Salesian Literature

 

9.  Proper Fear of Death   

Sermon for the Thursday after the Fourth Sunday of Lent, March 10, 1622, concerning Our Lord's raising of the son of the widow of Naim, Our Lord's motives for performing this miracle—and in this manner, burial in the Old and in the New Law, God's creative power in raising the dead, the error of some ancient philosophers who say we should not fear death, the holy Fathers' teaching that we must fear death without fearing it, how even saintly souls should fear death, St. Paul's desire for death and Job's desire for death, the secret language of love, that it is good to fear death, how this fear should be combined with confidence in God's Providence, how in order to die well we must lead a good life, how we should daily remind ourselves that we shall die, and how we should always bear in mind the account we must someday render to God and keep ourselves in the state we would wish to be found in at death.

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There were in Galilee several beautiful mountains upon which Our Lord performed many miracles. Among them was one called Tabor, and another named Hermon. At the foot of this mountain was the little town of Naim. It was less than a league from Tabor. Close by, not more than two leagues further on, was the town of Capharnaum, where the Saviour made His principal residence and where He worked very great miracles. For that reason the Nazarenes reproached Him, complaining that He had not done as much in Nazareth us in Capharnaum [Lk. 4:23]. Now Our Lord, having honored that town by choosing it for His principal dwelling place, desired also to honor with His presence that of Naim, which, although it was small, was nevertheless very beautiful. That is why it was called "Naim," which means "beautiful." [Ruth 1:20].

 

As we read in today's Gospel [Lk. 7:11-16], our Divine Master entered the outskirts of this town and discovered a young man who had recently died being carried away for burial. His mother was following the litter, along with a great crowd of people. This young man was the only son of this good widow. He was not only her only son, but her only child as well. That is why she was even more afflicted at her loss and wept most bitterly.

 

Encountering this funeral procession at the gate of Naim, our dear Saviour desired to perform a very great miracle. He therefore stepped up to those who were carrying the body and touched the litter, commanding them to stop there and go no further, which they did immediately. With all the people watching to see what would happen, Jesus pronounced this all-powerful word: "Young man, I bid you, get up." Immediately he sat up on his litter and spoke, and Our Lord took him and gave him back to his mother. All those who saw this prodigy were filled with astonishment and began to praise and glorify God, saying that He had visited His people and that this Prophet was the Redemption of Israel. This is a summary of today's Gospel. I will not dwell long on an elucidation of the text. I will mention only three or four points for our instruction.

 

First, the miracle of this young man's resurrection was one of the greatest that Our Lord performed in Galilee, for He wrought it on His own initiative, being moved to do it solely by His goodness and mercy. It is true that the resurrection of Lazarus was a still greater miracle and took place with more ceremony; but the Saviour resuscitated him at the request of his sisters. [Jn. 11:21-33]. The daughter of the ruler of the synagogue was brought back to life through the prayers of her father, who begged Our Lord to go to his house for this purpose. [Matt. 9:18-19, 23-25]. In a word, all the resurrections[1] related in the Gospel were asked for by someone. This is the only one which was performed by our dear Master's desire alone, and through it He shows us that all His works are done through His goodness alone.

 

This infinite goodness of our God has two hands with which He does all things: one is His mercy, the other His justice. All that His mercy and justice do proceeds from His goodness, for He is sovereignly good both when He uses His justice and when he exercises His mercy. There can be neither justice nor mercy where there is no goodness. Since God is forever Goodness itself, He is always just and merciful. It is the property of goodness to communicate itself, for of itself it is communicative, and to this end it uses mercy and justice: mercy to do good, and justice to punish and uproot whatever prevents us from experiencing the effects of this goodness of our God, this God whose mercy is His justice and whose justice is His mercy. Mercy makes us embrace good, justice makes us shun evil; the goodness of Our Lord communicates itself through these two attributes, since it remains equally good whether it exercises one or the other. Urged on by this goodness alone, by which He does all things, He raised this young man. No other motive moved or prompted Him to it, for no one asked Him to do it.

 

In the second place, He touched the litter, indicating that they should stop, because He desired to resuscitate this young man. The Saviour's touch was not necessary for this miracle any more than for any other. Without touching the litter He could very well have stopped those who carried it, and without any ceremony resuscitated this youth by His almighty power and divine virtue. But He did not choose to act thus. Rather He made use of the imposition of His hands to show that in the days when He was in the flesh [Heb. 5:7], that is, when He conversed in His flesh with men [Bar. 3:38], He mediated His virtue and divine power through His hu­manity. This is what St. John means in his first chapter: The Word became flesh and dwelt among us. [Jn. 1:14]. The ancients taught that God dwelt with them, and that He taught and instructed His people to do His divine will. Yet, as our holy Fathers say, He did not dwell visibly among them, only invisibly. But from the time the Word became flesh, He conversed with us visibly. He dwelt amongst us in His flesh [Matt. 1:23], to show us that He wished to make use of His humanity as a tool or instrument to accomplish the works which belong to His Divinity.[2]

 

In the third place, let us focus on what is meant by His encountering a dead man at the gate of the town, that is, as they were carrying him out of the city. For in the Old Law they buried their dead outside the city to prevent infection from the bodies, and for fear of polluting the air. As St. Jerome writes in his letters, the custom of burying Christians in churches began only after the Incarnation of the Son of God, and was practiced only after Our Lord's death, since it was through that death that the gates of Heaven were opened for us. It seems it was not appropriate to bury in temples those whose souls were not yet in Paradise, but had descended into Hell or into Limbo. But when the gates of Heaven were opened, Christians began to be buried in churches or in cemeteries near churches.

 

In the fourth place, Our Lord said, "Young man, I bid you, get up." It is a little difficult to understand whom He is addressing as "young man." The deceased was certainly not so, either in body or in soul. The soul is neither old nor young. It neither grows nor recedes; it is in no way affected by time. The body was no longer young. Being dead, it was nothing but a corpse. Now inasmuch as this dead man's soul was impervious to change, and inasmuch as a body, separated from its soul, is nothing but a corpse, to whom then was Our Saviour speaking when He said, "Young man, I bid you, get up"?

 

Here is the explanation of this difficulty. This deceased man was not a youth either in body or in soul. Therefore, Our Lord was not speaking to him as if he were, but only as to an object to which He wished to give life. He is demonstrating here His almighty and efficacious word, a word that effects what it says. [Ps. 32 (33):9; 148:5]. As soon as the Saviour pronounced these words, "Young man, I bid you, get up," he who was not a youth, became one.

 

By an all-powerful word God created Heaven and earth. He brought forth being from non-being, since this word is efficacious, effecting what it says. By that word, it made that which is not to be that which is. [Rom. 4:17; 1 Cor. 1:28]. But to whom is He now speaking? To a dead man. The dead do not hear. Who, then, will answer Him? He speaks to this dead man as if he were living, to indicate that the voice of God is heard not only by those who have ears, but also by that which is not. By this He shows that He is powerful over things both created and uncreated. So efficacious is His word that if He speaks to uncreated things, they answer Him by coming into being.

 

The Saviour also desires to speak to this dead man as if he were living in order to help us understand the manner in which we will rise. On the day of judgment, or shortly before, the Archangel will come. [1 Thess. 4:16]. By God's order he will say, "Arise, you dead, and come to judgment!" And at the sound of this voice all the dead will be raised [1 Cor. 15:52] to be judged. But to whom will the Archangel speak? To the entombed dead, to rotting flesh, for our bodies are nothing more than rottenness when they are separated from the soul. And why does the Archangel speak to these cadavers, which are wholly reduced to dust and ashes? Does he not know that the dead hear nothing? And if he does know it, why then does he command them thus: "Arise, you dead"? How can they arise, since they have no life? Yet it is certain that the Archangel will speak to these dead bodies. Spoken by God's order, this word is so powerful and efficacious that it gives life to those without it. Spoken, it does what it says, and from that which is not it brings forth that which is. Thus, these dead, though once reduced to ashes, will rise or be raised up in body and soul and be truly alive once again, just as Our Lord, by His own power, raised Himself up on the third day.

 

But how will this be done? By the power of God's word. Consider that wonderful miracle of Transubstantiation which takes place every day in the Sacrament of the Eucharist.[3] In this General Resurrection there will be the transubstantiation of the ashes, found in the tombs or elsewhere, into true living bodies. These living bodies will be found in an instant in the place destined for the Last Judgment. [1 Cor. 15:52]. Now, if the word, not of many angels, but of a single Archangel uttered by the order of God is so effective that it gives being to that which is not, why do we not believe in every word of God? Why do we have difficulty in believing that what is spoken by Himself or by those to whom He has given the power and charge, cannot bring about that which is from that which is not, even though we may not fully grasp or understand this? What difficulty is there in this article of the resurrection of the dead, since it takes place through the almighty power of God?

 

There is no difficulty, then, in conceiving how this dead boy on the litter was not a youth, but became one when our Divine Master gave him this order: Young man, I bid you, get up. He resuscitated into that state by which Our Lord had addressed him.

 

It was, in some sense, necessary to explain the text of today's Gospel. Now I want to make two additional remarks. I do not have to tell you on what, for you no doubt have guessed that they concern death.

 

The first remark, then, concerns whether we must fear death or not. Some ancient philosophers maintain that we must not fear it, and that those who do lack either understanding or courage. Our holy Fathers disagree with them. Even though Christians perhaps ought not to fear death, since they ought always to be ready to die well, yet, for all that, they cannot be exempt from this fear. For after all, who is there who really knows for certain if he is in the proper spiritual condition to make this passage well, since to die well, we must be good? And who is absolutely certain of being good, that is, of having the charity to be judged such at the hour of his death? No one can know this unless he has received a special revelation. But even those so favored by God's revelation are not exempt from the fear of death.[4]

 

The Stoics used to teach that we must not be apprehensive of death and that to fear it was a sign of lack of understanding and of courage. One wonders how they could have held such a position when the most courageous and learned philosophers among them, while on board a ship, blanched and became paralyzed with fear when they saw the waves on a storm-tossed sea and were threatened with imminent death. St. Augustine relates this, adding the words which one of them spoke on this occasion: "You others are scoundrels and have neither heart nor soul to lose, for you have already lost them; but I," he added, "I fear death because I have a soul and I fear to lose it."[5] In short, our ancient Fathers teach that we must fear death, yet without fearing it. To help you understand this, I will go on to my second point.

 

Those who want to cross streams or rivers on a small raft are in great danger of being lost if they wear glasses. There are two kinds of glasses: the first make objects appear larger than they are, and the others seem to make them smaller, and these latter are used by the nearsighted. Now if those who want to cross on a raft wear glasses which enlarge objects, those objects will appear much greater than they are. Thus they are in danger of their feet missing the raft and, consequently, of being lost. They step into space and fall. If they wear glasses which reduce the appearance of objects, these make the raft appear so small that they dare not try to walk on it, or if they do, they are so seized with fright as to fall. Extremes are always very dangerous and perilous. Now to avoid the anxiety associated with thoughts of death, our ancient Fathers advise us to fear it without fearing it.

 

We must fear it. Indeed, who would not be apprehensive about it, since all the saints have dreaded it, and even the Saint of Saints, Our Saviour? [Mk. 14:34]. For death is not natural to us. We are condemned to die only because of sin [Gen. 3:19; Wis. 2:23-24]. Since Adam's fall, all are subject to sin, and each will be judged in the state in which he dies. At that very moment, we know we must give an account [Lk. 16:2] of our whole life, and that we will be judged on what we have done. [Ps. 61:13 (62:12); Matt. 16:27; Rom. 2:6; 2 Cor. 5:10]. For that reason we dread death. Alas! who knows whether he is worthy of love or hatred [Eccles. 9:1], whether he will be numbered among the elect or not? Therefore, he who does not fear death is in a very bad state and in great peril, for wherever we go after death is eternal: we will either be saved eternally or damned eternally. For this reason all the greatest servants of God have feared this passage as a very formidable one indeed.

 

Now do not tell me that some saints did not fear death, but on the contrary, desired it, asked for it, and even rejoiced at its approach; and that, consequently, we must no longer fear it since this fear is full of terror. It is true that there have been some saints who seem to have desired it. Yet that does not mean that they did not dread and fear it, for we can desire something we fear, and ask for something we do not like. For instance, who is the sick person who does not fear the scalpel when the surgeon needs to cut away a gangrenous member lest it infect and endanger the others? Though he fears it, he nevertheless wants it and even requests it, fearing that, without it, the gangrene will spread. For this reason he asks for the scalpel he fears, and in a certain manner rejoices at the surgeon's approach. Similarly, although there have been saints who desired and asked for death, we must not conclude from that that they were not also fearful of it. There is no one, no matter how holy, who does not justly fear it, the only possible exception being those who have had an extraordinary assurance of their salvation by very special revelations.

 

Since few have had such revelations, few have been exempted from fear of death. Nevertheless, let me offer you two examples of saints who have had this privilege. The first is the great Apostle St. Paul, who received such certain assurances of beatitude that he seemed not to fear death at all, for he himself said: I am hard pressed between two quite contrary desires [Phil. 1:23-25], which trouble me unceasingly and cause me great pain. One is my desire to quit this life, so as to go and enjoy the sweet presence and sight of my Master. Oh! when will it be that I will see Him face to face? [1 Cor. 13:12]. Oh! who will deliver me from this body under the power of death? [Rom. 7:24]. With many other similar words the great Apostle expressed the vehe­ment passion he had to depart from this life and be separated from the body so that his soul, inflamed with the desire to see his Lord, would no longer be held back by its flesh. He had an infinite longing, like a good and faithful servant \Matt. 25:21, 23], to go to meet his dear Master and to enjoy His sweet presence. And it seemed he found life insupportable because it kept him from realizing his desire.

 

But notice how certain he is that when he is separated from his body of death he will see God, for the sole desire which moved him was to see his Master. "Ah! who will permit me this good," he cries out, "that I might die and go to see my Lord Jesus Christ!" In this he makes it clear that he has no apprehension of being separated from Him in dying, but rather that he is very certain that he will attain eternal beatitude and enjoy Him. For that reason he desires and asks to die.

 

Note, however, that in expressing his desire he adds one condition—namely, only if such be God's will for him. "For," he says, "I am restrained by another desire, which is to remain among you, my most dear children, because I have been sent to teach and instruct you. As long as my presence will be in any way necessary for you, I am hard pressed not to separate myself from you, but, for your sakes, to deprive myself of that incomparable and unimaginable contentment that I await after death rather than to leave you, knowing that I can still be of use to you, and while in doing so there remains the least bit of my Master's good pleasure. I do not desire death in order to be delivered from the labors I endure. Oh no, it is not that; still less to be delivered from the pain I suffer from the thirst I have to see my Lord. Rather, I desire it only so that I might see Him. For I am certain that after this life I shall see Him. Nevertheless, I have this other desire: not to die if He does not wish it. Consequently, I wish to remain among you as long as He pleases and as long as He knows that my presence will be necessary for you." If, then, this great saint sighed after death, it was only because he was certain of eternal happiness. If he asked for it, it was only on condition that such would be the will of God.[6] There are some people who ask Our Lord that they might die, and when they are asked why, they answer: "It is to be delivered from the miseries of this life." But are you certain that when you are freed from the labors of this life you will be granted rest in the other? Oh, certainly not. Others say that they would not fret about dying, provided they were certain of going to Paradise; and they are right, for with such assurance death would not be feared. But even if you were certain of going to Paradise, it would not be appropriate ei­ther to desire or to ask for it in order simply to be delivered from the miseries of this world, but only on condition that such be God's will. In conclusion, we must neither desire nor ask for death, nor refuse it when it comes. And in this consists the summary of Christian perfection: to ask for nothing and to refuse nothing.[7]

 

That great character, Job, is another saint who seems to have desired death and to have considered it sweeter than life. Being reduced to so many tribulations and anguish, it seems he had stronger reasons to desire death than to continue living. Oh, what did the incredible sorrow in which he found himself immersed not make him say! Certainly, if the complaints of Job did not proceed from a heart utterly crushed with anguish, they would have been cause for great censure. Just consider these words: "Perish the day on which I was born," and those which follow. [Job 3:1 ff; 6:8-9; 7:15-16, 21]. These would have made him guilty if God had not taken his cause in hand and attested that he did not sin [Job 1:22; 42:7-8] while he was reduced on the dung hill, afflicted in every way imaginable.

 

These words, which seem extravagant, are really loving words and are not understood by everyone. For those who do not know what love is have not understood what this holy man meant. Love of God is similar to human love in this: it happens that foolish lovers of this world often utter words which would certainly be ridiculous if they did not come from a passionate heart. They insist that the ardor of their love forces them to use them, and that this language is understood only by those who know what it is to love.[8] It is the same with divine love. Ardor makes the lover use words which could be censured if they were not understood by those who know the language of this heavenly love.

 

Now, then, since Job was a great lover of God, every word he spoke on his dung hill was certainly a loving word. The flame which consumed his heart made him use foolish words. But the Lord, who penetrated the depths of his heart, saw clearly that it was neither weariness nor impatience which made him speak in this way; rather, it was love that animated him. Certainly our dear Master well knows what it is to love, and He also knows well the language of love. Therefore, He declared that Job had not sinned in anything that he said. He must have known how much this saint loved Him, since He chose to offer him to posterity as a prodigy of patience. So I think that He made Job understand that He treated him in this way so that he might be a mirror and an example of holiness for the whole world, and that the afflictions He sent him and the state to which He reduced him proceeded from the love He bore him. And this holy man understood this very well.

 

I wish to demonstrate this to you by an example found in the Gospel. [Jn. 2:1-5]. When at the wedding feast of Cana in Galilee the Holy Virgin said to Our Lord, with so much humility and charity, that the wine had failed, He seemed to reject her request, replying: "Woman, what is there between you and Me?"[9] Why do you concern yourself about that? What have I to do with it? Such questions seem implied in the answer He gave His Mother, an answer which may seem very rude and unfeeling to those who do not understand the language of love. No one who does not know what it is to love has discovered the correct interpretation of these words. Many things have been written about them which are not at all on target. But the Sacred Virgin knew what it is to love, and thus understood clearly what her Son meant, for she was very familiar with the nuance of His language.[10] She knew from experience His manner of speaking, for after all it was she who taught Him to speak.

 

She was in no way astonished, then, at these words by which He appeared to refuse her request. Rather, she be­lieved that He would do all that she desired. Full of confidence, she gave this order to the waiters: "Do whatever He tells you." It was as if she meant: "If you heard my Son's answer, you will perhaps think it is very severe and that He wants to refuse me. But that is not so. I know by these very words that He desires to do all that I desire. So, do whatever He tells you, and fear nothing, for I am certain He will grant my request. Moreover, these words which seem rude at first glance are really the most gentle and obliging that a loving heart could say to a loving soul. Therefore, I repeat again, only do whatever He tells you."

 

Thus, love has a language which none can understand but those who know what it is to love. Now, the great St. Job speaks lovingly when he says: Perish the day on which I was born, etc. Note, however, that although by these words and similar ones he appears to desire and ask for death, still he was resigned and submissive to the divine will, for he desired only that which would please God. Yet love made him say these things, since he longed to see Him who moved him so deeply with His love. [Job 19:27]. Notwithstanding these two exceptions, I say in conclusion that everyone ought to fear death.

 

Over and above our own reflections, we see in the words that the Lord addressed to our first parents in the earthly paradise that death is naturally feared by man, for when God forbade Adam to eat the fruit from the tree of knowledge, He said to him: "I am your Lord, and therefore you must obey Me; now, as your Lord, I give you a commandment, which is: you shall not eat the fruit of that tree; for if you eat from it you will die." [Gen. 2:16-17]. The chastisement with which God threatened man is the harshest of all and the most contrary to his nature. This is also what Eve meant when, in response to the serpent's temptation to break the commandment, she replied: "But God has told us that if we eat of this fruit we shall die." [Gen. 3:1-3]. In this she clearly showed her fear of death.

 

Now, please do not use the approach that only when we forget death can we live joyously, because the thought of it is fearful. Since such fear is not bad, but actually good and useful, we ought sometimes to allow fear into our souls so as to move them to this wholesome fear of death on account of our sins. This should only be done with care.

 

But our ancient Fathers teach that we ought to fear death without fearing it. What does this mean? It means that although we must fear it, it must not be with an excessive fear, but one accompanied by tranquility; for Christians ought to walk under the standard of God's Providence and be ready to embrace all the effects and events of this kind Providence, confident that it is quite able to take very good care of us. Let us not be carried away by disturbing and morose fears, as happened to that good woman who thought of death in the morning and upset her family for the whole day so that no one had any peace with her. And why was that? Because she had thought of death, and was still all upset about it.

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This is not the way to think about it. Still less should we try to know when we will die and in what place; whether it will be in the country or in the city; on horseback or at the foot of a mountain; or by some stone crushing us; or whether we will die in bed assisted by someone, or alone.[11] What does all that matter? Let us leave the care of it to Divine Providence, which looks after even the birds in the sky. They lose not a single feather without His permission. [Matt. 6:26; 10:29]. Every hair of our head has been counted by God. [Matt. 10:30]. He will take care of us. [1 Pet. 5:7]. It is enough that I am all His, not only by right, but still more in affection. Besides, what should I be concerned about except to abandon myself to that caring Providence which will never fail me, either in life or in death?

 

We must then fear this last passage, but without anxiety or inner disturbance. Let us rather have a fear which keeps us prepared and always ready to die well. And how are we to do that? Your Father, St. Augustine,[12] tells us how in the following words which, though simple and common enough, nevertheless contain much instruction: "To die well we must live well." As our life is, so will be our death. So, to sum up this point, let us say that the general rule for a good death is to lead a good life. It is true that even while living well you will fear death, but your fear will be holy and tranquil, relying on the merits of Our Lord's Passion, without which death would certainly be dreadful and terrifying. Those who die in bed would doubtless be greatly disturbed if they could not see the image of the crucifix, which reminds them that the Saviour was fastened to the Cross for them, and if they could not speak to Him or think of Him mentally. The horror of this last passage and the sight of their innumerable sins might prompt them to despair, but the merits of Our Lord's Passion would fill them with confidence, knowing that He has satisfied for all of our misdeeds by His death.

 

We must, then, fear death without fearing it, that is, we must fear it with a fear which is both tranquil and full of hope, since God has left us so many means to die well. Among others He has left us that of contrition, which is so general [that is, perfect contrition] that it can erase the guilt of all kinds of sin. Besides that, we have the Sacraments of Holy Church to wash us from our iniquities, for they are like channels through which the merits of the Saviour's Passion flow into us so that through them we recover grace when we have lost it. All this being so, what remains except to live abandoned to the events of Divine Providence, asking Him for nothing and refusing Him nothing? For, I repeat, all Christian perfection consists in this point: to ask God for nothing and to refuse God nothing. We should not ask Him for death, yet we should not refuse it when it comes. Oh, how happy are they who will continue in this holy indifference, and who, while waiting for what God has ordained for them, prepare themselves by a good life to die well!

 

That is what all the saints did. There are even some who have the practice of setting aside a certain time each year for a special consideration of death. Others do this once a month; still others, every week; and others every day, select­ing a certain moment to think about it, in the evening or in the morning, and by this frequent remembrance they dis­pose themselves to make this passage well. It [death] is also a very useful thought to have every time we retire, as some do, by reminding ourselves that someday we will be lowered down into the grave. From this we come to this considera­tion: "So, since sleep is the image of death, it follows that when I die, I will be stretched out in the grave; and there, covered with earth, I will be reduced to dust and ashes. And I, ready to sleep in this bed tonight, do not know whether or not I will be alive tomorrow." Sometime during each day we ought to dwell on similar thoughts in order to be ready lo die any day, using each day that we live as we would if we were certain that on that day we were to go forth from this world.

 

In this regard I will relate to you two short stories which I would not mention if I were in any other pulpit. But in this place I feel free to do so. I learned the first one from a pious man I knew. Here it is.

 

The King of Spain sent envoys to make a visitation of the states in a province in which all the police officers had been found guilty of something. The visitors proved very exact and severe in punishing and chastising them. They fined some, they discharged others from their offices, and they even condemned some to hard labor. In short, there was not a single one who was not reproved, except one good old man who was found reprehensible in absolutely nothing. The visitors were high in their praise of him and asked him how he had been able to remain so faithful to his prince, for they had found nothing reprehensible in his life. He answered that he had done only one thing: he kept in mind that one day they would make the visitation of the states in the province and that, without any doubt, visitors would come who would do their job very well. For this reason he had always conducted himself as he would have desired to have done when the visitors presented themselves. In this way he had protected himself, for the fear of being found in a bad state had made him live each day as if it were that day that he would have to render an account of himself.

 

Oh, how happy we would be if every day of our life we would seriously reflect on the account we shall have to ren­der. We would constantly keep ourselves in the same state in which we would wish to be at the hour of death. This would be a good means of living well and of being found without reproach on that last day.

 

I heard the other story from a great princess. She was speaking to me one day about her affairs and told me that she once had an advisor who had retired from the court, ridding himself of all his worldly cares. "I sought him," she added, "to consult with him about one of my lawsuits, for he had the needed documents with him. While in his house I asked for him. But he sent the documents to me, informing me by note that he had relinquished all court affairs in order to take time to think of his conscience and to put his spiritual affairs in order, and that he returned my papers praying to Our Lord to grant a successful issue to my case and to protect my rights. Some time later I returned to him. He told me that he was always busy straightening out his affairs while waiting for the moment he was to render an account of them. A year later I inquired if this good lord were dead. They replied, 'No.' Then I went to see him. I found him occupied in the same way. I concluded from that that he would surely have a happy end."

 

How happy we would be if we thought thus of the account we must render! No longer busy with other affairs, we would always be ready for the day assigned for that. [cf. Matt. 25:13; Heb. 9:27]. We must do it, for death has cotton feet on which it comes so quietly that we scarcely perceive it, and it takes us by surprise. That is why we must be on our guard, so that when it comes it will find us ready. [Matt. 24:44; Apoc. 16:15]. Think of it without fear or excessive dread. But let us resolve to die, since it is something we must do, and with a peaceful, tranquil heart always keep ourselves in the same state in which we would wish to be found at the hour of death. It is the true means of preparing ourselves to die well. Doing this, we will reach eternity, and leaving these days of death, we will reach those of life. God grant us this grace. Amen, amen, amen.

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[1] Today, theologians would tend to reserve the word "resurrection" to denote the rising of Jesus to eschatological life, thus emphasizing its absolutely unique character. St. Francis de Sales is using it in this sermon both for Jesus' rising and for those whom He raised to life. For the latter, contemporary theologians would tend to use only some other expression such as "resuscitation."

[2] St. Francis is here drawing upon the ancient patristic tradition which viewed Jesus' humanity as the means by which His divine power and goodness was mediated to those on behalf of whom He ministered. As with those Fathers, St. Francis wishes to understand this humanity not as a passive, lifeless tool of His Divinity, but as the genuinely free and human response of Jesus to the will of His Father for Him in His redeeming work on behalf of the Kingdom of God.

[3] Cf. Sermon for the Fourth Sunday of Lent.

[4] St. Francis is referring to the Council of Trent's teaching that without a special grace from God, no one can be certain with the certainty of faith either that he is in the state of grace (which entails possessing the virtue of supernatural Charity) at this time (since there is always the possibility of self-deception), or that he will persevere in grace until death. Thus the Christian lives in hope and, with confidence, prays for the gift of final perseverance.

[5] Cf. Treatise on the Love of God, Book 1, chapter 3.

[6] Cf.  Treatise, Book 9, chapter 4.

[7] Cf. Spiritual Conferences, XXI, "On Asking for Nothing"; Sermon for Thursday of Third Week.

[8] Cf. Treatise, Book 6, chapter 1.

[9] Cf. Fr. M. Manuel Miguens, O.F.M.: Mary, The Servant of the Lord (Boston:  St. Paul Editions), p.   128.

[10] There is an important footnote here in the Annecy ed.: " Faite a son jargon"; Dictionaire de Littre, au mot "jargon": language a double entente.

[11] Cf. Introduction to the Devout Life, Part I, chapter 13.

[12] Since the Rule of the Visitation Order is that of St. Augustine, St. Francis de Sales often refers to him as their Father when, as here, he is addressing Visitation nuns.

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