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Poets sing of the marvel of a glance that is always unique. The destiny of each one also seems unique. There exists, however, a certain correspondence between the phases of each spiritual life as in the rhythm of different ages. An element remains constant, around which the destiny of each human life is formed. The circumstances change, but the spiritual theme, personal for each one, remains identical through all disguises. Its call and the unavoidable exigency of an answer, this combination of what is given and what is desired, constitute what the Gospel calls the personal cross of each man. It is inscribed within us at birth; no power can change it. “Which of you by being anxious about it can add to his stature a single cubit?”7.1
Whether in the heart of a great city or in the midst of a desert, we cannot flee from this personal theme of our life. It accompanies us and speaks to us at every turning on our road. We can answer differently and each time change our course in one direction or another. We can marry or become monks; we can, like Spinoza, polish lenses or repair shoes like Jacob Boehme. The question, our question, remains identical and fixed in us as a constituent element of our being; it is no longer a question, it is we ourselves who are involved.
To understand our “cross” is to foresee the facts of our destiny, to decipher its meaning; it is to understand ourselves. The spiritual life does this; it introduces order, reveals the rhythm of its own growth, and requires a progressive advance.
Religious psychology traces the outline of the evolution in three periods: (1) the preliminary unity of the human being; this is precarious and unstable; (2) the sharp conflict between the spiritual and the empiric; (3) and at the last, the final integration.
With rare exceptions, the spiritual life comes into being in an event that is called “conversion”. Its precise content is of little importance; it is a notable occasion, a shock followed by a sharply defined passage from one state to another. Just as light reveals shadows, it suddenly unveils the inadequacy of the unstable present and orients us to doors opening upon a new world. This beginning of an untried promise causes decisive actions and entails the joyful commitment of our whole being. Even those who have inherited the faith in their childhood pass sooner or later through this by a conscious discovery of their faith, and by appropriating it to themselves personally; this is always an overwhelming experience.
A reading, a meeting, a reflection causes a sudden light to break forth brilliantly. In its brightness, all is seen in its right order as in an inspired poem that gives to each thing a new and inestimable value. It is a religious springtime, full of joyousness and enthusiasm. Like the buds filled with sap, the human being feels himself dilated by a surprising joy and a spontaneous sympathy for everything. This is an unforgettable time. Like a feast illuminated by a thousand lights, it makes one see in God the smiling countenance of the Father coming to meet his child.
This time is of short duration. The face of the Father takes on the face of the Son, and his cross casts its shadow within us. Our own cross stands out clearly, and there is no possible return to the simple and childlike faith of former days. Sorrowful discords tear our soul in its clear-sighted vision of evil and sin; it is an extreme tension between two states that are mutually exclusive. The brutal experience of our falls and weakness can fling us to the edge of despair. We are strongly tempted to cry out that it is an injustice, that God expects too much from us, that our cross is heavier than that of others. An old story tells of a simple and sincere man who felt a similar revolt. An angel led him to a pile of crosses of different sizes and told him to choose. The man chose the lightest, and at once discovered that it was his own! We are never tempted beyond our strength.
God is watching us at the decisive moment. He expects from our faith a vigorous act, the full and conscious acceptance of our destiny; he asks us to assume it freely. No one can do it in our place, not even God himself. The cross is made of our weaknesses and our failings; it is constructed by our enthusiastic impulses and especially by the dark depths of our heart where a secret resistance and a shameful ugliness lurk, by all that complexity which is at this precise moment, the authentic I.
“Love your neighbor as yourself,” allows a certain love of self. It is a call to love our cross. It means perhaps the most difficult act of all--to accept ourselves as we are. We know that the proudest beings, those most avid of self-love, are those who feel ill at ease with themselves and who secretly hate themselves. It is an infinitely serious moment when one encounters himself, for this requires a baring of himself, an immediate and total vision of himself even in his most secret recesses.
“He who sees himself as he is, is greater than the one who raises the dead,”7.2 spiritual men say, stressing thus the importance of this act. The vision is always frightening; consequently we must contemplate Christ. This is the experience of St. Paul and of every Christian. “When I wish to do good, I discover this law, namely, that evil is at hand for me... Unhappy man that I am! Who will deliver me from the body of this death?... Jesus Christ, our Lord.”7.3
In moments of crushing solitude, humility alone can help us in recognizing the radical powerlessness of human nature. It inclines us to cast our whole being at the foot of the cross, and then our heavy burden is lifted by Christ in our place: “Learn of me... For my yoke is easy, and my burden light.”7.4
“Thy will be done,” the fiat springs forth; I accept it as my own. I read in it what God has thought of me, and I recognize my destiny. We are no longer self-centered, but rendered joyful and lighthearted. “Behold the handmaid of the Lord.”7.5 “The friend of the bridegroom, who stands and hears him, rejoices exceedingly at the voice of the bridegroom. This my joy, therefore, is made full.”7.6
According to spiritual writers, the art of humility does not consist of
becoming this or that, but of being in the exact measure proposed by God.
Dostoievski describes this vivid moment by the mouth of the pilgrim Macarius in
The Adolescent. With a single glance, this man envelops the universe,
his life, time and eternity. He can only say as a final chord, “All is in you,
Lord; I am yours; receive me.” Without being yet able to understand
everything, man seizes more than he needs at the moment. His destiny finds the
freshness of a passionately loved existence. It is only after this “second
birth”, this personal Pentecost, that the spiritual life properly so-called
begins.