ST. TERESA OF AVILA
Feastday:
15th. October
“The
weather was cold. It snowed or rained all the way. The group passed through
Medina (in Spain), then went to Valadolid where they spent a few days with
Maria Baustita and continued on. The roads were washed out in many places, and
accommodations at the inns were poor. At one point where the danger was great
in crossing a river, Teresa insisted on going ahead in a carriage to see how
safe it would be. ‘If I fall into the river and drown, all of you go back and
wait for better weather.’ Teresa did not
drown, but the carriage had scarcely rolled into the river when it upset.
Teresa jumped into the cold current that came almost up to her knees. ‘Lord’,
she cried, holding her skirt and shivering in the icy water, ‘we’ve put up with
so much already, and now this.’ The
Voice she had learned to love came back,
‘Teresa, this is the way I treat my friends.’ The divine irony was not lost on Teresa. ‘Then, Lord’, she replied, her wry humour
coming from between her chattering teeth,
‘it’s understandable that you have so few.’ It was the familiar exchange between two
hearts at home in each other’s love. Teresa had already been granted the
intimacy of the Spiritual Marriage, but in her everyday life it was consummated
in suffering and the way of the Cross.” (Mary Teresa Donze, “Teresa of Avila”,
pg. 189.)
Born
in Avila in Spain in the year 1515, Teresa’s developing character was a progressing
blending of feminine charm, virile decisiveness and astute diplomacy. A reformer
par excellence, though without having
to go through the throes of conversion of heart like Ignatius of Loyola or
Francis Xavier, much less frightened into a frenzy like Martin Luther.
Irresistible womanly grace was irresistibly swept up into godly virtue for the
Kingdom of Christ, precipitated by a bout of near death illness. From the ashes
of Teresa da Ahumada arose the great Teresa of Jesus. The shrewd aristocratic
business woman, who had taken over the management of her brother’s financial
affairs, now became a merchant who belonged to the only aristocracy which
counts -
that of a generous heart ! When
the world awoke to her, she was already criss-crossing the country, wiping out
the vapidity and hanky-panky from the Carmelite communities. Politically
perceptive, she had hoped that Philip II would make Spain a beacon of Gospel
light, but he made it a flaming stake by undertaking wars of conquests. An army
of mercenaries, even if Friars Preachers walk before it, will never open people’s
hearts to the word of Christ, she felt. In their convents Mother Teresa and her
daughters fought more effectively. These needed the adroit handling that Teresa
could command, treating the young nuns like restive fillies pulling on the
reins, but did not fail to offer a morsel of sugar hidden in the palm of her
hand; and all in God’s service which, like genius, is “an unremitting attention
to details.” The details naturally included finances, and Teresa never dimmed
the headlights of her charm, to the delight of all, to gain her own ends. But,
for this woman God, revealed in her Jesus, was the sole reality. When, as often
as not, human help proved to be worth no more than a few sprigs of rosemary,
she declared, “Now that the idol of money has crashed to the ground, I consider
this foundation (of a new convent) more secure than ever.” On another occasion,
when contributions were skimpy and they were down to their last ducat, she
philosophised: “Teresa of Jesus and three ducats are nothing; but Teresa of
Jesus, three ducats and God are everything.” All that mattered was “my desire
that we should serve the Lord in sweetness....”
The
Lord could be found anywhere, even “among the pots and pans of the kitchen.” It
was, in fact, the Lord’s presence that made meaningful the multitudinous events
of life: cooking stoves, medicines, illness, lizards on the wall, a beautiful
May morning of singing birds, cold, rain and floods, the springless
bone-rattler wagons, the stuffy inns; in short, the nuts and bolts of daily
doing. Her practical spirituality made her once say, “To muffle oneself up in
prayer will not do. The Lord wants deeds, he wants works ! If you see a sick
person whom you can comfort, do not hesitate to sacrifice your devotion and
attend to her; you should feel her pains as if they were your own. Fast, if
necessary, to procure food for her. Such is true union with God.” In her
prayers she “gathers up” her forces, binding them into a bundle of which her
will to serve is the cord. Yet, long after she had experienced the favours of
high mystical union, she wrote - perhaps with a sigh -
“There is no stage of prayer so sublime that it isn’t necessary to
return often to the beginning.” Union
with Christ did not mean becoming someone different, renouncing her gifts,
changing her temperament, but putting everything into her love of God and
opening everything to his transforming influence. Teresa’s business acumen, her
charm and wit, glinting conversation
- “God preserve us from gloomy
saints” - everything was caught up into her
self-offering to him. She could unashamedly admit to feelings of hurt when her
love was not returned, annoyed and angry at times even with her special friend
and adviser, the diminutive John of the Cross, whom she called “my saint and a
half !” Having grasped that the essence of holiness is one with perfect
humanity, she was intent on establishing a way of life - that
of Carmel - in which every single feature aimed directly
at this holiness. Anything not directed to this was pared off.
In
Carmel one discovers solitude as one’s nakedness before God, yet not with the
essential part that others play in forging one to holiness. “Within the little
enclosed world of Carmel there are exactly the same occasions as in the wider
world when our wills are crossed, our self-love wounded, what we think as our
rights disregarded, when we feel put upon, passed over, disliked. There are
situations that stir ambition, envy, covetousness. Life can seem colourless and
monotonous, prayer difficult, other people hard to live with. The Carmelite way
of life fosters a very deep faith which prompts a genuine acceptance and
response to God in these difficulties and temptations. Possibly, because of the
intensity of the life and the lack of diversion their impact is stronger” (Ruth
burrows, “The Way of Perfection”).
On
the feast of St. Francis of Assisi, 4 October 1582, in the Discalced Carmel of
Alba de Termes, Teresa of Jesus quietly bled to death, serene on the rock of
divine mercy and her own lowliness, and murmuring (in Latin), “A pure
heart....a contrite heart....you will not cast away....” The quiet bleeding to death of cancer of the
womb had its own poignancy: the medical cause of death was not revealed to the
community. It is ironic that it was precisely when she was most surrendered to
God, the terms of her surrender - her ultimate human frailty - were
concealed from her nuns as seemingly unworthy of a saint, too natural, earthy,
sexual.
There are only two duties that Our
Lord requires of us – the love of God and the love of our neighbor. And, in my
opinion, the surest sign for discovering our love to God is our love to our neighbor.
And be assured that the further you advance in the love of your neighbor, the
further you are advancing in the love of God likewise. But, O me, how many
worms lie gnawing at the roots of our love to our neighbor: self-love, self
esteem, fault-finding, envy, anger, impatience, scorn. I assure you I write this with great grief,
seeing myself to be so miserable a sinner against all my neighbours. Our Lord, my sisters, expects works.
Therefore when you see anyone sick, compassionate her as if she were yourself.
Pity her. Fast that she may eat. Wake that she may sleep. Again, when you hear
anyone commended and praised, rejoice in it as much as if you were commended
and praised yourself. Which, indeed, should be easy, because where humility
truly is, praise is a torment. Cover also your sisters defects as you would
have your own defects and faults covered and not exposed. As often as occasion
offers, lift off your neighbour’s burden. Take it off her heart and on upon
yourself.
Teresa of Avila’s Reflection
St. Teresa of Avila
(1515 – 82)
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