THE HUMAN THÉRÈSE
Popularly known as the Little Flower, she was born
Thérèse Martin in Alencon, France, the
youngest of five sisters who became nuns. She entered the
Carmelite monastery at Lisieux at the age of 15 and took the name of Thérèse of the Child Jesus
and the Holy Face. Told to write the
story of her life, she composed an autobiography she said reflected not on what
had occurred but on grace at work in the events. She
declared she had suffered much, but even in the
excruciating darkness of mystic purification she continued to rejoice in the outpouring of divine love for her. Thérèse makes her story
a canticle of gratitude to Jesus Christ, whom she sees present with her in
every experience. Her teaching shows how the most
ordinary existence contains potential for extra-ordinary holiness. Thérèse
invites others to follow her “little way” of spiritual childhood, which she
describes as an attitude of unlimited hope in God’s merciful love. Her moral
option fills the book of the
“anawim Yahweh” whose relationship with God is instinct with a placid but bold
confidence that owes everything to the divine Giver. It
was early on that Thérèse placed all her trust in God. “...but in my case, had
not my heart been lifted up to God from its first awakening, had the world smiled at me from the cradle,
there is no knowing what I might have become.” And in her last poem she wrote:
“O thou who cams’t to smile on me, in the morning of my
life, Come, Mother, once again and smile - for lo ! ‘tis eventide.”
NATURAL CHARM
Even though her heart was given to God, it did not lose its natural charm
thereby. A paragraph from her diary: “I chose as friends two little girls of my
age. But shallow are the hearts of creatures. It happened
that for some reason that one of them had to remain at home for several months.
While she was away I thought of her very often, and on her return showed great
pleasure at seeing her again. All I met with, however, was a glance of
indifference - my friendship was not appreciated. I felt this very
keenly, and I no longer sought an affection which had proved so
inconsistent. Nevertheless, I still love my little friend and I pray for her;
God has given me a faithful heart, and when once I love, I love forever. But
perfect love can only exist upon earth in the midst of
sacrifice. A heart given to God loses none of its natural affection; on the contrary, that affection grows stronger by becoming purer
and more spiritual.”
NATURAL SENSITIVITY
To prove once again that he could make use of people with the
frailties that human nature is heir to, God chose Thérèse
who herself admitted, “My heart is naturally sensitive and it is precisely
because of its capacity for pain that I wish to offer to our Lord every kind of
suffering it can bear.” She may well have taken umbrage at Pope Pius X’s
description of her as “the greatest saint of modern
times”, since she knew well how painful and at times stubborn a process was
sainthood. Her mother described the little Thérèse as a
“little imp of mischief...One doesn’t know how she will turn out...she is so
thoughtless...she has a stubborn streak that is almost invincible.” Capable of
violent outbursts of temper, sensitive, touchy, moody, a victim
of scrupulosity, she would weep at the slightest
affront, and then weep again for having wept ! At the
impressionable age of four she had to endure her mother’s death. Childhood’s
gay abandon dissolved into withdrawal and introspection, leaving her more
timid, scrupulous and sensitive than ever. What Thérèse later called her
“conversion”, happened on Christmas Eve, “the night of
illumination”, when “our Lord turned my darkness into a flood of light.” In a
divine instant her identity received the impress of
maturity. By this time Thérèse was 13; yet even at 20 (and at Carmel) she had not lost her sparkle. “She is
filled with tricks...a mystic...a comedienne...she can make you shed tears of
devotion, and she can just as easily make you split your sides with laughter”,
observed her prioress.
FRAILTY and
HIDDENNESS
Sincere awareness of her weakness and an ardent desire to love and be loved
were the dual motors of her psycho-spiritual
progress. “I am resigned to see myself always far from perfect, even glad
of it.” Natural possessiveness was matched by the reflex
to be possessed. “I have flames within me”, she says, “I want to be set on fire
with love.” And with the seal of finality her choice fell
on someone frail and sensitive, with a great longing to be accepted and loved:
Jesus. If flesh is synonymous with frailty, then for Thérèse the
Word became weakness, whose persistent refrain she echoed and re-echoed. Like
Wordworth’s “violet by a mossy stone, half-hidden from the
eye”, she chose Shakespeare’s “blessedness of being little”, believing her true
humanity lay in hiddenness, and it pleased God to keep her inconspicuous even
in her own community. How successful she was in this can be gauged from a
remark of a community member just a few weeks before Thérèse’s death. “She’s a
sweet little Sister, but what will we be able to say about her after her death
? She didn’t do anything.” Little did that community member realise that
within that fragile human frame vibrated a dynamic of
articulate mysticism that still electrifies the human spirit and that would merit her the
splendid title of “Doctor of the Church”. Reading
her diaries alone will persuade anyone that she had synthesised a deeply
biblical way of living the faith in the
full acceptance of human frailty.
The exterior life of Jesus and Mary at Nazareth was so run of the
mill that the neighbours were scandalised when Jesus
announced his divine mission to them. The
supernatural instinct which drew Thérèse of Lisieux to Nazareth was an authentic one. Here she
discovered that she could live the reality of things,
could be completely possessed by God, without its showing externally. The life of Jesus and Mary is the living
illustration and affirmation of the highest mystical
life, with complete detachment from outward appearances, i.e. from all mystical
phenomena. The essence of the
mystical life is constituted uniquely by God’s possession of the
soul, independently of all sensible phenomena which are at best only secondary
components. This simplification is a kind of cleansing which leaves the mystical life purer and loftier. God can produce the most profound supernatural changes without any external
signs marking his action, for the senses (and the psychological consciousness which registers these things)
are very far from the depths where supernatural marvels
are effected. They may, however, be perceived in the
works of charity and justice.
THE “LITTLE WAY”
There is no such thing as “adult baptism;” all baptisms are children’s baptisms,
whatever the age of the recipient,
for “unless you become like little children, you will not enter the
kingdom of heaven”, said Jesus. There is a quality in man that specifies his
nature as no other quality does, and that is his capacity to achieve his
humanity by surrendering himself unreservedly to God. Jesus realised it on the cross: “Father, into your hands...” Young as she was,
Thérèse attained maturity by way of littleness. She had only to be
herself - weak, fragile, and a little child, to let herself be
carried. “I can see that it is enough to recognise one’s littleness”, she said,
“and give oneself wholly like a child into the arms of the good God.”
THE TEST
Her “little way”, however, was not without its agonising over “faults” and
frets about displeasing God and trying to earn his love. This
performance-related meandering lasted three years and a half, when finally a
retreat director “launched me full sail upon the waves of
confidence and love.” She made the voyage without the perks of miracles, visions or voices. All she had was the staid sacrament of the present
moment. “I have frequently noticed that Jesus does not want me to lay up
provisions. He nourishes me at each moment with a totally new food. I find it
within me without knowing how it is there. I believe it is Jesus himself hidden
in the depths of my poor little heart; he is giving me the grace of acting within me, making me think of all he
desires me to do at the present moment.” Thérèse’s little
way of trustful surrender would not pass muster without the
grueling test that she depicted as the “thickest
darkness” that enveloped her especially the last Easter
of her life. Her lungs were already invaded by pulmonary tuberculosis. She had
coughed up blood - the sign in nature of the divine summons, a “distant murmur”, she observed, “which
announced the Bridegroom’s arrival.” What she went
through from then on could just about be expressed in words carved out of the darkest caverns of her vocabulary. Encased in “heavy fog”
that suddenly becomes “more dense”, which not the
slightest sliver of heavenly light can pierce. The
thickening opaqueness mocks her with the voices of a
thousand sinners that death will expose her to ultimate futility -
“the night of non-existence.” “I do not want to
write any more about it”, since “I fear I might blaspheme.” Her accumulated
excellence was being drained into the “black hole” of her
“little way.” Pointing to a row of chestnut trees, she said, “Look, do you see the black hole...where we can see nothing; it’s in a similar
hole that I am as far as body and soul are concerned.....what darkness. But I
am at peace.” Peace in darkness. Can the unaided human spirit attain to this bizarre synthesis ? “If I had
no faith”, Thérèse confessed, “ I would have inflicted death upon myself
without a moment’s hesitation. Yet will I trust him.”
AND FINAL SURRENDER
Were faith not the pearl of great price, it could do
without testing; and irritants and doubts would help ditch it on the roadside of life’s journey. Thérèse’s doubts were so grave
as to make her say, “I don’t believe in eternal life. I think that after life
there will be nothing more. Everything has vanished from me.” Yet she clung to the one thing that mattered. “All I have is love.” The last line she ever wrote was, “I go to him with confidence
and love.” Suffering and death revolted her, as they would any human being. Her Lord had recoiled from their prospect, too.
But like her Lord she believed here was transforming power and movement
- the strange, shattering and clarifying experience
we call the Paschal mystery. Surrendered brokenness is
goodly material for surpassing beauty. Her sister Celine sat by her bed and
asked, “What are you doing ?” “You should try to sleep.” “I
cannot”, replied Thérèse, “I’m praying.” “What are you saying to
Jesus?” “Nothing - I just love him.”
THE AFTERNOON OF 30 SEPTEMBER 1897
Thérèse had asked that she might die the death of the crucified Jesus. And it was granted her. On the
afternoon of 30 September her temptations against faith were so violent that
she was in total darkness. Hours before her death her forehead was crowned with
beads of perspiration. She was agitated and begged those around to sprinkle her
with holy water. Between gasps and close to despair she said, “How we ought to
pray for the agonising !” At this point, Mother
Agnes, seeing her sister in this condition, was bewildered. She knew well that
Thérèse was a saint, but this looked to her more like the
death of a sinner. She rushed out to an older part of the
monastery to a statue of the Sacred Heart, of which she
was very fond, and pleaded, “Oh Sacred Heart of Jesus, do not let my sister die
in despair.” This revealing incident helps us understand better the transition from the agony to the ecstasy of the last moment.
Thérèse had forewarned them: “Do not be surprised; I have asked to die the death of Jesus on the cross, when he
said, ‘Father, why have you abandoned me ?’” She entered the
horrendous night of Jesus’ forsakenness, when all hell was let loose in the form of diabolical temptations. If St. John of the Cross
said that the death of the just is
an event of love that carries them away peacefully, it was not the
death that Thérèse knew. But her torment only served to burn away the residual dross in the gold of her
spirit. Her face suffused with love, with dying lips, Thérèse of Lisieux
breathed her deathless whisper:
“My God, I love you.”