Volume I, Treatise V, Chapter XX

That We Must Content Ourselves with the Form of Prayer I Have Now Spoken Of, and Neither be Afflicted, Nor Complain, When We Are not Raised by God to More Sublime Prayer

ALBERTUS MagNus says, that he who is truly humble dares not raise his desires so high as to wish for the more sublime prayer, and those extraordinary favours that God sometimes communicates to his elect; for the humble man has such contempt of himself, that he thinks he is unworthy of them. But if it should happen, that without his having contributed anything to it by his desires, God should impart to him some particular consolation, yet he cannot receive it but with fear and trembling; because he thinks that he neither deserves it, nor knows how to make use of it. If, therefore, we have true humility, we shall content ourselves with the common manner of praying, and shall even ascribe it to a special grace of God, that he is pleased to conduct us rather by this secure path of humility, than by any other way wherein perhaps we might go astray and lose ourselves. St. Bernard says, that God deals with us as fathers do with their children whilst they are young. For if a child asks of his father bread, he most willingly gives it to him, but if he asks a knife to cut with, the father refuses it, because the child may therewith do himself mischief. For this reason also, he cuts the bread himself for his child, whereby he both saves him labour, and preserves him from danger. God deals with you in the same manner—he gives you bread ready cut, and will not raise you to that more sublime kind of prayer, lest thereby you might do yourself hurt; that is, lest that other sort of prayer might, perhaps, do you a prejudice, by inducing you to entertain thoughts of vainglory—to believe yourself advanced in spirituality, and to prefer yourself before others. So that God does you a greater favour by cutting your bread himself, than by giving you a knife to cut it. And if in your ordinary prayer he bestows upon you so firm a resolution, as rather to die than offend him; and in effect preserves you all your life-time from mortal sin, what better prayer can you desire, or what greater fruit can you wish to reap from it?

a \ When the elder brother of the prodigal son understood the good reception his father had given him, he tovk it so very ill and so indignantly that he would not so much as enter into his father’s house. “Behold,” says he, “how many years I have served you, and have never disobeyed you in anything, nevertheless you have never yet so much as given me a kid to eat with my friends; but as soon as your son returned, who has spent on bad women all the estate you gave him, you cause a fat calf to be killed for him.” “Son,” replied the good father, “you are always with me”’ (Luke 15:29); as if he would have said, that which I have done to your brother is not because I love him better than you, for you are always in my house; and this particular favour deserves that you should well reflect upon it, and make great account of it. Let us now apply this to our present subject. Is it a small matter, think you, that you should be always with God? He does more for you

by giving you the grace of perseverance, by hindering you from.

separating yourself from him, by preserving you from falling into mortal sin, than if, after you had fallen, he should stretch out his hand to help you up. For it is far more to hinder a man from being hurt, than to cure him after he is so. If, therefore, you derive from your ordinary prayer so considerable an advantage as this, what reason have you to complain? If, by the help of this

prayer, God bestows upon you an ardent zeal for whatsoever belongs to his service, a general indifference to all other things in the world, and an absolute resignation and compliance with all that obedience shall command, what can you desire more? In fine, if by the help of this prayer he preserves you in humility and in his fear—if he gives you a continual custody and watch over yourself, and defends you from all occasions of sin, what is there you can wish for more? Because this is all the fruit that can possibly be reaped from the most sublime prayer; for to what other end than this do all those sweetnesses and particular consolations serve that accompany the other prayer? And without this, what do they signify? But behold what God does to those who persevere in the common way of prayer; if he does not lead them as he does the others, by the way of sublime contemplation, he at least conducts them to the same end: and in this he bestows upon them a double favour, so that he makes them reap from ordinary prayer all the fruit and advantage that can be reaped from the other. Joseph spoke very harshly to his brethren when they appeared before him to buy bread; yet he omitted not to have their sacks filled with corn, and the money they paid for it put into them, and commanded his steward to treat them with all possible kindness. It is in this manner that God oftentimes deals with us.

We do not sufficiently comprehend in what prayer consists; or, to say better, we do nut understand wherein consists our advancement and perfection, which is the end of prayer. Hence it comes to pass, that oftentimes we think we have done wonders, even when we have prayed ill. And, on the contrary, when we have diligently complied with our duties therein, we also believe that we have not made it well. Do but carry the fruit with you from prayer I have taught you to reap from it, and chiefly gain so much over yourself as to pass that day in extreme innocency, and with very great edification of your neighbour, and you will have made a very good prayer, whatsoever dryness or hardness of heart you felt during it. As, on the other hand, if you do not profit in this manner by your prayer, assure yourself that it was not good, though you should have done nothing else but shed floods of tears the whole time of it, and though you even thought yourself, like St. Paul, rapt to the third heaven. Wherefore for the future complain not at all of your prayer, but turn your complaints against yourself, and say, I do not fortify myself enough; I am not so humble as I should be, nor have that patience I ought; I do not so exactly observe silence as the rule requires, nor do I sufficiently recollect myself. This complaint is very just; because it is to complain that you do not the things which you ought and could perform. But to complain of your prayer, and of the aridity you feel in it—to complain of your want of facility in making it, and that you find not that quiet and repose in it, nor those consolations you desire, is, in a manner, to complain of God himself, and is, as Judith said to the inhabitants of Bethulia, “a discourse that is more proper to excite him to anger and enkindle his fury, than to procure his mercy.” (Judith 8:12) It is, moreover, very surprising to see how different our conduct is on this occasion to what it ought to be; for we never complain that we take no care to mortify, to humble, and to amend ourselves, which is what is in our power to do; but we complain of that which God has not left in our power to do, and which he has entirely reserved to himself. Apply yourself, then, seriously to mortify and overcome your passions; use your utmost endeavours in this, and leave the care of the rest unto God. He has a greater desire of our good than we ourselves can have; and if we do but perform what is required on our part, we may assure ourselves he will not be wanting on his, to give us what is most expedient for us. But I shall hereafter treat this matter more at large

‘ in the treatise of Conformity to the Will of God, where it shall be more fully proved that this complaint is unfounded.

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