Volume I, Treatise V, Chapter IV

Of Two Sorts of Mental Prayer

To say nothing at present of vocal prayer, though the practice thereof is very holy, and much in use in the Church, we will now speak of mental prayer only, as the apostle St. Paul designed to do, when writing to the Corinthians, he said, “I will pray in spirit; I will pray within my heart; I will sing the praises of God in my mind, I will sing within my heart.” (1 Corinthians 14:15) There are two sorts of mental prayer; the one is common and easy, the other is extraordinary and sublime; which, to speak with those who are most versed in it, we do not so much form in ourselves, as the Holy Ghost forms it in us. It is of this the great Areopagite speaks, when he says, that his master Hierotheus “suffered divine things” (Dion. c. ii. de div. nom.); that is, he was so absorbed in God, that what he did of himself was less his own production, than an impression which he received from God himself. There is a very great difference between these two sorts of prayer, for the first may in some sort be taught by words, but it is not the same of the second, because there are no words able to express it. ‘ And no one can know what it is but who receives it” (Apocalypse 2:17), and experiences it in himself; nor even then can he be able to express, or even know what it is, nor how it is made; and itis this which Cassian very well takes notice of, when he relates that most heavenly and divine sentence of St. Anthony, very fit to our purpose: “that prayer is not wholly perfect, when he that prays has not entirely lost the knowledge of himself, or comprehends what he says,” (Cass. Coll. ix. Ab. Isac, c. 31.) This kind of prayer is so high and sublime, that it does not permit us to think of ourselves, or to make any reflection upon what we then suffer. It sometimes happens, that a man has his mind so taken up and absorbed in some business, that he forgets himself. He knows not where he is, nor of what he thinks. Itis the same in this kind of perfect prayer: wherein man is so ravished and lost in God, that he thinks no more of himself—he knows neither the things that pass within his heart, nor after what manner they pass; and without observing any method, without thinking of passing from one point to another, he loses himself in profound meditation. This is what happened to St. Anthony, of which Cassian makes mention, that oftentimes having gone to prayer overnight, he remained in it till the next day; when the light falling upon his eyes, he complained that the sun rose too soon, to deprive him of those lights, which God interiorly communicated unto him. St. Bernard speaking of this kind of prayer, says, “that we very seldom find it, and when we do, its stay is very short.” (Bern. ser.in Dom.) So that how long time soever it lasts, it seems to us only to have lasted a moment. And St. Austin experiencing in himself the effects it produces; ‘ Lord,” says he, “you cause certain feelings of tenderness to arise in my mind, that are very extraordinary; and I know no sweetness so great as this: but should it still increase, I know not what would happen.” (Conf. lib. x. c. 40.)

But this last kind of prayer has also its subdivisions and degrees. St. Bernard makes mention of three, with reference to those words of the beloved in the Canticles: “Eat, my friends, drink, and be inebriated, my dearest ones.” (Canticle of Canticles 5:1) He says, in the first place, eat, then drink, and last of all inebriate yourselves: and by these different gradations he leads us to that kind, which is most sublime of all; though, nevertheless, all are most perfect, and are in us rather a suffering, or an effect of divine impression, than an action, or an effect that came from our own motion. Sometimes the gardener, to water his garden, is obliged to draw water out of a well by the strength of his arms; and sometimes with folded arms he sees the showers of heaven fall sweetly upon it, and water the earth, without his doing anything but letting it rain, or at most giving a little fall to the water that it may go in greater abundance to the root of the trees, that thereby they may bear the more fruit. The same may be said of the two first kinds of mental prayer we before spoke of; the one is got by the care and diligence with which, by the mercy of God, we apply ourselves to it; the other is purely given us, without our contributing anything to it. The first requires great labour and application; and yet all that does not entirely satisfy you. But the second leads you to a table, that God himself has prepared for you, without your having taken any pains at all; a table very delicious, and a table abounding with all sorts of heavenly dainties. It is this which is signified by those words of the spouse: “The king has led me into his cellar, and replenished me with his love.” (Canticle of Canticles 2:4) And that which our Lord promises in Isaiah, when he says, “I will rejoice them in the house of prayer.” (Isaias 56:7)

This last sort of prayer is a particular gift of God—a gift which he bestows upon whom he pleases, sometimes as a recompense for services done him, and for mortifications suffered for love of him; at other times gratis, and as a, free gift, without any regard to what is past. For it is a favour which proceeds from his pure liberality, and consequently he communicates it to whom he pleases, according to his own words in the gospel: “Is it not lawful for me to do what I please?” (Matthew 20:15) And in fine, itis a thing so far above the reach and conception of the human mind, that we can never teach nor comprehend it. ‘Wherefore, it is not without reason, that they have blamed and forbid certain authors, who, imagining that there were rules to be found, whereby a man might infallibly be rendered a contemplative, would take upon them to teach what no one can ever apprehend, and reduce to art what is entirely above art and nature. Gerson, in a book he composed against Rusbrochius, saverely reprehends him for this, and reproaches him for having separated the flower from the stalk. For, as a flower that we have pulled and carried in our hands fades presently, and loses its beauty; so the most sublime things that God communicates interiorly to a soul, which he elevates to that high degree of contemplation, lose their beauty and lustre, when, taking them out of their true place, we will undertake to explain and communicate them to others. After all, these mysterious analogies, these transformations of the soul, this silence of all the faculties, this annihilation, this immediate union, this depth of Thaulerus, and all the other terms of this nature, what would they express? Can any one comprehend anything by them? For my own part, I must frankly confess I do not. There is, therefore, this difference between divine science and other sciences, as some say very well; that in other sciences, before you can learn them, you must learn their terms, till you perfectly possess and are master of it. In others, the theory precedes the practice; in this the practice goes before the theory.

I say still farther, that not only we cannot express what this prayer is, nor teach it to others; but even no one must seek to raise himself unto it, if God himself does not elevate him thereunto, For otherwise it would be a thought of pride and presumption, whereby we should deserve to be deprived of the grace of ordinary prayer, and remain interiorly dry. ‘‘ He has led me,” says the spouse, “into his cellar” (Canticle of Canticles 1:4); and this mode of acting which God adopts, this entrance which he gives to a soul, to inebriate it with the wine of his love, is a particular grace, and a special privilege, which he accords only to whom he pleases.. Even the spouse herself enters not till her beloved takes her by the hand, and leads her in; she dares not of herself take the liberty of kissing his lips; she is too bashful and reserved to undertake so bold an enterprise as this: she begs this favour, ‘ O that he would bestow upon me a kiss of his mouth!” (Ibid. 1:1) As if she would say, says St. Bernard, as for me I cannot by my own

Vol. 1. A strength elevate myself to so high a perfection of love, to so glorious an union, to so sublime a contemplation, if he himself bestows not this favour upon me. It is, therefore, from him, and from his pure liberality, that we must expect such a grace and favouras this is—it is his goodness and bounty alone that must elevate us to the honour of kissing his mouth, to such a manner of prayer, to so sublime a contemplation, so far above our reach; it is not what we are able to acquire of ourselves—and by ourselves we can neither learn it, nor must or can teach it to others.

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