stand a
little alone and not be a perpetual drag upon Him, and, feeling strong, perhaps
I will say: "I will give up my share of Thee to someone else, and not draw
upon Thee for a little while, my Beloved Lord." But oh, in less than an
hour, if He should take me at my word! I could cry and moan like a small child,
in my horrible emptiness and longing for Him. And where now is my strength?—I
have not an ounce of it without Him! By this I learn in my own person how He is
life itself to us, in all ways. He is the air, the bread, and the blood of the
soul, and no one can live without at every moment drawing upon Him, though they
do it insensibly. What a weight to carry, what a burden, this whole hungry
clamouring mass of disobedient men and women! Oh, my Beloved, how frequently I
weep for all Thy bitter disappointment—never ending!
But
this we may be sure of—that all the marvels of His grace are not poured out on
some poor scrappit for no other reason than to give him pleasure. There is a
vast purpose behind it all, and by keenest attention we must pick up this
purpose, understand it, and do it. This is the true work of man, to love
God with all the heart and mind and soul and strength, and not those material
works with which we all so easily satisfy ourselves and our consciences, and
our bodily needs.
He
has marvellous ways (and very difficult to the beginner) of conveying His
wishes. To my finding, the inward life of us is like a perpetual interchange of
conversation between the heart and its many desires and the mind (which for
myself I put into three parts—the intelligence, the will, the reason). Now, all
these parts of my heart and of my mind formerly occupied themselves entirely
with worldly things, passing from one thing to another in most disorderly
fashion; but now they occupy themselves (save for bodily necessities) solely
with Him. There is a perpetual smooth and beautiful conversation between
them to Him and of Him; and suddenly He will seem to enter into
this conversation, suggesting thoughts which are not mine.
Often
He will stab the soul, but not with words, also the heart; and I have known
such communications lie for weeks before they could be taken up by the mind,
turned into words, and finally as words be digested by the reason. And
another way to the soul only—rare, untransferable to words, and therefore not
transmittable to others or to the reason. This way causes the creature a great amazement,
and is like a flooding or moving of whiteness, or an inwardly-felt
phosphorescence; it is a vitalising ministration greatly enjoyed by the soul.
This is not any ecstasy, and is exceedingly swift; the soul must be at high
attention to receive this, yet neither anticipates nor asks for it, but is
in the act of giving great and joyful adoration.
* * *
I
do not remember when I first became fully conscious that the centre or seat of
my emotions was changed, and that I now responded to all the experiences of
life only with the higher parts of me.
This
change I found inexplicable and remarkable, for it was fundamental, and yet
neither intended nor thought of by me. With this alteration in the physical
correspondences to life came a corresponding alteration in the spiritual of me.
Formerly
I supposed that the soul dwelt in, or was even a part of, the mind. Now, though
the mind must be filled wholly with God, and all other things whatsoever put
out of it if we would contemplate Him or respond to Him, yet neither the brain
nor the intelligence of the creature can come into any contact with Him; and
this I soon learnt.
Correspondence
with the Divine is accomplished for the creature through the heart and by the
uppermost part of the breast, this latter place (above the heart and below the
mind) is the dwelling-place of the celestial spark of the soul, which lies, as
it were, between two fires—that of the heart and that of the mind, responding
directly to neither of these, but to God only.
Before
I was touched upon the hill I was not aware of the locality of any part of my
soul, neither was there anything which could convince me that I even possessed
a soul. I did no more than believe and suppose that I did possess one. But the
soul, once revived, becomes the most powerful and vivid part of our being; we
are not able any longer to mistake its possession or position in the body. She
is indeed the wonderful and lovely mistress of us, with which alone we can
unlock the mysteries of God's love.
* * *
How
poor and cold a thing is mere belief! No longer do I believe in Jesus
Christ: I do possess Him. So complete is the change that He brings about
in us that I now only count my life and my time from the first day of this new
God-consciousness that I received upon the hill, for that was the first day of
my real life; just as formerly I would count my time from the first day of my
physical birth, and from that on to my falling in love and to my marriage,
which once seemed to me to be the most important dates.
Whilst
these changes were taking place in me I would often be filled with uneasiness
and some alarm; asking myself what all this could mean, and if it could be the
way of martyrs or saints, for I had no courage or liking to be one or the other
and was very frightened of suffering. And I think my cunning heart would have
liked to take all the sweets and leave the bitter. How well He knew this, and
how exquisitely He handled me, never forcing, only looking at me, inviting me
with those marvellous perfections of His! How could I possibly resist Him? All
the while, all my waking hours, I felt that strange, new, incomprehensible,
steady, insistent drawing and urgency of the Spirit in me. Little by
little I went—and still go—towards perfection, whilst my cowardly heart
endured many fears, but these are now past. It was not any desire for my own
salvation; to this I have never given so much as two thoughts. It was the irresistible
attraction of our marvellous and beautiful God. He lured, He drew me with
His loveliness, His holy perfections, His unutterable purity. I longed to
please Him. The whole earth was filled with the glamour of Him, and I
filled with horror to see how utterly unlike—apart from the glorious Beloved—I
was. How frightful my blemishes, which must stink in His nostrils! Think of it!
To stink in the nostrils of the Beloved! What lover could endure to do such a
thing? No effort could be too great or painful to beautify oneself for Him. In
this there is no virtue; it is the driving necessity of love, a necessity known
by every lover worthy of the name on earth. To please and obey this ineffable
and exquisite Being!—the privilege intoxicated me more and more.
All
these changes in my heart and mind continually filled me with surprise, for I
was never pious, though inwardly and secretly I had so ardently sought Him. I
was attentive, humble, and reverent, nothing more.
But
though I had perhaps little or no piety, and never read a single religious
book, I had had a deep thirst for the perfect and the holy and the pure, as I
seemed unable to find them here on the earth. In the quiet solemnity of church,
or under the blue skies, I could detach myself from my surroundings and reach
up and out with wistful dimness towards the ineffable holiness and purity of
God—God who, for me at least, remained persistently so unattainable.
And
yet one blessed day I was to find Him suddenly, all in one glorious hour, no
longer unattainable but immanently, marvellously near, and willing to remain
for me so strangely permanently near that I must sing silently to Him from my
heart all the day long—sing to Him silently, because even the faintest whisper
would feel too gross and loud between my soul and Him. And in hours when I fall
from this wonderful estate I think I come very near hell, so awful is my loss.
Our
greatest need is to relearn the will of God. For we are so separated from Him
that we now look upon His Will as on a cross, as an incomprehensible sacrifice,
as but self-abnegation, pain, and gloom. We repudiate it in terror.
If
we have the will to relearn His Will, we stand still and think of it, we walk
to seek it, we try to accept it, trembling we bow down to it with obedience and
many tears; and behold! it changes to an Invitation, a sigh of beauty, a breath
of spring, the song of birds, the faces of flowers, the ever-ascending spiral
of the mating of all loves, the sunshine of the Universe; and at last,
intoxicated with happiness, we say: "My God, my Love, I sip and drink Thy
Will as an ambrosial Wine!"
Source: Project Gutenberg
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