Letters - Direction - Chantal 3A

LETTERS OF St. FRANCIS DE SALES

Do all through love, nothing through constraint

As to your sixth point, I agree that you should divide your time between your father and your father-in-law, and that you try to obtain the good of their souls (the way the angels do, as I said above). It doesn’t matter if you spend more time in Dijon; after all, that is where your first duty lies. Try to be more humbly attentive to both fathers, and work gently toward their salvation. I think it would probably be better for you to spend the winter in Dijon.

I am writing to you father. Since he asked me to write him something that would benefit his soul, I have done so in all simplicity, maybe too much so. My advice to him is two-fold: first, he should review his life as a whole in order to make a general confession – this is something that any man of honour should do before he dies; second, he should try, little by little, to detach himself from worldly ties. Then I suggest to him ways of going about this. I present all this as my opinion, quite clearly and gently, giving him to understand that he must not suddenly break off all his worldly connections, but that he should loosen and untie them. He will show you the letter, I’m sure; help him to understand it and to put my suggestions into practice.

You owe him the great charity of accompanying him as he journeys toward a happy end of life. No human respect should stand in the way of your doing this with humble affection, for he is the first “neighbour” the Lord obliges you to love; and the first thing you should in him is his soul; and in his soul, his conscience; in his conscience, his honesty’ and in his honesty, his concern for his eternal salvation. The same goes for your father-in-law.

Perhaps your father, who doesn’t really know me yet, will misinterpret the liberty I have taken; so help him get to know me, for when he does, I’m sure that more than anything else about me, it’s that very liberty that he will love. I have written a five-page letter to the Archbishop of Bourges[1] in which I describe for him a method of preaching, and along with that, I tell him quite freely what I think about certain responsibilities in an archbishop’s life. In his case, I have no fear of being misunderstood. So, what more could you want? Your father, brother, uncle, children – all are infinitely dear to me.

In answer to your seventh point, about the spirit of liberty, I shall tell you what I think it is. Every good person is free of committing mortal sins and has no willing attachment to them. Such freedom s necessary for salvation, but that’s not what I’m talking about here. The freedom I’m referring to is the “freedom of the children of God” (Rom. 8:21) who know they are loved. And what is that? It’s the detachment of a Christian heart from all things so that it is free to follow the known will of God. You will readily understand what I’m trying to say if God gives me the grace to explain to you the characteristics and efforts of this freedom, and the occasions when it is practised.

We pray to God above all, that His name may be hallowed, that His kingdom come, that His will be done on earth as it is in heaven (cf. Mt. 6:9-10). All this is nothing other than the spirit of freedom; for, provided that the name of God is hallowed, that His kingdom is coming in us, that His will is being done, a free spirit has no other concern.

First characteristic: The heart that enjoys this freedom is not attached to consolations, but accepts affliction with as much docility as nature can manage. I’m not saying that the person doesn’t like or long for these consolations, but just that her heart isn’t bound to them. Second characteristic: A person who has this spirit is not emotionally bound to her spiritual exercises; so, if she can’t do them because of illness or some emergency, she doesn’t get upset. Again I’m not saying that she doesn’t like them, but that she is not attached to them. Third, she hardly ever loses her joy, for no deprivation can sadden a person whose heart is attached to nothing. This isn’t to say that she can’t lose her joy, but if she does, it’s never for very long.

The effects of this freedom are a great inner serenity, a great gentleness and willingness to yield in everything that isn’t sin or an occasion of sin; it’s a flexible disposition, able gracefully to do the virtuous or charitable thing. For example: try interrupting the meditations of someone who is very attached to her spiritual exercises and you will see her upset, flustered, taken aback. A person who has this true freedom will leave her prayer, unruffled, gracious toward the person who has unexpectedly disturbed her, for to her it’s all the same – serving God by meditating or serving Him by responding to her neighbour. Both are the will of God, but helping the neighbour is necessary at that particular moment. We have occasion to practise this freedom whenever things don’t go the way we’d like them to; for anyone who is not attached to her own ways will not get impatient when things go otherwise.

This freedom has two opposite vices: instability and constraint or, in the extreme, dissoluteness and slavishness. Instability is a kind of excessive freedom which makes us want to change our practices or our state in life for no good reason \or without knowing if to do so is God’s will. The least pretext is enough to make us change a practice, a plan, a rule; for the flimsiest excuse we give up a rule or a good custom. Before we know it, our heart is scattered and loses its way; it becomes like an orchard open on all sides, where the fruit is not for the owner but for all who pass by (cf. Ps. 80:13).

Constraint or slavishness is a certain lack of freedom that causes the soul to be unduly anxious or angry when it cannot carry out what it had intended to do, even though it could now do something better. For example: suppose I have decided to make my daily meditation in the morning. If I am unstable, then for the slightest excuse I will put it off until evening, e.g., a dog kept me awake, or I have a letter to write (though there is no urgency about it). On the other hand, if I have a spirit of constraint or slavishness I wouldn’t give up my meditation even if a sick person had great need of my help at that very moment or if I had some pressing obligation which should not be postponed; and so on.

I still want to give you two or three examples of this freedom to help you understand what I’m not explaining very well. But, first of all, I must point out two rules which must be observed if we are not to fail in this matter. First, we should never neglect our exercises and the common norms of virtue unless to do so appears to be God’s will. Now the will of God is indicated in two ways: through necessity or charity. Example: I would like to preach the Lenten sermons in a small town in my diocese. But if I get sick or break a leg, there’s no point in feeling sorry or worried about not preaching, for I can be sure that God wants me to serve Him by suffering and not by preaching. However, if I’m not sick and an occasion comes along to go preach in another place where people might become Huguenots if I don’t go, this would be the will of God, signifying clearly enough that I should very simply change my plans.

The second rule is that when we use our freedom for charity’s sake it must be without scandal or injustice. Example: I am certain I could be more useful somewhere far from my diocese. I must not use my freedom to follow through with this, for I would give scandal and act unjustly since my obligation is here. Therefore, it’s a false use of freedom for married women to absent themselves from their husbands without a legitimate reason, under pretext of devotion or charity. Our freedom must never take us away from our vocation. On the contrary, it should make us content each with our own calling, knowing that it is God’s will that we remain in it (cf. 1 Cor. 7:20, 24).

Now let’s look at Cardinal Borromeo who will be canonized in a few days.[2] He was one of the most precise, rigid, austere men you could imagine; he lived on bread and water; he was so austere that after he became Archbishop, in twenty-four years he went to his brothers’ homes only twice when they were ill, and only twice did he go in his own garden. And yet, this strict man who often dined with his Swiss neighbours (he did this in the hope of having a good influence on them) had no problem drinking a couple of toasts with them at every meal, over and above what he drank to quench his thirst. Here you have an example of holy freedom in the most austere man of our times. An undisciplined person would have drunk too much; one who is very constrained would have been afraid of committing a mortal sin; a person with a true spirit of freedom does it out of love.

Bishop Spiridion, a bishop of long ago, took in a pilgrim almost dead from hunger. It was during Lent and there was nothing to eat in his place but salt meat. He had some of it cooked and offered it to the pilgrim who refused to take it, hungry though he was. Spiridion, who wasn’t at all hungry, out of charity ate some first in order to remove, by his example, any scruples the pilgrim might have. That’s the loving freedom of a holy man.

Father Ignatius of Loyola, who will also soon be canonized,[3] ate meat on Wednesday of Holy week simply on the order of his physician who thought it would be good for some minor ailment he had. A constrained spirit would have had to be coaxed for three days before doing this.

But now I want to show you a “sun” that shines more brilliantly than any of these: a really open, detached spirit who holds on to the will of God alone. I’ve often wondered who was the most mortified of all the saints I know, and after much reflection, I decided it was Saint John the Baptist. He went into the desert at the age of five, and was aware that our Saviour was born in a place very close by, maybe two or three day’s journey away. God only knows how much his heart, which had been moved to love his Saviour from the time he was still in his mother’s womb, would have wanted to enjoy the Lord’s sweet presence! Yes, he spent twenty-five years in the desert, without once coming to see Him; then leaving the desert, he went about catechising without going to visit the Lord, but waited for the Lord to come to him. Afterward, having baptized Him, he didn’t follow Him but stayed behind to do his appointed work (Mt. 3:1-17; Lk. 3:1-22). What mortification! To be so close to his Saviour and not see Him! To have Him so near and not enjoy His presence! Isn’t this having one’s spirit completely detached, bound to nothing, not even to God, in order to do His will and serve Him; to leave God for God, and to not love God so as to love Him better? This example overwhelms me with its grandeur.

I forgot to mention that God’s will is known, not only by the call of necessity and charity, but also by obedience; so true is this that a person who receives a command should believe that this is the will of God. I hope this isn’t too much. My mind is running ahead faster than I would like, carried away by my eagerness to serve you.

In response to your eighth point, remember the feast day of King Saint Louis, the day on which you took the crown of the kingdom from your own heart to lay it at the feet of Jesus, your King; the day on which you renewed your youth like the eagle’s (cf. Ps. 103:5), plunging into the sea of penance; the day that heralded the eternal day of your soul. Remember that to your great resolution of belonging totally to God – body, heart, and soul – I said “Amen” in the name of the whole Church, our Mother; at the same time, the Blessed Virgin and all the angels and saints made heaven resound with their great “Amen” and “Alleluia.” Remember that all the past is as nothing and that every day you must say with David: only now have I begun to really love my God (Ps. 77:11). Do much for God, and do nothing without love: refer everything to this love; eat and drink with it in mind (cf. 1 Cor. 10:31).

Have devotion to Saint Louis and admire his great constancy. He became king when he was twelve years old, had nine children, was continually at war against either rebels or enemies of the faith, and was king for more than forty years. At the end of it all, after his death, the holy priest who had been his confessor all through his life testified that King Louis had never fallen into mortal sin. Twice he had made voyages overseas; both times he lost his army, and on the last trip he died of the plague. After having devoted much time to visiting, nursing, and healing the plague-stricken men of his army, he himself died, cheerful and calm, a verse from David on his lips. I give you this saint as your special patron for the year; keep him before your eyes, along with the others I named above. Next year, please God, I will give you another saint, after you have profited much in the school of this one.

As to your ninth point, I want you to believe two things about me: first, that God wants you to avail yourself of me, so do not hesitate; second, that in what concerns your salvation, God will give me the light I need to serve you. As for my will to serve you, He has already given it to me to such a degree that it couldn’t be stronger. I have received the copy of your vows, which I will carefully treasure, looking upon it as a fit instrument of our union, which is totally rooted in God and which will last for all eternity, by the mercy of Him who is its author.

[…] In one passage in your letter, you seem to consider it settled that some day we shall be seeing each other again. Please God, my very dear sister, we shall. But for my part, I see nothing ahead to warrant my hoping to find time to get there. I told you the reason in confidence at Saint-Claude. I’m tied up here, hand and foot; and you, dear sister, don’t the difficulties of your last journey frighten you? Well, between now and Easter we’ll see what God wants from us; may His holy will ever be ours. I ask you to praise God with me for the efforts of the trip to Saint-Claude. I can’t tell you about them, but they are great. At your first opportunity, write me the story of the gate of Saint-Claude, and please believe that I’m not asking you this out of curiosity.[4]

My mother could not have been more taken with you. I was happy to see that you willingly call Madame du Puits d’Orbe “sister.” She has a greatness of soul, if she receives the right help, and God will use her to the glory of His name. Help her and visit her by letter. God will be pleased with you for this.

It looks to me as if I’ll never finish this letter which I’ve written only with the intention of answering you. Still, I really must finish it now, asking for your prayers which are a great help. How I need them! I never pray without including you in my petitions; I never greet my own angels without greeting yours. Do the same for me, and get Celse-Bénigne to pray for me also. I always pray for him and all your little family. You may be sure that I never forget them in my Mass, nor their deceased father, your husband.

May God be your very heart, mind and soul, my dearest sister. I am, in His merciful love,

Your very devoted servant

[…] Pray once in a while for the conversion of my poor Geneva.

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[1] Madame de Chantal’s brother, André. The letter (Oeuvres, XII, 299-325: Letter CCXXIX) has been translated by John K. Ryan as On the Preacher and Preaching (Chicago: Regnery, 1964).

[2] Actually the deaths of two Popes, Clement VIII and Leo XI, delayed the canonization until 1610.

[3] This canonization actually took place March 12, 1622.

[4] The story involved a dream Jane had had before she met Francis, and a voice which said, “you will never find the peace of God’s children except through the gate of St. Claude.” The decisive meeting just prior to this letter took place, as was noted, in the town of St. Claude. On the dream and its interpretation see Elisabeth Stopp, Madame de Chantal: Portrait of a Saint (Westminster, Md.: Newman, 1963), pp. 63-65.

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