September 2010 - Vol. 42
John Henry Newman, 1801-1890, was an influential writer and major figure from the Church of England in the Oxford Movement. In 1845 he became a Roman Catholic priest and was made a Cardinal late in life in 1879.
Why am I here?[Note: Minor changes, including capitalization style, were made to allow the text to be more accessible to modern readers. Sub-headings were also added. This sermon was originally titled, God's Will - the End of Life. Editor]
I am going to ask you a question, my dear brothers and sisters in Christ, so trite, and therefore so uninteresting at first sight, that you may wonder why I put it, and may object that it will be difficult to fix the mind on it, and may anticipate that nothing profitable can be made of it. It is this: “Why were you sent into the world?”
Yet, after all, it is perhaps a thought more obvious than it is common, more easy than it is familiar. I mean it ought to come into your minds, but it does not. And you never had more than a distant acquaintance with it, though that sort of acquaintance with it you have had for many years. Or rather, once or twice, perhaps you have been thrown across the thought somewhat intimately, for a short season, but this was an accident which did not last.
There are those who recollect the first time, as it would seem, when it came home to them. They were but little children, and they were by themselves, and they spontaneously asked themselves, or rather God spoke in them, “Why am I here? How came I here? Who brought me here? What am I to do here?”
The vanity of
And a great contrast indeed does this vain, unprofitable, yet overbearing world present with such a question as that. It seems out of place to ask such a question in so magnificent, so imposing a presence, as that of the great Babylon. The world professes to supply all that we need, as if we were sent into it for the sake of being sent here, and for nothing beyond the sending. It is a great favor to have an introduction to this august world. This is truly to be our exposition of the mystery of life. Every man is doing his own will here, seeking his own pleasure, pursuing his own ends, and that is why he was brought into existence.
Go abroad into the streets of the populous city, contemplate the continuous outpouring there of human energy, and the countless varieties of human character, and be satisfied! The ways are thronged, carriage-way and pavement; multitudes are hurrying to and fro, each on his own errand, or are loitering about from listlessness, or from want of work, or have come forth into the public concourse, to see and to be seen, for amusement or for display, or on the excuse of business. The carriages of the wealthy mingle with the slow carts laden with provisions or merchandise, the productions of art or the demands of luxury.
The streets are lined with shops, open and gay, inviting customers, and widen now and then into some spacious square or place, with lofty masses of brickwork or of stone, gleaming in the fitful sunbeam, and surrounded or fronted with what simulates a garden's foliage. Follow them in another direction, and you find the whole groundstead covered with large buildings, planted thickly up and down, the homes of the mechanical arts. The air is filled, below, with a ceaseless, importunate, monotonous din, which penetrates even to your most innermost chamber, and rings in your ears even when you are not conscious of it; and overhead, with a canopy of smoke, shrouding God's day from the realms of obstinate sullen toil. This is the end of man!
How the media
views the world
Pass on to the news of the day, and you will learn what great men are doing at home and abroad: you will read of wars and rumors of wars; of debates in the Legislature; of rising men, and old statesmen going off the scene; of political contests in this city or that county; of the collision of rival interests. You will read of the money market, and the provision market, and the market for metals; of the state of trade, the call for manufactures, news of ships arrived in port, of accidents at sea, of exports and imports, of gains and losses, of frauds and their detection.
Go forward, and you arrive at discoveries in art and science, discoveries (so-called) in religion, the court and royalty, the entertainments of the great, places of amusement, strange trials, offences, accidents, escapes, exploits, experiments, contests, ventures. O this curious, restless, clamorous, panting being, which we call life! – And is there to be no end to all this? Is there no object in it? It never has an end, it is indeed its own object!
Thinking and doing
as one pleases
Listen to their words. Witness, alas! their works. You will find in the main the same lawless thoughts, the same unrestrained desires, the same ungoverned passions, the same earthly opinions, the same willful deeds, in high and low, learned and unlearned. You will find them all to be living for the sake of living. They one and all seem to tell you, “We are our own center, our own end.”
Why are they toiling? Why are they scheming? For what are they living? “We live to please ourselves. Life is worthless except we have our own way. We are not sent here at all, but we find ourselves here. And we are but slaves unless we can think what we will, believe what we will, love what we will, hate what we will, do what we will. We detest interference on the part of God or man. We do not bargain to be rich or to be great. But we do bargain, whether rich or poor, high or low, to live for ourselves, to live for the lust of the moment. Or, according to the doctrine of the hour, thinking of the future and the unseen just as much or as little as we please.”
Why Christ was
sent into the world
What a contrast is all this to the end of life, as it is set before us in our most holy faith! If there was one among the sons of men, who might allowably have taken his pleasure, and have done his own will here below, surely it was he who came down on earth from the bosom of the Father, and who was so pure and spotless in that human nature which he put on him, that he could have no human purpose or aim inconsistent with the will of his Father. Yet he, the Son of God, the Eternal Word, came, not to do his own will, but his who sent him, as you know very well is told us again and again in Scripture. Thus the prophet in the Book of Psalms, speaking in his person, says, “Lo, I come to do your will, O God.” And he says in the Prophet Isaiah, “The Lord God has opened my ear, and I do not resist; I have not gone back.” And in the Gospel, when he had come on earth, “My food is to do the will of him that sent me, and to finish his work.” Hence, too, in his agony, he cried out, “Not my will, but yours, be done.” And St. Paul, in like manner, says that “Christ pleased not himself,” and elsewhere that, “though he was God's son, yet learned he obedience by the things which he suffered.”
Surely so it was; as being indeed the eternal co-equal son, his will was one and the same with the Father's will, and he had no submission of will to make. But he chose to take on him man's nature, and the will of that nature. He chose to take on him affections, feelings, and inclinations proper to man, a will innocent indeed and good, but still a man's will, distinct from God's will. A will, which, had it acted simply according to what was pleasing to its nature, would, when pain and toil were to be endured, have held back from an active cooperation with the will of God.
But, though he took on himself the nature of man, he took not on him that selfishness, with which fallen man wraps himself round. But in all things he devoted himself as a ready sacrifice to his Father. He came on earth, not to take his pleasure, not to follow his taste, not for the mere exercise of human affection, but simply to glorify his Father and to do his will. He came charged with a mission, deputed for a work. He looked not to the right nor to the left. He thought not of himself. He offered himself up to God.
He came to do
his Father’s will
As he had already left his Father's greatness on high, and had chosen an earthly home; so again, at that Father's bidding, he gave up the sole solace given him in this world, and denied himself his Mother's presence. He parted with her who bore him. He endured to be as a stranger to her. He endured to call her coldly “woman,” who was his own undefiled one, all beautiful, all gracious, the best creature of his hands, and the sweet nurse of his infancy. He put her aside, as Levi, his type, merited the sacred ministry, by saying to his parents and kinsmen, “I know you not.” He exemplified in his own person the severe maxim, which he gave to his disciples, “He that loves mother more than me is not worthy of me.” In all these many ways he sacrificed every wish of his own; that we might understand, that, if he, the Creator, came into his own world, not for his own pleasure, but to do his Father's will, we too have most surely some work to do, and have seriously to stop and think ourselves what that work is.
Everyone has a
God sees every one of us. He creates every soul. He lodges it in the body, one by one, for a purpose. He needs, he deigns to need, every one of us. He has an end for each of us. We are all equal in his sight, and we are placed in our different ranks and stations, not to get what we can out of them for ourselves, but to labor in them for him. As Christ has his work, we too have ours; as he rejoiced to do his work, we must rejoice in ours also.
St. Paul on one occasion speaks of the world as a scene in a theatre. Consider what is meant by this. You know, actors on a stage are on an equal level with each other really, but for the occasion they assume a difference of character. Some are high, some are low, some are merry, and some sad. Well, would it not be a simple absurdity in any actor to pride himself on his mock diadem, or his edgeless sword, instead of attending to his part? What, if he did but gaze at himself and his dress? What, if he secreted, or turned to his own use, what was valuable in it? Is it not his business, and nothing else, to act his part well? Common sense tells us so.
Now we are all but actors in this world. We are one and all equal. We shall be judged as equals as soon as life is over. Yet, equal and similar in ourselves, each has his special part at present, each has his work, each has his mission – not to indulge his passions, not to make money, not to get a name in the world, not to save himself trouble, not to follow his bent, not to be selfish and self-willed, but to do what God puts on him or her to do.
The mission of
Dives and Lazarus
Lazarus lay at his gate. He might have relieved Lazarus; that was God's will. But he managed to put conscience aside, and he persuaded himself he should be a fool, if he did not make the most of this world, while he had the means. So he resolved to have his fill of pleasure; and feasting was to his mind a principal part of it. “He fared sumptuously every day.” Everything belonging to him was in the best style, as men speak – his house, his furniture, his plate of silver and gold, his attendants, his establishments.
Everything was for enjoyment, and for show too; to attract the eyes of the world, and to gain the applause and admiration of his equals, who were the companions of his sins. These companions were doubtless such as became a person of such pretensions. They were fashionable men. A collection of refined, high-bred, haughty men, eating, not gluttonously, but what was rare and costly. Delicate, exact, fastidious in their taste, from their very habits of indulgence. Not eating for the mere sake of eating, or drinking for the mere sake of drinking, but making a sort of science of their sensuality. Sensual, carnal, as flesh and blood can be, with eyes, ears, tongue, steeped in impurity, every thought, look, and sense, witnessing or ministering to the evil one who ruled them. Yet, with exquisite correctness of idea and judgment, laying down rules for sinning. Heartless and selfish, high, punctilious, and disdainful in their outward deportment, and shrinking from Lazarus, who lay at the gate, as an eye-sore, who ought for the sake of decency to be put out of the way.
Dives was one of such, and so he lived his short span, thinking of nothing, loving nothing, but himself, till one day he got into a fatal quarrel with one of his godless associates, or he caught some bad illness. And then he lay helpless on his bed of pain, cursing fortune and his physician, that he was no better, and impatient that he was thus kept from enjoying his youth, trying to fancy himself mending when he was getting worse, and disgusted at those who would not throw him some word of comfort in his suspense, and turning more resolutely from his Creator in proportion to his suffering. – And then at last his day came, and he died, and (oh! miserable!) “was buried in hell.” And so ended he and his mission.
sin of Dives
You think it the sign of a gentleman to set yourselves above religion, to criticize the religious and professors of religion, to look at Catholic and Methodist with impartial contempt, to gain a smattering of knowledge on a number of subjects, to dip into a number of frivolous publications, if they are popular, to have read the latest novel, to have heard the singer and seen the actor of the day, to be well up with the news, to know the names and, if so be, the persons of public men, to be able to bow to them, to walk up and down the street with your heads on high, and to stare at whatever meets you. And to say and do worse things, of which these outward extravagances are but the symbol. And this is what you conceive you have come upon earth for!
The Creator made you, it seems, O my children, for this work and office, to be a bad imitation of polished ungodliness, to be a piece of tawdry and faded finery, or a scent which has lost its freshness, and does but offend the sense! O! That you could see how absurd and base are such pretences in the eyes of any but yourselves! No calling of life but is honorable. No one is ridiculous who acts suitably to his calling and estate. No one, who has good sense and humility, but may, in any station of life, be truly well-bred and refined. But ostentation, affectation, and ambitious efforts are, in every station of life, high or low, nothing but vulgarities.
The source of
He alone, the Son of God, “the brightness of the eternal light, and the spotless mirror of his majesty,” is the source of all good and all happiness to rich and poor, high and low. If you were ever so high, you would need him. If you were ever so low, you could offend him. The poor can offend him. The poor man can neglect his divinely appointed mission as well as the rich. Do not suppose, my brothers and sisters, that what I have said against the upper of the middle class, will not, if you happen to be poor, also lie against you. Though a man were as poor as Lazarus, he could be as guilty as Dives. If you are resolved to degrade yourselves to the brutes of the field, who have no reason and no conscience, you need not wealth or rank to enable you to do so. Brutes have no wealth. They have no pride of life. They have no purple and fine linen, no splendid table, no retinue of servants, and yet they are brutes. They are brutes by the law of their nature. They are the poorest among the poor. There is not a vagrant and outcast who is so poor as they. They differ from him, not in their possessions, but in their want of a soul, in that he has a mission and they have not, he can sin and they can not.
O my brothers and sisters in Christ, it stands to reason, a man may intoxicate himself with a cheap draught, as well as with a costly one. He may steal another's money for his appetites, though he does not waste his own upon them. He may break through the natural and social laws which encircle him, and profane the sanctity of family duties, though he be, not a child of nobles, but a peasant or artisan. And perhaps he does so more frequently than they.
This is not the poor's blessedness, that he has less temptations to self-indulgence, for he has as many, but that from his circumstances he receives the penances and corrections of self-indulgence. Poverty is the mother of many pains and sorrows in their season, and these are God's messengers to lead the soul to repentance. But, alas! If the poor man indulges his passions, thinks little of religion, puts off repentance, refuses to make an effort, and dies without conversion, it matters nothing that he was poor in this world. It matters nothing that he was less daring than the rich, it matters not that he promised himself God's favor, that he sent for the priest when death came, and received the last sacraments. Lazarus too, in that case, shall be buried with Dives in hell, and shall have had his consolation neither in this world nor in the world to come.
Do you perform
the work God gave you to do?
Surely there is a middle way, and a safe one, in which God's will and our will may both be satisfied. We mean to enjoy both this world and the next. We will guard against mortal sin. We are not obliged to guard against venial sin. Indeed it would be endless to attempt it. None but saints do so. It is the work of a life; we need have nothing else to do. We are not monks. We are in the world. We are in business. We are parents. We have families. We must live for the day.
It is a consolation to keep from mortal sin. That we do, and it is enough for salvation. It is a great thing to keep in God's favor. What indeed can we desire more? We come at due time to the sacraments. This is our comfort and our stay. Did we die, we should die in grace, and escape the doom of the wicked. But if we once attempted to go further, where should we stop? How will you draw the line for us? The line between mortal and venial sin is very distinct;. We understand that. But do you not see that, if we attended to our venial sins, there would be just as much reason to attend to one as to another? If we began to repress our anger, why not also repress vainglory? Why not also guard against niggardliness? why not also keep from falsehood? from gossiping, from idling, from excess in eating? And, after all, without venial sin we never can be, unless indeed we have the prerogative of the Mother of God, which it would be almost heresy to ascribe to any one but her. You are not asking us to be converted; that we understand; we are converted, we were converted a long time ago. You bid us aim at an indefinite vague something, which is less than perfection, yet more than obedience, and which, without resulting in any tangible advantage, debars us from the pleasures and embarrasses us in the duties of this world."
A soldier of Christ
Has your religion any difficulty in it, or is it in all respects easy to you? Are you simply taking your own pleasure in your mode of living? Or do you find your pleasure in submitting yourself to God's pleasure? In a word, is your religion a work? For if it be not, it is not religion at all. Here at once, before going into your argument, is a proof that it is an unsound one, because it brings you to the conclusion that, whereas Christ came to do a work, and all saints, nay, nay, and sinners do a work too, you, on the contrary, have no work to do, because, forsooth, you are neither sinners nor saints. Or, if you once had a work, at least that you have dispatched it already, and you have nothing upon your hands.
You have attained your salvation, it seems, before your time, and have nothing to occupy you, and are detained on earth too long. The work days are over, and your perpetual holiday is begun. Did then God send you, above all other men, into the world to be idle in spiritual matters? Is it your mission only to find pleasure in this world, in which you are but as pilgrims and sojourners? Are you more than sons of Adam, who, by the sweat of their brow, are to eat bread till they return to the earth out of which they are taken? Unless you have some work in hand, unless you are struggling, unless you are fighting with yourselves, you are no followers of those who "through many tribulations entered into the kingdom of God".
A fight is the very token of a Christian. He is a soldier of Christ; high or low, he is this and nothing else. If you have triumphed over all mortal sin, as you seem to think, then you must attack your venial sins. There is no help for it. There is nothing else to do, if you would be soldiers of Jesus Christ. But, O simple souls! To think you have gained any triumph at all! No. You cannot safely be at peace with any, even the least malignant, of the foes of God; if you are at peace with venial sins. Be certain that in their company and under their shadow mortal sins are lurking. Mortal sins are the children of venial, which, though they be not deadly themselves, yet are prolific of death. You may think that you have killed the giants who had possession of your hearts, and that you have nothing to fear, but may sit at rest under your vine and under your fig-tree. But the giants will live again. They will rise from the dust. And, before you know where you are, you will be taken captive and slaughtered by the fierce, powerful, and eternal enemies of God.
Alas! alas! How different will be our view of things when we come to die, or when we have passed into eternity, from the dreams and pretences with which we beguile ourselves now! What will Babel do for us then? Will it rescue our souls from the purgatory or the hell to which it sends them? If we were created, it was that we might serve God. If we have his gifts, it is that we may glorify him. If we have a conscience, it is that we may obey it. If we have the prospect of heaven, it is that we may keep it before us. If we have light, that we may follow it. If we have grace, that we may save ourselves by means of it.
Alas! alas! For those who die without fulfilling their mission! Who were called to be holy, and lived in sin. Who were called to worship Christ, and who plunged into this giddy and unbelieving world. Who were called to fight, and who remained idle. Who were called to be Catholics, and who did but remain in the religion of their birth! Alas for those who have had gifts and talent, and have not used, or have misused, or abused them. Who have had wealth, and have spent it on themselves. Who have had abilities, and have advocated what was sinful, or ridiculed what was true, or scattered doubts against what was sacred. Who have had leisure, and have wasted it on wicked companions, or evil books, or foolish amusements! Alas! For those, of whom the best that can be said is, that they are harmless and naturally blameless, while they never have attempted to cleanse their hearts or to live in God's sight!
The world goes on from age to age, but the holy angels and blessed saints are always crying alas, alas! and woe, woe! Over the loss of vocations, and the disappointment of hopes, and the scorn of God's love, and the ruin of souls. One generation succeeds another. And whenever they look down upon earth from their golden thrones, they see scarcely anything but a multitude of guardian spirits, downcast and sad, each following his own charge, in anxiety, or in terror, or in despair, vainly endeavoring to shield him from the enemy, and failing because he will not be shielded. Times come and go, and man will not believe, that that is to be which is not yet, or that what now is only continues for a season, and is not eternity. The end is the trial. The world passes. It is but a pageant and a scene. The lofty palace crumbles. The busy city is mute. The ships of Tarshish have sped away. On heart and flesh death is coming. The veil is breaking.
Pray for the gift
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