Originally printed in The Reign of Mary, Winter 1987

The Virgin and St. Therese (Part 2)

By a Marian Sister

See also Part 1

In our last article we attempted a consideration of St. Therese’s devotion to the Mother of God as clearly manifested in her words and writings from earliest childhood. It is our hope to enter more deeply into Therese’s spirituality, to better understand her Little Way and specifically the role Our Blessed Mother played in its formation. A certain writer has pointed out that, if we would know Mary, we must study Therese, a “miniature of the Blessed Virgin.” Then would it not be true to say that to know Therese we must study Mary — see her as Therese saw her, believe in her as Therese believed in her, the ideal, the exemplar of the Little Way?

If the reader should ask why we make the attempt, we answer with the Supreme Pontiffs: “There is a call to the faithful of every nation, no matter what may be their age, sex, or state of life, to enter wholeheartedly into the Little Way which led Sister Therese to the summit of heroic virtue” (Benedict XV); “We desire that all the faithful should study her in order to copy her, becoming children themselves, since otherwise they cannot, according to the oracle of the Master, arrive at the Kingdom of Heaven” (Pius XI).

“After my death, I will let fall a shower of roses.” The favors, graces, conversions obtained through the intercession of her whom Pius XII styled “a miracle of virtues and a prodigy of miracles,” began immediately after her death and verified this prophecy. One day Celine had said to her, “You will look down upon us from Heaven, will you not?” “No,” she replied. “I will come down.” Two months before her death, the little Carmelite uttered even more remarkable words: “I feel that my mission is soon to begin to make others love God as I love Him… to teach souls my little way…I will spend my Heaven in doing good on earth.”

Do not most saints feel they have their own work to do for God, and that life, alas, is all too short in which to do it? Is there not some dream unfulfilled, some far-distant China within view of all dying Francis Xaviers, who cry out with the Psalmist: “My web was scarce begun when He cut me off”? This is true with all great men; the saints are no exception. But Therese is different. For her there are no regrets at death. Her mission is not ended; it has only just begun. “All the world will love me,” she is certain of it.“No, there cannot be any rest for me until the end of the world – till the Angel shall have said: ‘Time is no more.’ Then I shall take my rest; then I shall be able to rejoice because the number of the elect will be complete” (Autobiography, p. 23). So certain is Therese of her impending mission that at her death she made some very astounding prophecies. Speaking of the rose petals slipping from her bed, she said to her sisters, “Gather up these petals, little sisters; they will help you to perform favors later on…” (St. Therese of Lisieux, Her Last Conversations, translated by John Clarke, O.C.D., p. 190). Her sister Marie tells us, “During the month of August, about six weeks before her death… without any provocation, she looked at us with a heavenly air and said very distinctly: ‘You know well you are taking care of a little saint.’ …l was very much moved by these words as though I had heard a saint predict what would happen after her death” (Ibid., p. 263). Now we are not used to saints expressing themselves so simply; it may even strike us as contrary to the virtue of humility. Would it not be better to look for some corner in which to weep over the failings of one’s life before we come face to face with God?

Now humility is the truth, say the saints. Perhaps no saint has understood this more clearly than little Therese. “When I was humbled on former occasions,” she says, “I was very happy. Yes, it seems to me I am humble. God shows me the truth. I feel so much that everything comes from Him” (Ibid., p. 132). What saint ever so humble has yet had the humility to say, “I am humble”? Surely this is an echo of her virtue who sang, “He has regarded the humility of His handmaiden, for behold, from henceforth all generations shall call me blessed.” Our Blessed Lady knew she was immaculately conceived, that God had chosen her to be His Mother, that she was blessed among women. Therese, the miniature of the Virgin, knew that God had enriched her soul with grace and that from the age of three she had refused Him nothing. This was the truth, and she was too honest not to admit it.

Yes, she was certain of God’s love for her. Her confidence was well-nigh infinite. But from whence sprang this beautiful trust? In the knowledge of her virtues and merits? Oh, surely not! Therese felt herself the weakest, the littlest of God’s creatures. With Augustine, she knew there was no sin she could not have committed were it not for His mercy. “Leaving the Pharisee to go forward, I repeat with all confidence the humble prayer of the publican… It is not merely because I have been preserved from mortal sin that I lift up my heart to God in trust and in love. I am certain that even if I had on my conscience every imaginable crime, I should lose nothing of my confidence…” (Autobiography, p. 194).

Most of us know ourselves to be unworthy, ungrateful, miserable. How can we be so certain God loves us? Surely we have nothing to make us lovable in His eyes. Yet, for all this misery, God does love us! Think for a moment how good, everlastingly good He has been to us — so many gifts, so many graces! So much forgiveness, forbearance and patience with us! Surely, His mercies are without end. And why? Because we deserve it, because we merit it? Rather, because we are so absolutely miserable, so helpless, so weak; This very misery is our claim to God’s mercy.

Therese understood this. In her, humility begets no sighs, no tears, no groans. It is the source only of confidence; the sight of her nothingness fills her with joy, she glories in her infirmities. Could the little child who does everything wrong and falls at every step only realize that it is that very weakness that draws the heart of the father to look down with such love and tenderness, and take it into his arms — surely that child would not even wish to grow up; he would wish to remain ever little and so always to have such a claim to mercy.

This is spiritual childhood. Therese admits, after a small failing, “I confess I am much happier because of my weakness than if — sustained by grace — I had been a model of patience…” “You are quite wrong, Marie, if you think that Therese walks eagerly along the way of sacrifice; her weakness is still very great… Yet Jesus delights to teach her how to glory in her infirmities. It is a great grace and I pray Him to give it to you, for with it come peace and tranquillity of heart” (Letter to Marie Guerin, Autobiography, p. 367).

A contemporary of the Little Flower, Dom Columba Marmion, Abbot of the Benedictine monastery of Maredsous, seems to have received similar lights regarding our miseries and the mercy of God. Surely he had studied St. Therese’s teaching, for we find him, as early as 1911, urging the Sovereign Pontiff to authorize the introduction of her cause in Rome. In 1921 he writes to one of his spiritual children, “For some time past God has been making me see in a magnificent light that His Majesty’s whole plan, His whole ’economy’ towards us is an economy of mercy. It is our miseries which, united to Christ’s sufferings and infirmities, draw down all the graces He gives us” (Union With God, p. 126). Little Therese and the great Abbot were surely kindred souls!

Confidence, joy, peace of soul, these are the beautiful fruits of humility. But there is another. Fr. Faber, writing in All for Jesus, observes, “I have a great notion of the spirit of concealment being something like two-thirds of practical Christianity.” One of pride’s baneful effects is the inordinate esteem we have for the good opinion of others, which makes us seek big and showy things so that we feel important; sometimes we find ourselves working more for praise than for God, or at least feel unhappy when we are unnoticed and forgotten. Now with the truly humble, things are quite the opposite. Thus we find St. Louis de Montfort writing in his True Devotion to Mary that Our Lady’s “humility was so profound that she had no inclination on earth more powerful or more constant than that of hiding herself, from herself as well as from every other creature, so as to be known to God only.” He tells us that Our Blessed Lady begged God to keep her hidden, to humble her — and that God heard her prayer.

Our Lady’s whole life was one of hiddenness — no miracles, no ecstasies, nothing ever accomplished that could be called great in the eyes of the world. Our Divine Lord seemed to humble her before men, calling her Woman rather than Mother; and when He says that anyone who does His Father’s Will is as His Mother — it seems to us to be a slight to her whom He certainly loved more than all creatures put together. But is not that just what Our Lady had so ardently desired?

Like her Mother, Therese wished for the same grace: to be hidden, unnoticed and forgotten. Had she not expressed this in her beautiful poem to Our Lady? “Near thee, O Mother, I would stay, little, unknown and lowly. Of earthly glory, oh! how plain I see the vanity!” Again she writes: “What happiness to be so entirely hidden that no one gives us a thought — to be unknown even to those with whom we live! My little Mother, I long to be unknown to every one of God’s creatures! I have never desired glory amongst men, and if their contempt used to attract my heart, I have realized that even that is too glorious for me, and I thirst to be forgotten…” (Letter to Mother Agnes, Autobiography, p. 354).

That God heard Therese’s prayer as well is evident. Testimonies given at the process of her beatification bear witness to the fact that she passed as just an ordinary nun among most of her companions, who knew her only to be very careful about her rule. “Generally speaking, the Servant of God was unknown and even misunderstood in the convent. Apart from some novices who were close to her, no one noticed the heroism of her life” (Testimony of Sr. Mary Magdalene, Last Conversations, p. 17). “Few are the souls that aspire to be lowly and unknown…” she laments to Celine, “Our Beloved needs neither our brilliant deeds nor our beautiful thoughts…” No, no brilliant deeds, no genius of intellect, nothing we can do by way of sweeping God off His Feet… Her Little Way is for all of us, who will perhaps never have the opportunity to do great things, whose lives are so plain, so bereft of greatness — the little housewife, the poor working man, the child in school, the priest who labors so unceasingly and whose labors seem to bear so little fruit… Therese tells all of us, who are just little souls, that God needs but one thing from us and that is our love. Who is her inspiration? Who is ours? Listen as she tells us:

I know, indeed, at Nazareth, O Virgin rich in graces!
As the lowly live, so thou didst live, and sought no better things;
Of ecstasies and wonders there, our eyes can find no traces,
O thou who daily dwelt beside the Incarnate King of Kings!
On earth, we know, is very great the number of the lowly; —
With neither fear nor trembling now we dare to look on thee.
By common lot and humble path, our Mother dear and holy,
Thou wast content to walk to Heaven, and thus our guide to be.

To walk to Heaven without seeing that one does anything, without vision or consolation, without reassurance or certitude, hidden even from oneself, is to walk by faith, sustained by love. “There is but one thing to be done here below,” Therese tells us: “To love Jesus, and to save souls for Him that He may be more loved.” Hers is certainly not a passive spirituality: since I can do so little for God, why even bother? No! “We must not let slip the smallest opportunity of giving Him joy. We must refuse Him nothing. He is in such need of love” (Letter to Celine, Autobiography, p. 337).

Little deeds, little sacrifices, great love, this is what Therese will do. And she will do it with all the heroism of a martyr — she will refuse God nothing. Abbot Marmion agrees: ”…one act of pure love of God does more for the salvation of souls than any exterior works… To do one’s duty is a great thing, but to do one’s duty out of love is greater still” (Union With God, p. 260). How admirably he sums up the Little Way: “Fidelity is the flower of love, to which nothing is little” (ibid. p. 261).

Those who know Therese well know that nothing could ever sadden her nor make her lose her peace of soul: not her faults, not the faults of others (oh, how well she understood the precept of fraternal charity! In this virtue she found the coup de grace of her martyr’s love.), not the poverty of her works, not even the trial of faith and the martyrdom of her soul and body in the most excruciating suffering. Therese faced everything with her most beautiful smile. Sister Marie of the Eucharist, describing her cousin’s sufferings in detail, adds: “With regard to her morale, it is always the same: she is gaiety itself, making all those who come near her laugh, talking joyfully about the Thief (God) Who is coming to get her very soon…” (Last Conversations, p. 275). A Sulpician priest attributes this beautiful grace to Our Lady: “In the life of our saint, what an event was this smile of the Blessed Virgin (the apparition of 1883). What influence it must have had on her sanctification! For truly St. Therese herself was all a smile! How can we better sum up her character, her confidence, her gentleness, her sweetness from which she never deviated?” (Foreward: Our Lady of the Smile and St. Therese, Piat).

Oh, could these great and wonderful words of Our Savior but penetrate our hearts! “Fear not, little flock, for it hath pleased your Father to give you a kingdom!” Do we, strictly speaking, merit Heaven, the possession of God for all eternity? In giving us Heaven, God but crowns His own gifts — ours is but to receive it as a little child. Perhaps it is not too far-fetched to make an analogy. When we give a gift to someone we love, especially a little child, we will say, “Now close your eyes — and hold out your hands!” Does not God do the very same thing with us, His children? Hear Abbot Marmion: “His glory demands that we serve Him here below as well as we possibly can in the darkness of faith.””…you must give yourself up unconditionally to Jesus Christ by accepting in pure faith all that He sends or permits…” “Try to smile lovingly at every manifestation of God’s Will.” Note that Abbot Marmion has said “darkness” rather than “light of faith.” This is one of those sublime paradoxes of Christianity. If in the darkness of our own reason and understanding we allow ourselves to be led blindly, faith becomes the light by which we walk, a light clearer and brighter than any we have ever known. In that which seems to her darkness, the soul walks confidently, coming at last to the Light Inaccessible, the Light of glory. Therese walked in that dark Light. All was faith. All was a Fiat to God’s loving Will, a beautiful Magnificat to His mercy. There was suffering and there was sorrow, but always there was peace, always trust. Who does not see that she is indeed that exquisite “miniature” of God’s own Mother? “Instead of showing the Blessed Virgin as all but inaccessible we should hold her up as possible of imitation while practicing the hidden virtues, and living by faith just like us… How I love to sing to her:

“Incomparable Mother, ‘tis by the common way
It pleaseth thee to go,
That thou mayest lead them to the skies.”
(Piat, p. 104)