Salesian Literature

Correspondences and Conferences

 

Francis de Sales as Letter Writer

 

The desk at which Bishop Francis de Sales sat in 1610 served as a resting place not only for his recent edition of the Introduction to the Devout Life. It was also the surface upon which he penned much of his correspondence. Since in the seventeenth century there were no other means by which one communicated with business associates, relatives, and friends, letter-writing was a skill (and an art) in which most literate persons were well versed. The bishop often spent the early or late hours of each day consci­entiously writing letters. Some of the time was spent taking care of official episcopal business, but much of it was given over to what can only be termed spiritual correspondence.

 

Often early in the morning even before his private prayer or the celebration of Eucharist, Francis could be found bent over his writing desk applying himself to his letter-writing task, for the couriers that carried the mail from Annecy left before the busyness of the work day took over. The young bishop always worked in this way: with a sense of focus and discipline in the midst of numerous fragmenting concerns. When he had first be­come a bishop he had drawn up a regula episcopa — a rule of daily life — which helped him to order constructively his many du­ties. It is one of the hallmarks of Salesian spirituality that the love of God can be cultivated in the midst of great busyness. While the heritage of prayer emphasized silence and solitude as the op­timal conditions for a reflective Christian life, Francis de Sales stressed that an equally reflective if different life could be lived "In the midst of worldly concerns." To one of his correspondents, in fact his own sister, Madame de Cornillon (whom he addressed as daughter), he wrote:

 

Let us all belong to God, my daughter, in the midst of so much busyness brought on by the diversity of worldly things. Where could we give better witness to our fi­delity than in the midst of things going wrong? Ah, dearest daughter, my sister, solitude has its assaults, the world its busyness; in either place we must be courageous, since in either place divine help is available to those who trust in God and who humbly and gently beg for God's fatherly assistance.

 

Francis wrote what could be termed letters of spiritual guid­ance to scores of people who sought his advice. He saw them all as friends, lovers of God who like himself were struggling to realize that love in its fullness. As the Introduction suggests, friendships based on shared spiritual aspirations were prized and advocated by the bishop. One of his dearest friends was Madame de Chantal, the woman with whom he co-founded the Order of the Visitation. Jane Frances Fremyot, Baroness de Chan­tal, was a thirty-two-year-old widow with four children when Francis first met her at a series of Lenten sermons he was preach­ing in mercantile Dijon in 1604. She had come to the sermons with her father. Since the death of her husband three years ear­lier Jane had increasingly felt drawn to a deeper relationship with God. Convinced that she was being called to something new by divine initiative, yet feeling pressure from her extended family to remarry, she found herself looking for a spiritual director to help her make sense of the chaotic and intense interior movements she felt. During the 1604 Lenten season she sought out and con­fided in Francis. Thus began one of the most notable of spiritual friendships in the annals of Christian history.

 

A letter of guidance written to Jane seven months after their initial encounter gives insight into Francis as spiritual guide and correspondent. He penned it at his family home, Chateau de Sales, located in the mountainside beyond Annecy. The concrete-ness of his advice, based on traditional normative principles; the gentleness and flexibility of his spirit; the psychological sound­ness of his teachings (sometimes referred to as inspired common sense) — all are evident in the letter. After exploring in Dijon the possibilities of entering into a directorial relationship, the two friends had then subsequently met at the hillside pilgrim­age site of St. Claude. Francis had escorted his mother, and Jane was accompanied by two girlhood friends who also sought out the bishop's counsel. Jane had some time earlier attached her­self to a quasi-director who had burdened her with the recitation of innumerable formal prayers and the performance of elaborate religious rituals as well as bound her to a vow of secrecy. Her hesitation in confiding in someone besides this early unscrupu­lous priest-director is reflected in Francis' careful response. At St. Claude they formally bound themselves to one another as seeker and spiritual guide.

 

The incipient depth of their friendship is clearly articulated in the bishop's hand. Later in their lives it would mature be­yond the director-directee relationship and become a bond of great mutuality. In the letter one can see the way in which gen­eral principles of the spiritual life as understood in that day were applied to concrete situations. Francis alludes to Jane's imme­diate family and to the specific circumstances in which she at that point found herself. Her visit to Dijon had been only a brief respite from a difficult and indefinite stay with her cantankerous father-in-law, the old Baron de Chantal. She was living with her four children — headstrong Celse-Benigne, gentle Marie Aimee, vivacious Francoise, and the baby Charlotte — on her father-in-law's remote country estate under the dominance of a vindictive housekeeper who had borne the old man several illegitimate children.

 

References to others close to her are woven throughout the letter: Those include her brother, Andre, who was the arch­bishop of Bourges, and her childhood friend, Rose Bourgeois, the superior of the abbey of Puits d'Orbe, who under Francis' tutelage would undertake a reform of her religious community. Current ecclesial events and trends are also part of the commu­nication. The upcoming canonizations of two great figures of the militant Catholic renewal — Charles Borromeo, reforming bishop of Milan, and Ignatius Loyola, founder of the Society of Jesus, are mentioned. And the new interest in spiritual reading In the vernacular that was sweeping through society is reflected In Francis' recommendations of three classic authors of spiri­tuality — Bonaventure, Tauler, and Augustine — and a more contemporary author, Andrew Capiglia, a Spanish Carthusian, whose works had been translated into French in 1601. It is worth noting that Francis was unable to refer his correspondents to the gospel texts since no approved Catholic translation was available to them, hence the referral to meditation books as a means of praying with the life and death of Christ.

​

To his friend and directee Francis recommends that several traditional practices be integrated into her devotional life: fast­ing, visiting the poor and sick (part of what are traditionally known as the works of mercy), using the "discipline" (a mild form of bodily mortification), and emulating of saintly figures like John the Baptist and King Louis of France. But mostly he ini­tiates her into the dynamics of the devout life by commenting directly on her particular concerns that she had outlined for him In a previous letter.

 

Sales, October 14, 1604

 

Madam,

 

I have a very great desire to make myself clearly understood In this letter; please God, I will find the means to match my desire! I am sure that you will be encouraged by my response to part of what you asked me about, especially the part about the two doubts that the enemy is suggesting to you concerning your choice of me as your spiritual director. So I am going to tell you what I can, in order to put into a few words what I think you need to consider in this matter.

 

First of all, the choice you have made gives every indication of being a good and legitimate one; so, please, have no further doubt about this. Indications such as these: the strong impulse of your heart that carried you to this decision almost by force, yet with joy and contentment; the time I took to deliberate be­fore agreeing to your wish; the fact that neither you nor I relied on ourselves but sought the opinion of your confessor who is a good, learned, and prudent man; the fact that we allowed time for your first enthusiasm to subside in case it had been mis­placed, and we prayed about this, not for one or two days only, but for several months; without a doubt, all these are infallible signs that we acted according to God's will.

 

Impulses that come from the evil spirit or from the human mind are very different: they are frightening, vehement, vacillat­ing. The first thing they whisper to the agitated soul is not to listen to any advice, or if it does, to listen only to the advice of persons of little or no experience. These impulses urge us to hurry up and close a deal before having discussed the terms, and they are satisfied with a short prayer that serves as a pretext in deciding most important questions.

 

Our case was not at all like this. Neither you nor I made the final decision in this matter; it was made by a third person who had no reason to consider anything but God's will. The fact that I hesitated at first —and this was because of the deliberation I was bound to make —ought to put your mind completely at rest. You may be sure it was not from any disinclination to serve you spiritually (my inclination to do so is great beyond words), but in a decision of such moment I didn't want to follow either your desire or my inclination, but only God and God's providence. So please stop right there and don't go on arguing with the enemy about it; tell him boldly that it was God who wanted it and who has done it. It was God who placed you under that first direc­tion, profitable for you at the time; it is God who has brought you under my direction and God will make it fruitful and useful to you, even though the instrument is unworthy.

 

As to your second point, my very dear sister, be assured that, as I was just saying from the very beginning when you consulted with me about your interior, God gave me a tremendous love for your soul. As you became more and more open with me, a marvellous obligation arose for my soul to love yours more and more; that's why I was prompted to write you that God had given me to you. I didn't believe that anything could be added to the af­fection I felt for you, especially when I was praying for you. But now, my dear daughter, a new quality has been added — I don't know what to call it. All I can say is that its effect is a great inner delight that I feel whenever I wish you perfect love of God and other spiritual blessings. I am adding nothing to the truth, and I speak in the presence of the "God of my heart" and yours. Every affection differs in some particular way from every other affec­tion; that which I have for you has a certain something about It that brings me great consolation and, when all is said, is ex­tremely good for me. Hold that for the truest truth and have no more doubt about it. I didn't intend to say so much, but one word leads to another, and I think you will know what I mean.

 

To me it's an amazing fact, my daughter, that holy church. In imitation of her Spouse, teaches us to pray, not for ourselves only, but always for ourselves and our fellow Christians. "Give us..." she says, "grant us..." and similar all-inclusive terms. It had never occurred to me when praying in this general way to think about any person in particular; but since leaving Dijon, whenever I say "we" I think of particular individuals who have recommended themselves to my prayers; ordinarily you are the one who comes to mind first, and when not first (which is rarely the case), then last, so that I have more time to think of you. What more can I say than that? But for the honor of God, do not speak about this to anyone, for I am saying a little too much, though I say it in total honesty and purity. This should be enough to help you answer all those temptations in the future, or at least to give you the courage to laugh at the enemy and spit in his face! I'll tell you the rest some day, either in this life or the next.

 

In your third point you ask me what remedies there are for the suffering caused you by the temptations the devil suggests to you against the faith and the church. At least, that's what I understand to be the difficulty. I shall tell you what God inspires me to say. In this kind of temptation we must take the same stance that we take against temptations of the flesh, not argu­ing at all, but doing as the Israelite children did with the bones of the Paschal Lamb, not trying to break them but simply throwing them into the fire. In no way must we answer or even pretend to hear what the enemy is saying, no matter how hard he pounds on the door. We mustn't even say 'Who is it?" "That's true," you tell me, "but he is so annoying and is making such a loud racket that those inside can't even hear each other speak." It's all the same; be patient, speak by means of signs: we must prostrate ourselves before God and stay there at his feet; he will under­stand very well from this humble gesture that you are his and that you want his help even though you are unable to speak. But especially, stay inside; don't so much as open the door either to see who is there or to chase this pest away. Finally he will grow tired of shouting and will leave you in peace. "It's about time!" you will tell me....

 

So, courage then! Things will improve soon. So long as the enemy doesn't get in, the rest doesn't matter. Still, it's a very good sign that he is raging and beating at the door; it's a sign that he doesn't yet have what he's after. If he had it, he would no longer carry on this way. He would come in and stay. Remember this so as never to get caught up in scruples.

 

And here is another remedy for you. The temptations against faith go directly to the understanding to draw it to argue, and to get caught up in all these things. Do you know what you should do while the enemy wastes his time trying to scale the walls of your intellect? Slip out the gate of your will and take the offen­sive against him. That is, when a temptation against faith starts raising questions in your mind such as, "How can this be? But what if this? What if that...?," instead of debating the enemy with arguments, let your affective side attack him with full force, and even let your thoughts be reinforced by your voice, crying out "You traitor, you wretch! You left the church of the angels, and you are trying to get me to leave that of the saints! Disloyal, unfaithful, perfidious one! You gave the apple of perdition to the first woman and now you want me to bite it too! 'Get behind me.

 

Satan! It is written: you shall not tempt the Lord your God.' No, I will not argue with you. When Eve tried to dispute with you,

 

he was lost; she argued and was seduced. Live Jesus in whom I believe, live the church to which I cling!" Say these and simi­lar impassioned words. You must speak also to Jesus Christ and to the Holy Spirit in whatever way inspires you, and even pray as well to the church: "0 Mother of the children of God, may I never be separated from you; I want to live and die in you."

 

I don't know if I'm making myself clear. What I'm trying to say is that we have to strike back with the heart and not with our reason, with intense feelings and not with arguments. It's true that at such times of temptation our poor will is without feeling. So much the better. Its blows will strike the enemy that much harder. And when he discovers that instead of delaying your progress, he is giving you the opportunity of expressing countless virtuous affections, particularly that of affirming your faith, he will finally leave you alone.

 

As a third remedy, it would be good once in a while to take fifty or sixty strokes of the discipline, or only thirty, depending on what you can take. It's surprising how effective this measure has been for someone I know. Undoubtedly that's because the physical sensation distracts from interior suffering and calls forth the mercy of God. Moreover, when the devil sees that his partner, the flesh, is being subdued, he gets afraid and runs away. But this third remedy must be taken in moderation, de­pending on the good it achieves, as you will know after trying it out for a few days.

 

When all is said and done, these temptations are simply tri­als like any other, and you must calm yourself, for as Scripture reminds us: "Blessed is he who undergoes temptation; for hav­ing been proved, he will receive the crown of glory" (James 1:12). I have seen few people make progress without experi­encing trials, so you must be patient. After the squall, God will send the calm. But make use especially of the first two remedies I have suggested....

​

If you really like the prayers you are used to saying, please don't drop them; and if you happen to leave out some of what I am telling you to do, have no scruples about it, for here is the general rule of our obedience written in capital letters:

 

DO ALL THROUGH LOVE, NOTHING THROUGH CONSTRAINT; LOVE OBEDIENCE MORE THAN YOU FEAR DISOBEDIENCE.

 

I want you to have the spirit of liberty, not the kind that ex­cludes obedience (this is freedom of the flesh), but the liberty that excludes constraint, scruples, and anxiety. If you really love obedience and docility, I'd like to think that when some legit­imate or charitable cause takes you away from your religious exercises, this would be for you another form of obedience and that your love would make up for whatever you have to omit in your religious practice.

 

I want you to get a French translation of all the prayers you will be saying, not that I want you to say them in French, for they are more devotional for you in Latin, but I want you to under­stand them better. The same goes for the litanies of the Name of Jesus, of our Lady, and the other prayers. But do all this without anxiety and in a spirit of gentleness and love.

 

Your meditations will focus on the life and death of our Lord. I approve of your using the Exercises of Tauler, the Meditations of St. Bonaventure, and those of Capiglia, for in the end, it is always the life of our Lord presented there, as it is in his gospels. But you must simplify all this in the manner I have written out for you. Meditations on the four Last Ends will be good for you, on condition that you always close your meditation with an act of confidence in God, never thinking about death and hell on the one hand, without picturing the cross on the other, so that after having been moved to fear by the first consideration, you will have recourse to the other through confidence. Your period of meditation should not exceed three-quarters of an hour. I like spiritual canticles, but sung with feeling.

 

As for brother ass, I approve of a Friday fast and a frugal sup­per on Saturdays. It's a good idea to hold him down during the week, not so much by cutting down on the quantity of food he is given (moderation must be observed), but by cutting back on the variety of foods you put before him. Nevertheless, I recommend that you treat him once in a while by giving him oats, as St. Francis did, to make him go faster. That's where taking the discipline comes in, for it has a marvelous power of quickening the spirit by stinging the flesh; but use it only twice a week.

 

Do not go to communion less frequently than you've been doing, unless your confessor tells you to. It is a special com­fort for me on feast days to know that we go to communion together.

 

Now for your fifth point. True, I have a particular affection for Celse-Benigne and your other children. Since God has put into your heart a desire to see them totally devoted to his service, you must bring them up with this in mind, gently encouraging them to think along these lines. Find the Confessions of St. Au­gustine and read carefully Book VIII and what follows. There you will see St. Monica, a widow like yourself, and her care for her son Augustine; you will find other things too that will encourage you.

 

As for Celse-Benigne, you will have to inspire him with gen­erous motives and plant in his little soul a noble and courageous ambition to serve God; and you will have to minimize the idea of purely human glory, but do this very gradually; as he grows up, with God's help, we shall think of specific ways of doing this. Meanwhile take care that he and his sisters sleep alone, as far as possible, or with persons whom you can trust as com­pletely as you would yourself. I can't tell you how important this ib. Experience teaches me this every day.

 

If Françoise wants to be a nun of her own accord, fine; otherwise, I do not approve of her being influenced by any rec­ommendations, but only, as in the case of other young girls, by gentle inspirations. As much as possible, we must touch the hearts of others as do the angels, delicately and without co­ercion. Still, I think it's a good idea that you send her to be educated at the monastery of Puits d'Orbe, where I hope true devotion will flourish again very soon. I would like you to coop­erate toward this end. Try to remove traces of vanity from the hearts of your daughters; vanity seems almost innate to their sex. I know you have the Letters of St. Jerome in French; read the one he wrote about Pacatula and the others about the ed­ucation of girls. You will find them refreshing. But do all this in moderation. "Gentle inspirations" sums up all I have to say on the subject.

 

I see that you owe someone two thousand crowns. As soon as you can, get this paid, and be very careful not to withhold from others anything you owe them. Give alms in little ways, but very humbly. I like the practice of visiting the sick, the elderly — women especially —and very young children. I like the practice of visiting the poor, especially poor women — humbly and with kindness.

 

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 your 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 twofold: first, he should review his life as a whole in order to make a general confession —this is something that any man of honor 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 "neighbor" the Lord obliges you to love; and the first thing you should love 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 [Madame de Chantal's brother] 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 is 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 effects of this freedom, and the occasions when it is practiced.

 

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. All this is nothing other than the spirit of freedom; for, provided that the name of God is hallowed, that his kingdom ib 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 neighbor. Both are the will of God, but helping the neighbor is necessary at that particular moment. We have occasion to practice 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 that 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 that 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 that 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 didn'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. 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 neighbors (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, 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 St. John the Baptist. He went into the desert at the age of five and was aware that our Savior was born in a place very close by, maybe two or three days' journey away. God only knows how much his heart, which had been moved to love his Savior from the time he was still in his mother's womb, would have wanted to enjoy the Lord's sweet presence! Yet he spent twenty-five years in the desert, without once coming to see him; then leaving the desert, he went about catechizing 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. What mortification! To be so close to his Savior 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 St. 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 St. 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; and, 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, God 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 effects 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.

 

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-Benigne 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.

​

Several points in the bishop's letter deserve to be noted. First, we become aware that at the heart of his method of spiritual guidance is what has been called the discernment of spirits. He begins by reassuring Jane that her decision to leave her previous director and confide in him is a sound one because it has been conscientiously discerned. It was elaborated upon, outside ad­vice was sought, and it was brought to prayer. The decision did not carry with it agitated, hurried, or violent feelings.

 

The question of how to discover God's will or, put in a more gracious way, how to align oneself with God's desire for one's life, is a central one in Christian spirituality. Methods for discern­ing spirits or determining which interior impulses or voices or promptings come from God and which from some other source (collective pressure, a misguided self, or even an evil source) have been outlined for centuries. Particularly clear is Ignatius Loyola's method. This is one with which Francis was familiar. In this method one pays attention to one's feelings or desires on a particular issue and (to oversimplify, for Ignatian discernment is in fact more complex than this in practice) concludes that feelings of peace, completion, and joy represent a Godward movement, while feelings of anxiety, agitation, and disgust represent what is not in the direction of God.

 

As one continues reading on in the letter, the budding na­ture of Francis and Jane's friendship begins to appear. As the Genevan bishop explored his feelings about their relationship, he discerned there a joyful, consoling affection that, as the years progressed, did indeed grow and deepen. He would see this par­ticular friendship and the many other bonds he cultivated as part of a larger experience — that of becoming a lover of God. In fact, it was about the time that this 1604 letter was written that Francis began ruminating on a book he would eventually compose. He referred to it in its early stages as his "Book of Holy Char­ity." Later it would be entitled Treatise on the Love of God. It would capture his vision of the intertwining of divine and human love. While his ideas were seeded back in his student days at Padua where he studied the biblical Song of Songs under the Benedic­tine Genébrard, who interpreted the Song as a mystical treatise, it was no doubt Francis' experience of loving friendship like the one he shared with Madame de Chantal that allowed his ideas to grow and finally bear fruit.

 

The letter goes on and gives advice to his correspondent about how to deal with her temptations against the faith. It is important to remember that Jane and Francis lived in an era of in­tense religious divisiveness. Loyalists to the church of Rome were pitted, often to the death, against advocates of the Reformed cause. In our modern age of ecumenism, such advice might well be reconsidered. Or at least one might want to separate the pro­cess of resisting "temptations" from the interpretation of what a temptation is. The general process itself is an intriguing one — Francis calls it "slipping out of the gate of your will." In other words, don't get trapped in spinning your wheels in circular ar­guments. Act or make a decision in a decisive way. The process could have wider application.

 

But for most or at least many contemporary Christians, doubts are not considered incompatible with authentic faith. Indeed inter-denominational and inter-religious dialogue have made us aware that to encounter a variety of religious perspectives does not necessarily threaten to undermine our own perspective but serves rather to clarify points of variance and affirm common points upon which mutual respect might be founded.

​

On Jane's fourth point (apparently she had asked her friend about modifying his proposed program of prayers) Francis re­sponds in typically Salesian fashion: Do all through love, nothing through constraint. He emphasizes the necessity for true spirit­ual liberty, an interior spaciousness that is not turned in upon itself. Throughout his writings de Sales makes much of this "liberty of the children of God." One sees it here especially as applied to prayer. The point of prayer is not to fulfill some par­ticular regime but to facilitate loving, creative relationships with God and others. Whatever enables a person to do this should be pursued. He goes on later in the letter to describe this freedom more fully.

 

Finally, about the models to which Bishop de Sales appeals, it will be evident to the modern reader that austere heroes who are commended for visiting their brothers' homes and their own gardens only twice, spending twenty-five years in desert soli­tude, being continually at war with "enemies of the faith" may not be heroes whom twentieth-century Christians would hope to emulate. In our present religious climate we tend to gravi­tate more toward the humanly fallible sinner-saint or to persons whose lives are heroic in their concerns for justice and advocacy on behalf of the poor. Ideals of holiness have changed consider­ably over the centuries and in Francis and Jane's day the austere, physically mortified, uncompromising defender of the faith was a primary ideal.

 

The friendship between Madame de Chantal and Bishop de Sales continued to develop. Early in 1610 he sat once again at his writing desk and penned another letter that gives some glimpse into their developing relationship as well as into his own spirit. Jane's circumstances were considerably different by this time. With Francis' counsel she had gradually begun to discern the outline of her future more grounded in God. She and Francis were to establish (in June of 1610) a new women's community. Jane was to be its first superior. It would be known as the Visita­tion of Holy Mary. The process through which this discernment had been made was a complex one and it had involved much effort on both their parts.

 

The overarching vision of this new diocesan foundation was in keeping with the Salesian spirit. During his years of ministry Francis had noted that there was no niche in the institutional structure of the church for women who seemed called to a deep and prayerful intimacy with God yet who were unsuited for life in one of the austere contemplative monastic orders gaining popularity at the time. Women who were frail of health, handicapped, too young or old, or widows who still had some family responsibilities could not qualify for admission into such con­templative orders. Further, married women of spiritual depth had no place of solitude and quiet where they might go for pe­riods of retreat to refresh themselves. The Visitation, Francis and Jane imagined, would be such a place. Founded as a simple con­gregation (members did not take permanent binding vows), it was open especially to what Francis called "daughters of prayer," women whose love of God was great but who were, in the ecclesial structure of the era, unable to find an environment that could allow them to exercise their gift of prayer because of physical or familial limitations.

 

The year 1610 was that of the Visitation's founding. When Francis wrote to his friend in January he wrote with enor­mous anticipation. She would be traveling from Dijon to Annecy, where the community was to be located, with three of her chil­dren and her friend Charlotte de Brechard. The latter would be entering the community with her. Her eldest child, Celse-Benigne, would stay in Dijon to pursue his education. Her three daughters would be coming south with her. Marie Aimee, who had recently been married to Francis' brother Bernard, would be joining her husband at the de Sales' family chateau. Francoise and Charlotte would live as boarders in the community with their mother. At the time of the letter's composition neither Jane nor Francis knew that little Charlotte would never reach Annecy; she was to die suddenly of a fever just before the trip south began.

​

January 16, 1610

 

... In regard to our coming here, do not hurry because of my anticipated trip to Paris, because, having heard nothing more about that beyond what I showed you, I doubt if it will take place; also it seems to me that to take your three little daugh­ters on a trip during Lent would be rather difficult; besides, your nephew told me that your father and your brother had settled on the time immediately after Easter. Your heart may be saying by now, "Look how this man keeps on postponing!" O my daughter, believe that I am waiting for your day of joy with as much longing as you are; but I am forced to act this way for reasons it is not expedient that I write you about. So wait, my very dear sister, "Wait," I say, using words of Scripture, "while you wait" (Ps. 40:1). Now to wait while we wait means not to worry while waiting, for many persons do not really wait while waiting, but are anxious and restless.

 

So we'll be all right, dear daughter, with God's help. All the little complications and hidden contradictions that come up un­expectedly to disturb my peace actually fill me with an even more serene peace and, it seems to me, are a sign that my soul will soon be settled in God. This really is the greatest and, I be­lieve, the only ambition and passion of my heart. When I say my heart I mean my whole heart, including the person to whom God has united me indissolubly.

 

While I am on the subject of my soul, I want to give you some good news about it: I am doing and shall continue doing for it all that you asked me to do — have no doubt about this. Thank you for your concern for its welfare, which is undivided from the welfare of your own soul (if we can even use the terms "yours" and "mine" when speaking on this subject). And I'll tell you something else: I am a little happier than usual with my soul in that I no longer see anything in it that keeps it attached to this world, and I find it more in tune with eternal values. How happy I should be if I were as deeply and closely united to God as I am distanced and alienated from the world! And how delighted you would be, my daughter! But I'm speaking of my inner disposi­tions and my feelings; as for the exterior and, what is worse, my actions, these are full of all kinds of contrary flaws, for "I fail to carry out the good things I want to do" (Rom. 7:15). Yet I know very well, without pretense and without swerving, that I really want to do them. But, my daughter, how can it be that even with such good will, I still see so many imperfections growing in me? Surely, these come neither from my will nor by my will, although they appear to form part of it. It seems to me that they are like mistletoe, which grows and appears on a tree though it is not part of it —on it but not of it. Why am I telling you all this? It's because my heart always expands and pours itself out spontaneously when it is near yours.

 

Your way of praying is good. Just be very faithful about stay­ing near God, gently and quietly attentive to him in your heart, sleeping in the arms of his providence, peacefully accepting his holy will; for all this pleases him....

 

I'd like to say more about your prayer, for I reread your let­ter late last night. Go on doing as you described. Be careful not to intellectualize, because this can be harmful, not only in gen­eral, but especially at prayer. Approach the beloved object of your prayer with your affections quite simply and as gently as you can. Naturally, every now and then your intellect will make an effort to apply itself; don't waste time trying to guard against this, for that would only be a distraction. When you notice this happening, be content simply to return to acts of the will.

 

Staying in God's presence and placing ourselves in God's presence are, to my mind, two different things. In order to place ourselves in his presence we have to withdraw our soul from every other object and make it attentive to that presence at this very moment, as I have explained in the book. But once we are there, we remain there, as long as either our intellect or our will is active in regard to God. We look either at him or at something else for love of him; or, not looking at anything at all, we speak to him; or again, without either looking at him or speaking to him, we just stay there where he has placed us, like a statue in its niche. And if while we are there, we also have some sense that we belong to God and that he is our All, then we must certainly thank him for this.

 

If a statue that had been placed in a niche in some room had the ability to speak and were asked, "Why are you there?" it would answer, "Because my master, the sculptor, has put me here." "Why don't you move about?" "Because he wants me to be perfectly still." "What use are you there? What do you gain by staying like this?" "I'm not here for my own benefit, but to serve and obey the will of my master." "But you don't see him." "No, but he sees me and is pleased that I am here where he has put me." "But wouldn't you like to be able to move about and to get closer to him?" "No, not unless he ordered me to." "Isn't there anything at all that you want then?" "No, because I am where my master put me, and all my happiness lies in pleasing him."

 

Dear daughter, what a good way of praying, and what a fine way of staying in God's presence: doing what he wants and ac­cepting what pleases him! It seems to me that Mary Magdalene was a statue in her niche when, without saying a word, with­out moving, and perhaps even without looking at him, she sat at our Lord's feet and listened to what he was saying. When he spoke, she listened; whenever he paused, she stopped lis­tening; but always, she was right there. A little child who is at its mother's breast when she has fallen asleep is really where it belongs and wants to be, even though neither of them makes a sound.

 

O my daughter, how I enjoy talking with you about these things! How happy we are when we want to love our Lord! Let's really love him, my daughter, and let's not start examining in detail what we are doing for love of him, as long as we know that we never want to do anything except for love of him. For my part, I think we remain in God's presence even while we are asleep, because we fall asleep in his sight, as he pleases, and according to his will, and he puts us down on our bed like a statue in its niche; when we wake up, we find him still there, close by. He has not moved, nor have we; evidently, we have stayed in his presence, but with our eyes closed in sleep.

 

Well, your baron [Jane's nephew, Jacques de Neufchezes] is here, telling me to hurry up. Good night, my dear sister, my daughter. You will have news of me as often as I can write. Be­lieve me that the very first note I wrote you was absolutely true — that God had given me to you. I am more convinced of this in my heart every day. May this great God ever be our All.

 

I send greetings to my dear little sister [Jane's daughter who had recently married Francis' brother] and all your household. ... Stand fast, dear daughter, and do not doubt: God holds us in his hand and will never abandon us. Glory be to him forever and ever. Amen.

 

Live Jesus and his most holy mother! Amen. And praise be to our good father, St. Joseph! May God bless you with countless blessings.

​

Continued on Next Page

​

Back to Top

​