Salesian Literature

Chapter 11  :  More about degrees in tranquillity: the self-renouncement it sometimes involves

​

It follows, from what I have been saying, that there are various degrees of holy tranquillity.  Sometimes it pervades all the soul’s faculties – when they combine to work as one with the will.  Sometimes it reigns in the will alone – evident on some occasions, indiscernible on others; now and then, you see, the soul experiences the matchless contentment of actual consciousness, through some form of inward enchantment, that God is present … as happened to St. Elizabeth when our Lady visited her.  At other times the soul feels a thrilling charm, as if God were present, though it is not conscious of his presence … as happened to the pilgrim disciples, who were not fully alive to the delightful gratification that stirred them, as they walked along with our Lord, until they reached their destination and recognized him when he broke bread (Lk. 24:31-35).

 

Sometimes the soul is not merely conscious of the presence of God, but actually hears him speaking – through those inner lights and convictions that take the place of words.  Occasionally, when it hears God’s voice, the soul speaks to him … so mysteriously, so calmly, so gently, there is no question of losing its blessed peace and tranquillity; so still, it would seem to be asleep, yet it is awake to its beloved (cf. Cant. 5:2), watching and praying heart to heart with him.

 

At other times the soul hears the bridegroom speak, but cannot talk to him; either reverence, or the sheer joy of listening to him, keeps the soul silent, or else it is experiencing such dryness, such mental inertia, it has no strength for speaking, only for listening.  You will occasionally meet with the physical counterpart of spiritual inertia in the case of people who are just dropping off to sleep, or who are greatly enfeebled by some disease.

 

Finally, however, there are times when the soul neither hears its beloved, nor speaks to him, nor feels any indication of his presence; it simply knows that it is in God’s presence, that it is where God wants it to be.  Suppose the glorious apostle St. John had fallen into a natural sleep on his dear Lord’s breast at the Last Supper, that he had gone to sleep at our Lord’s command … Most assuredly, if that were so, he would have been in his Master’s presence, yet utterly unaware of it.

 

I would also have you notice that more care is needed to become aware of God’s presence than to remain in it once we have that awareness.

 

Once in his presence, however, we have several other ways of keeping ourselves there, as long as – using intellect or will – God is the motive and mainspring of what we do.  For instance, we can look at him, or something else out of love for him; we can listen to him, or to those who speak in his name; we can talk to him, or to someone else for love of him; we can perform some action, anything at all, to give him glory, to do our duty. In these ways we keep ourselves in God’s presence; and not only by listening to him, looking at him, speaking to him, but also by waiting for him to deign to look at us, speak to us, let us talk to him; or even by doing none of these things, but just staying where it suits him to have us, because it suits him to have us there.

 

And if, to this simple process of resting in his presence, he deigns to add the merest consciousness that we are completely his, that he is utterly ours – there is a grace worth having, heaven knows!

 

Let us go so far, dear Theotimus, as to form another picture for ourselves … Suppose a statue, installed by some sculptor in a palace gallery, were gifted with intelligence, could reason and speak; and suppose you were to ask it:

 

“Tell me, beautiful statue, why are you in that alcove?”

“Why,” it would reply, “my master has set me here.”

Were you to retort: “But why are you standing there idle?” it would say:

“My master didn’t put me here to do anything; he meant me to be motionless.”

And if you pressed it further: “But, my dear statue, what is the good of that?”

 

“Heavens above!” it would answer; “I am not here for my own sake, to do anything for myself’ all I’m for is to obey and fulfil my master’s, my maker’s will – and that’s all I want.”

 

“Now look here, statue,” suppose you insisted, “perhaps you will tell me, then, how you get any pleasure out of pleasing someone you cannot see?”

 

“No, indeed, I can’t see him,” it would admit; ‘my eyes are not meant for seeing, any more than my feet are meant for walking.  Still, I’m quite happy to know that my master sees me here, that he enjoys the sight.”

 

The state of tranquillity where the will’s sole activity is simply a consent to God’s permissive will – content at prayer merely to be in God’s sight, if he cares to look – is the best tranquillity of all.  It is free from all self-seeking.  The soul’s faculties find no satisfaction there – not even the will, except in its highest point, where it is content to be contented with having no contentment out of love for the contentment of God’s permissive will in which it rests.

 

The peak of love’s ecstasy, after all, is to long for God’s contentment, not our own; is to gratify, not our wishes, but God’s.

​

​

Back to Top

​