Salesian Literature

LETTERS OF SFS

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Rose Bourgeois

 

The situation of Madame Brûlart’s sister was quite different.  Because she was the younger daughter, her father had placed her in the abbey of Puits d’Orbe where she was elected abbess for life.  The religious observance there was seriously relaxed.  Some of the nuns desired a reform, but the abbes herself did not give the proper example of poverty, fervour, or fidelity to their cloistered life.  After hearing Francis de Sales preach during Lent in 1604, however she was inspired to reform her own life first, then that of her abbey.

 

Francis instructed Rose, the neophyte, on how to make progress in the devout life; he guided Rose, the abbess, in her efforts to undertake the reform of her monastery; and he empathized with Rose, the woman, who endured much physical suffering because of a diseased leg that never healed.  Despite all the excruciating medical and surgical treatment she underwent after 1604, she remained a cripple the rest of her life.  Her physical infirmity had a debilitating effect on her activities and morale.  Francis, in his letters, encourages her to accept this suffering which she has not chosen and to use it as a means of achieving closer union with her crucified Saviour.

 

Suffering is the school of humility

 

Suffering is the school of humility

April 15-18, 1605[1]

 

My very dear Sister,

 

Here is the most important phase which makes me totally yours: God wills it so.  Of this I have absolutely no doubt.  There is no better reason in the whole world than this one.

 

You will already have heard the news of my recovery, which is so complete that I preached the whole Lenten series.  My illness never seemed very serious to me; but the doctors, who thought I had been poisoned, so frightened those who love me, that it seemed to them I was going to slip away from them.  […]

 

Not only your messenger, but your dear father himself has told me how much you have been suffering and how much he has suffered with you.  May Our Lord be blessed for this.  This is the safest, most royal road to heaven for you; and, from what I understand, you will be on it for some time, since, according to what your father wrote me, you are still under the care of the physicians and surgeons.  I certainly feel great compassion for you in your sufferings and often recommend these to Our Lord, that He may make them useful for you and that when you come through them all, it can be said of you as it was said of the good man Job: In all these things he never sinned, but hoped in his God (cf. Job. 1:22; 13:15). 

 

Courage, my dear sister, my daughter!  Look at your Spouse, your King, see how He was crowned with thorns and so racked on the cross that all His bones could be numbered (cf. Ps. 22:18).  Consider how the crown of the bride ought not be of softer stuff than that of the Bridegroom, and that if His flesh was so lacerated that all His bones could be counted, it is only right that one of yours be seen.  “As the rose among the thorns, so is my beloved among the maidens” (cf. Cant. 2:2).[2]  It is the natural place for that flower to be; it is also the most fitting place for the Bridegroom.  Accept this cross a thousand times a day; kiss it gladly for the love of Him who sends it to you out of love and as a rich present.  Often picture your crucified Saviour there in front of you, and think which of the two of you is suffering more for the other; you will find your pain much less.  How happy you will be eternally if you endure for God this lesser evil which He sends you!

 

You will not be deceiving yourself if you imagine that I am near you in these tribulations; I am there in heart and affection and feel great consolation in often speaking to your Spouse of your sufferings and labours (cf. Ps. 142:3).  But, my dear daughter, trust and be strong.  “If you believe, you will see the glory of God” (cf. Jn. 11:40).

 

What do you think a bed of suffering is?  It is nothing else than the school of humility where we lean all about our misery and weakness, and how vain, delicate, and weak we are.  And so, beloved daughter, it is on that bed you will discover your imperfections.  Why there, I ask, more than elsewhere, save that anywhere else they remain hidden within the soul, whereas in suffering, they become visible.  The turbulence of the sea affects every type of person, even those who think themselves quite well, for, after sailing a while, they discover, through the seasickness brought on by the violent tossing of the waves, that they are not as invulnerable as they thought.  One of the great benefits of suffering is that we come to see the depths of our own nothingness, and that the debris of our bad inclinations floats to the top.  But are we to be disturbed on that account, dear daughter?  Certainly not.  It is then that we have to cleanse and purify our heart still more, and take greater advantage than ever of the sacrament of confession.

 

This major concern and the other worries which have beset you and left you in pain do not surprise me, since there is nothing worse.  So do not be anxious, my dearest daughter.  Are we to let ourselves be swept away by the current and the whirlwind?  Let the enemy rage at the gate; let him knock, pound, scream, howl; let him do his worst.  We know for certain that he cannot enter our soul except by the door of our consent.  So let us keep that door shut tight, often checking that it is really well closed; and let us not worry about the rest, for there is nothing to fear.

 

You ask me to write you something concerning peace of soul and humility: I would do so gladly, my very dear daughter, but I don’t know if I can in the little time I have for writing to you.  However, here are three or four words on the subject, dearest daughter.  It is God who inspired you to ask me at one and the same time about peace of soul and humility, for in truth we cannot have the one without the other.

 

Nothing can disturb us but self-love and the importance we give ourselves.  If we are without feelings of tenderness and compassion in our heart, have no delight or devotion in prayer and no interior sweetness in meditation, we fall into sadness; if we have difficulty in doing things well or if something gets in the way of our plans, at once we are anxious to overcome it and fret about getting rid of it.  Why all this?  Undoubtedly because we love our consolations, our comfort, our convenience.  We would like our prayer to be steeped in orange-flower water, and ourselves to become virtuous by eating candy; we do not look at our gentle Jesus who, prostrate on the ground, sweats blood and water in agony (Mk. 14:35; Lk. 22:44) because of the deadly conflict He experiences inwardly between the affections of the inferior part of His soul and the resolutions of the superior part.

 

Self-love, then, is one of the sources of our disturbance; the other is the importance we give ourselves.  Why is it that when we happen to commit some imperfection or sin, we are so surprised, upset, and impatient? Without doubt, it is because we thought we were something special, resolute, and steady, and therefore, when we discover that in reality we are nothing of the kind and have fallen flat on our face, we are disappointed, and consequently we are vexed, offended, and upset.  If we really knew ourselves well, instead of being astonished at finding ourselves on the ground, we would marvel that we ever manage to remain standing up.  That’s the other source of our disquiet: we want nothing but consolation and are taken aback when we see and experience our misery, our nothingness, and our weakness.

 

Let us do three things, my dearest daughter, and we shall have peace: let us have a very pure intention of seeking, in all things, the honour and glory of God; let us do the little we can toward this end, according to the advice of our spiritual father; and let us leave to God the care of all the rest.  Why does anyone who has God for the object of his intentions and who is doing the best he can, let himself be disturbed? Why is he troubled? What has he to fear?  No, no, God is not so frightening to those He loves.  He is content with little because He knows very well that we don’t have much.  And you, my dear daughter, know that Our Lord is called Prince of Peace in the Scriptures (Is. 9:5), and that, wherever He is absolute master, He holds everything in peace.  It’s true, however, that before bringing peace to any situation, He brings the sword there first (cf. Mt. 10:34-36), separating the heart and soul from their most cherished, familiar, and ordinary attachments, such as inordinate self-love, self-sufficiency, self-complacency and similar feelings.  Now, when Our Lord separates us from these attachments we are so fond of, it’s as if He were flaying our hearts alive.  We suffer acutely and almost inevitably we resist with our whole being because we feel this separation most keenly.  Yet all this inner resistance is not without peace, when in the end, though overwhelmed by our distress, we remain resigned to the will of Our Lord.  We keep our own will nailed to His divine good pleasure and in no way abandon our responsibilities and tasks; rather, we carry them out courageously.  Our Lord gave us an example of exterior anguish, He was completely and calmly surrendered to His Father and His divine will, saying, “Let not My will, but yours be done” (cf. Lk. 22:42).  Despite His agony, He went three times to his disciples and admonished them (Mt. 26:40-45).  To be at peace in the midst of warfare, to live serenely amid trials, this, indeed, is to be “Prince of Peace.”

 

From all this I want you to draw the following conclusions.  The first, that very often we think we have lost peace because we are afflicted, and yet, we have not lost it at all; we can be sure of this if in spite of our affliction, we continue to renounce ourselves, remain totally dependent on the good pleasure of God, and do not fail to perform whatever duties we have.  The second is that we must necessarily suffer interior pain when God tears off the last bit of skin from the “old man” in order to refashion him after “the new man” created according to God (cf. Eph. 4:22-24).  It follows that we should not be disturbed about this or think it means that we are in disfavour with Our Lord.  The third is that no thought which cause us disquiet and agitation comes from God who is Prince of Peace; they are, rather, temptations of the enemy, and therefore we must reject them and take no notice of them.

 

In all things and everywhere we must live peacefully.  If troubles, either interior or exterior, come upon us, we should receive them peacefully.  If joy comes our way, we must receive it peacefully, without getting all excited about it.  If there is some evil to avoid, let us avoid it peacefully, without anxiety; for otherwise, in running away from evil, we could fall and give the enemy time to do us in. Is there some good to be done?  Let us do it peacefully.  “Thus is my bitterness transformed into peace,” said the penitent (Is. 38:17).

 

As for humility, I hardly want to talk about it except to suggest that your dear sister [de Chantal] show you what I have written her on the subject.  Read carefully what Mother Teresa has to say about it in The Way of Perfection.  Humility makes it possible for us to be untroubled about our own faults by reminding us of those of others; for why should we be more perfect than anyone else?  In the same way, why should the shortcomings of others bother us when we recall our own?  Why should we find it strange that others have faults when ourselves have plenty?  Humility makes our hearts gentle toward the perfect and the imperfect: toward the perfect, out of respect; toward the imperfect, out of compassion.  Humility helps us to receive afflictions serenely, knowing that we deserve them, and to receive blessings with reverence, knowing that they are undeserved.  Where the exterior is concerned, I would approve of your making some act of humility each day, either in words or in deed.  I mean, in words that come from the heart, as, for example, humbling yourself to someone in a lower position than yours; and in deed, by doing some lowly works or service, either for the house or for some particular person.

 

Do not be distressed about having to stay in bed and not being able to meditate, for to endure the scourging of Our Lord is no less a good than to meditate.  No, it is undoubtedly better to be on the cross with the Lord than to be only looking at Him.  But I know very well that there, on your sick bed, you cast your heart a thousand times a day into the hands of God, and that’s enough.  Be very obedient to your doctors, and when they forbid you certain practices, whether fasting,  mental or vocal prayer, or even the Office, or anything beyond short, spontaneous prayers, I beg you as earnestly as I can, and because of the respect and love you have for me, to be most obedient, for God has so ordained this.[3]  When you are well and strong again, resume your journey quietly, and you will see that with God’s help we will make great progress.  We will go beyond the reaches of the world, beyond its limits and boundaries.

 

My dear daughter, you write me that in every respect you are the “little sister,” but you’re mistaken – I expect greater accomplishments from you than from anyone else.  Believe me, please, that I have nothing more at heart than your advancement before God, and if my blood could further this, you would soon see in what rank I hold you. […]

 

There was no need for you to make excuses to me about the openness of your letter; for if it weren’t that my imperfections and weaknesses might bother you, my own heart would like to be wide open before you.  Have confidence in me and be assured that I have no greater desire than to see in you a spirit of charity that is thoroughly spontaneous and free.  Why do I say this?   Because it seems to me that you are somewhat afraid of offending me: I am by no means thin-skinned and sensitive in this matter, especially when it comes from those with whom I have a friendship rooted in Mount Calvary, near the Cross of Our Lord.

 

I am writing to that daughter of yours to whom you asked me to write, and I am doing so as appropriately as I can, considering her difficulty.  How well St. Bernard expresses it when he says that the care of souls is not for the strong, for they can stand on their own two feet; rather, it is for the weak and faint-hearted who have to be carried and supported on the shoulders of charity, which is all-strong.  This poor little one is of the latter type: pining away, depressed about the problems that stem from her various weaknesses and which seem to overwhelm her.  We must help her as much as we can and leave the rest to God.

 

I should never finish writing this letter to you if I followed my inclination, which is full of love.  But enough; Mass calls me.  There I shall present Our Lord to His Father for you, my dearest daughter, and all your house, in order to obtain from Him the Holy Spirit who directs all your actions and affections to His glory and your own salvation.  I beg Him to keep you from useless sadness and worry, and to take His rest in your heart so that your heart may rest in Him.  Amen.

 

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[1] Oeuvres, XIII, 25-35: Letter CCLXXX.

[2] The flower named is actually the lily, but Francis has adapted the text to his correspondent’s name.

[3] Cf. Sir. 38:1: “Hold the physician in honour, for he is essential to you, and God it was who established his profession.”

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