The Clergy and the Pulpit in Their Relations to the People. Isidore Mullois
which was in my flesh, ye despised not, nor rejected. Where is, then, the blessedness ye spake of? For I bear you record, that, if it had been possible, ye would have plucked out your own eyes, and have given them to me. Am I therefore become your enemy because I tell you the truth? … My little children, of whom I travail in birth again until Christ be formed in you." [Footnote 3]
[Footnote 3: Gal. iv. 12–16, 19.]
… And, again, writing to the Philippians:—"It is meet for me to think this of you all, because I have you in my heart. For God is my record, how greatly I long after you all in the bowels of Jesus Christ. … Yea, and if I be offered upon the sacrifice and service of your faith, I joy, and rejoice with you all." [Footnote 4]
[Footnote 4: Philip, i. 7, 8; ii. 17.]
Alas! in this our day we see around us the same men, the same frailties, the same passions. Let us aim at possessing the same apostolical heart.
In like manner Saint Chrysostom … what love, what charity, what devotedness dwelt in the heart of that Christian orator! And as regards the people with whom he had to deal; what laxity, what vices, what baseness had he not to contend against! Nevertheless, his heart is inflamed with charity, his yearnings are kindled. Exclamations of pain, the plaintive accents of pity escape from him; and even when he grows angry, he entreats, he sues for pardon.
"I beseech you," said he to the faithful, "to receive me with affection when I come here; for I have the purest love for you. I feel that I love you with the tenderness of a father. If occasionally I reprove you rather sharply, it arises from the earnest desire which I have for your salvation. … If you reject my words, I shall not shake off the dust of my feet against you. Not that herein I would disobey the Saviour, but because the love which He has given me for you prevents my doing so. … But, and if you refuse to love us, at least love yourselves by renouncing that sad listlessness which possesses you. It will suffice for our consolation that we see you becoming better, and progressing in the ways of God. Hereby, also, will my affection appear still greater, that while having so much to youward, you shall have so little toward me. … We give you what we have received, and, in giving it, ask nothing but your love in return. If we are unworthy of it, love us notwithstanding, and perchance your charity may render us deserving."
"You love me and I love you," said he, addressing the believers, "and I would willingly give you my life, and not merely that small service which I render by preaching the Gospel unto you."
In consequence of sickness he had been obliged to go into the country. On his return he thus addressed his audience:—"You thought of me, then, during my absence. For my part, it was impossible for me to forget you. … Even when sleep closed my bodily eyes, the strength of your affection for me opened the eyes of my mind insomuch that while sleeping I often fancied that I was addressing you. … I have preferred to return with the remains of my ailment rather than by staying longer away to do any injury to your charity; for while I was in the country you were unremitting in the expression of your grief and condolence. This was the subject of all your letters; and I am not less grateful for your grief than for your praise, since one must be capable of loving in order to grieve as you have done. … Hence, as I am no longer ill, let us satisfy one an other; if, indeed, it be possible that we should be satisfied; for love is insatiable, and the continual enjoyment of it by those whom it endears only inflames it still more. This is what was felt by Saint Paul, that foster-child of Charity, when he said: 'Owe no man any thing but to love one another;' for that debt is always being paid, yet is never discharged." [Footnote 5]
[Footnote 5: Second Homily on Repentance.]
Also the following passage, which is quite to the purpose here: "You are to me in the place of father, mother, brothers and children. You are every thing to me, and no joy or sorrow can affect me in comparison with that which concerns you. Even though I may not have to answer for your souls, I should not be the less inconsolable were you to perish; just as a father is not consoled for the loss of his son, although he may have done all in his power to save him. That I may some day be found guilty, or that I may be justified before the awful tribunal, is not the most pressing object of my solicitude and of my fear; but that you may all, without exception, be saved, all made happy forever, that is enough: that is also necessary to my personal happiness, even if the divine justice should have to reprove me for not having discharged my ministry as I ought; although, in that respect, my conscience does not upbraid me. But what matters it by whom you are saved, provided that you are saved? And if any one is surprised to hear me speak in this manner, it is because he knows not what it is to be a father." [Footnote 6]
[Footnote 6: Homily iii. on the Acts.]
On the other hand, if men ever ought to be loved, if, above all, the heart of the Christian priest ought to be touched, moved even to tears with deep compassion for humanity, this is preëminently the time. Doubtless, humanity is deserving of blame, but it is also most worthy of pity. Who, indeed, can be bold enough to hate it? Let us rather grieve for it: grieve for the men of the world who are truly miserable. … What truths can they lay hold of to resist themselves, to fill the void in their souls, to control themselves under the trials of life? All have been assailed, shaken, denied, overturned. What are they to do in the midst of this conflict of affirmations and negations? Hardly has a powerful and divine truth been presented to them, than one of those so-called talented men has come forward to sully it by his gainsaying or scornful derision.
Above all, the rising generation calls for our pity, because it has so long been famished. The half of its sustenance has been withheld from it by the cruelty of the age.
But let us do it justice: youth appreciates sincerity and candor above every thing. It is straightforward, and hates nothing so much as duplicity and hypocrisy. Well, when a young man awakens into life, what does he see around him? Contradiction and inconsistency, a very Babel of tongues: a discordant, a hellish concert. One bawls out to him, "Reason!" another "Faith!" here some bid him "Suffer!" there others tell him to "Rejoice!" but soon all join in the chorus, "Money, my son, money!" What, we ask, is a youth of eighteen, with all his besetting passions, to do in the midst of confusion like this?
It were well if even the domestic hearth afforded an asylum from this turmoil; but, unhappily, it assumes there its most flagrant form in father and mother. There we find one building up, and the other destroying. The mother prays, the father is prayerless; the mother is a communicant, the father is not; the mother confesses, the father does not; the mother speaks well of religion, the father derides it. … What, we ask again, is a youth to do with his affections under circumstances like these? Reason tells him that if there is a truth, it must be the same for all; if there is a rule of morals, it should apply to all; that if there is a religion, it should be the religion of all. Next, he is tempted to believe that he is being made sport of, and that the words vice, truth, and virtue are nothing but bare words after all. Such is the aspect of things presented to the rising generation; and were it not that there is something naturally good and generous in the hearts of the young, how much would they despise their predecessors in life! …
They are told of the existence of duties, laws, and other subjects of vast importance, and yet they see men who ought to be serious spending their time in material pursuits, in hoarding money, or in sensual gratifications.
Is there not in all this enough to distress a sensitive mind, and to lead it to utter the complaint, "O God! wherefore hast Thou placed me in the midst of such contradictions? What am I to do? My father, the man whom I am bound to resemble most on earth, can I condemn him? Can I any the more blame my mother, or charge her with weakness—my mother, whose influence over me is so strong? What, then, am I to do? What must I become? Is life a desert wherein I am lost? Is there no one to guide me? Those who should direct are the first to mislead me. My father says: Do as I do; follow my example. My mother, with all the power of maternal affection, says: 'No, no, my son; do not follow your father, for if you do you will perish'." What shame should we take to ourselves for a state of things like this, and how much should we pity those who are its victims!
And then the lower classes—the people—who do penance under our eyes in toil and suffering, how can we help loving, how avoid