Thomas More - Dialogue of Comfort Against Tribulation
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Thomas More >> Dialogue of Comfort Against Tribulation
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Here are, cousin Vincent, words of no little comfort unto every
Christian man. For by them we may see with what tender affection
God of his great goodness longeth to gather us under the
protection of his wings, and how often like a loving hen he
clucketh home unto him even those chickens of his that wilfully
walk abroad into the kite's danger and will not come at his
clucking, but ever, the more he clucketh for them, the farther
they go from him. And therefore can we not doubt that, if we will
follow him and with faithful hope come running to him, he shall in
all matter of temptation take us near unto him and set us even
under his wing. And then are we safe, if we will tarry there, for
against our will no power can pull us thence, nor hurt our souls
there. "Set me near unto thee," saith the prophet, "and fight
against me whose hand that will." And to show the great safeguard
and surety that we shall have while we sit under his heavenly
feathers, the prophet saith yet a great deal further, _"In
velamento alarum tuarum exaltabo."_ That is, that we shall not
only sit in safeguard when we sit by his sweet side under his holy
wing, but we shall also under the covering of his heavenly wings
with great exultation rejoice.
XI
Now, in the two next verses following, the prophet briefly
comprehendeth four kinds of temptations, and therein all the
tribulation that we shall now speak of, and also some part of that
which we have spoken of before. And therefore I shall peradventure
(unless any further thing fall in our way) with treating of those
two verses, finish and end all our matter.
The prophet saith in the ninetieth psalm, "_Scuto circumdabit te
veritas eius; non timebis a timore nocturno, a sagitta volante in
die, a negotio perambulante in tenebris, ab incurso et demonio
meridiano._ The truth of God shall compass thee about with a
shield, you shall not be afraid of the night's fear, nor of the
arrow flying in the day, nor of business walking about in the
darknesses, nor of the incursion or invasion of the devil in the
midday."
First, cousin, in these words "the truth of God shall compass thee
about with a shield," the prophet for the comfort of every good
man in all temptation and in all tribulation, besides those other
things that he said before--that the shoulders of God should
shadow them and that also they should sit under his wing--here
saith he further that the truth of God shall compass thee with a
shield. That is, as God hath faithfully promised to protect and
defend those that faithfully will dwell in the trust of his help,
so will he truly perform it. And thou who art such a one, the
truth of his promise will defend thee not with a little round
buckler that scantly can cover the head, but with a long large
shield that covereth all along the body. This shield is made (as
holy St. Bernard saith) broad above with the Godhead and narrow
beneath with the Manhood, so that it is our Saviour Christ himself.
And yet is this shield not like other shields of the world, which
are so made that while they defend one part the man may be wounded
upon another. But this shield is such that, as the prophet saith,
it shall round about enclose and compass thee, so that thine enemy
shall hurt thy soul on no side. For "with a shield," saith he,
"shall his truth environ and compass thee round about."
And then incontinently following, to the intent that we should see
that it is not without necessity that the shield of God should
compass us about upon every side, he showeth in what wise we are
environed by the devil upon every side with snares and assaults,
by four kinds of temptations and tribulations. Against all this
compass of temptations and tribulations that round-compassing
shield of God's truth shall so defend us and keep us safe that we
shall need to dread none of them at all.
XII
First, he saith, "thou shalt not be afraid of the fear of the
night." By the night is there in scripture sometimes understood
tribulation, as appeareth in the thirty-fourth chapter of Job: "God
hath known the works of them, and therefore shall he bring night
upon them," that is, tribulation for their wickedness. And well you
know that the night is of its own nature discomfortable and full of
fear. And therefore by the night's fear here I understand the
tribulation by which the devil, through the sufference of God,
either by himself or by others who are his instruments, tempteth
good folk to impatience as he did Job. But he who, as the prophet
saith, dwelleth and continueth faithfully in the hope of God's
help, shall so be clipped in on every side with the shield of God
that he shall have no need to be afraid of such tribulation as is
here called the night's fear. And it may be also fittingly called
the night's fear for two causes: One, because many times, unto him
who suffereth, the cause of his tribulation is dark and unknown.
And therein it varieth and differeth from that tribulation by which
the devil tempteth a man with open fight and assault for a known
good thing from which he would withdraw him, or for some known evil
thing into which he would drive him by force of such persecution.
Another cause for which it is called the night's fear may be
because the night is so far out of courage, and naturally so
casteth folk into fear, that their fancy doubleth their fear of
everything of which they perceive any manner of dread, and maketh
them often think that it were much worse than indeed it is.
The prophet saith in the psalter, "Thou hast, good Lord, set the
darkness and made was the night, and in the night walk all the
beasts of the woods, the whelps of the lions roaring and calling
unto God for their meat." Now, though the lions' whelps walk about
roaring in the night and seek for their prey, yet can they not get
such meat as they would always, but must hold themselves content
with such as God suffereth to fall in their way. And though they
be not aware of it, yet of God they ask it and of him they have
it. And this may be comfort to all good men in their night's fear,
that though they fall in their dark tribulation into the claws of
the devil or the teeth of those lions' whelps, yet all that they
can do shall not pass beyond the body, which is but as the garment
of the soul. For the soul itself, which is the substance of the
man, is so surely fenced in round about with the shield of God,
that as long as he will abide faithfully in the hope of God's help
the lions' whelp shall not be able to hurt it. For the great Lion
himself could never be suffered to go further in the tribulation
of Job than God from time to time gave him leave.
And therefore the deep darkness of the midnight maketh men who
stand out of faith and out of good hope in God to be in far the
greater fear in their tribulation, for lack of the light of faith,
by which they might perceive that the uttermost of their peril is
a far less thing than they take it for. But we are so wont to set
so much by our body, which we see and feel, and in the feeding and
fostering of which we set out delight and our wealth; and so
little (alas) and so seldom we think upon our soul, because we
cannot see that but by spiritual understanding, and most
especially by the eye of our faith (in the meditation of which we
bestow, God knows, little time), that the loss of our body we take
for a sorer thing and for a great deal greater tribulation than we
do the loss of our soul. Our Saviour biddeth us not fear those
lions' whelps that can but kill our bodies and when that is done
have no further thing in their power with which they can do us
harm, but he biddeth us stand in dread of him who when he hath
slain the body is able then beside to cast the soul into
everlasting fire. Yet are we so blind in the dark night of
tribulation, for lack of full and fast belief of God's word, that,
whereas in the day of prosperity we very little fear God for our
soul, our night's fear of adversity maketh us very sore to fear
the lion and his whelps for dread of loss of our bodies. And
whereas St. Paul in sundry places telleth us that our body is but
the garment of the soul, yet the faintness of our faith in the
scripture of God maketh us, with the night's fear of tribulation,
not only to dread the loss of our body more than that of our
soul--that is, of the clothing more than of the substance that is
clothed therewith--but also of the very outward goods that serve
for the clothing of the body. And much more foolish are we in that
dark night's fear than would be a man who would forget the saving
of his body for fear of losing his old rain-beaten cloak, that is
but the covering of his gown or his coat. Now, consider further
yet, that the prophet in the afore-remembered verses saith that in
the night there walk not only the lions' whelps but also "all the
beasts of the wood." Now, you know that if a man walk through the
wood in the night, many things can make him afraid of which in the
day he would not be afraid a whit. For in the night every bush, to
him that waxeth once afraid, seemeth a thief.
I remember that when I was a young man, I was once in the war with
the king then my master (God absolve his soul) and we were camped
within the Turk's ground many a mile beyond Belgrade--would God it
were ours now as it was then! But so happed it that in our camp
about midnight there suddenly rose a rumour and a cry that the
Turk's whole army was secretly stealing upon us. Therewith our
whole host was warned to arm them in haste and set themselves in
array to fight. And then were runners of ours, who had brought
those sudden tidings, examined more leisurely by the council, as
to what surety or what likelihood they had perceived. And one of
them said that by the glimmering of the moon he had espied and
perceived and seen them himself, coming on softly and soberly in a
long range, all in good order, not one farther forth than the
other in the forefront, but as even as a third, and in breadth
farther than he could see the length. His fellows, being examined,
said that he had somewhat pricked forth before them, and came back
so fast to tell it to them that they thought it rather time to
make haste and giving warning to the camp than to go nearer unto
them. For they were not so far off but what they had yet
themselves somewhat an imperfect sight of them, too. Thus stood we
on watch all the rest of the night, evermore hearkening when we
should hear them come, but "Hush, stand still! Methink I hear a
trampling," so that at last many of us thought we heard them
ourselves too. But when the day was sprung, and we saw no one, out
was our runner sent again, and some of our captains with him, to
show whereabout was the place in which he had perceived them. And
when they came thither, they found that the great fearful army of
the Turks, so soberly coming on, turned (God be thanked) into a
fair long hedge standing even stone-still.
And thus fareth it in the night's fear of tribulation, in which
the devil, to bear down and overwhelm with dread the faithful hope
that we should have in God, casteth in our imagination much more
fear than cause. For since there walk in that night not only the
lion's whelps but all the beasts of the wood beside, the beast
that we hear roar in the dark night of tribulation, and fear for a
lion, we sometimes find well afterward in the way that it was no
lion at all, but a silly rude roaring ass. And sometimes the thing
that on the sea seemeth a rock is indeed nothing else but a mist.
Howbeit, as the prophet saith, he that faithfully dwelleth in the
hope of God's help, the shield of his truth shall so fence him
round about that, be it an ass or a colt or a lion's whelp, or a
rock of stone or a mist, the night's fear thereof shall be nothing
to dread.
XIII
Therefore find I that in the night's fear one great part is the
fault of pusillanimity; that is, of faint and feeble stomach, by
which a man for faint heart is afraid where he needeth not. By
reason of this, he flieth oftentime for fear of something of
which, if he fled not, he should take no harm. And a man doth
sometimes by his fleeing make an enemy bold on him, who would, if
he fled not but dared abide, give over and fly from him.
This fault of pusillanimity maketh a man in his tribulation first,
for feeble heart, impatient. And afterward oftentimes it driveth
him by impatience into a contrary affection, making him frowardly
stubborn and angry against God, and thereby to fall into
blasphemy, as do the damned souls in hell. This fault of
pusillanimity and timorous mind hindereth a man also many times
from doing many good things which, if he took a good stomach to
him in the trust of God's help, he would be well able to do. But
the devil casteth him in a cowardice and maketh him take it for
humility to think himself unfit and unable to do them. And
therefore he leaveth undone the good thing of which God offereth
him occasion and to which he had made him fit.
But such folk have need to lift up their hearts and call upon God,
and by the counsel of other good spiritual folk to cast away the
cowardice of their own conceiving which the night's fear by the
devil hath framed in their fancy. And they have need to look in
the gospel upon him who laid up his talent and left it unoccupied
and therefore utterly lost it, with a great reproach of his
pusillanimity, but which he had thought to have excused himself,
in that he was afraid to put it forth into use and occupy it.
And all this fear cometh by the devil's drift, wherein he taketh
occasion of the faintness of our good and sure trust in God. And
therefore let us faithfully dwell in the good hope of his help,
and then shall the shield of his truth so compass us about that of
this night's fear we shall have no fear at all.
XIV
This pusillanimity bringeth forth, by the night's fear, a very
timorous daughter, a silly wretched girl and ever whining, who is
called Scrupulosity, or a scrupulous conscience.
This girl is a good enough maidservant in a house, never idle but
ever occupied and busy. But albeit she hath a very gentle mistress
who loveth her well and is well content with what she doth--or, if
all be not well (as all cannot always be well), is content to
pardon her as she doth others of her fellows, and letteth her know
that she will do so--yet can this peevish girl never cease whining
and puling for fear lest her mistress be always angry with her and
she shall severely be chidden. Would her mistress, think you, be
likely to be content with this condition? Nay, surely not.
I knew such a one myself, whose mistress was a very wise woman and
(a thing which is in women very rare) very mild also and meek, and
liked very well such service as she did her in the house. But she
so much misliked this continual discomfortable fashion of hers
that she would sometimes say, "Eh, what aileth this girl? The
elvish urchin thinketh I were a devil, I do believe. Surely if she
did me ten times better service than she doth, yet with this
fantastical fear of hers I would be loth to have her in mine
house."
Thus fareth, lo, the scrupulous person, who frameth himself many
times double the fear that he hath cause, and many times a great
fear where there is no cause at all. And of that which is indeed
no sin, he maketh a venial one. And that which is venial, he
imagineth to be deadly--and yet, for all that, he falleth into
them, since they are of their nature such as no man long liveth
without. And then he feareth that he is never fully confessed nor
fully contrite, and then that his sins be never fully forgiven
him. And then he confesseth and confesseth again, and cumbereth
himself and his confessor both. And then every prayer that he
saith, though he say it as well as the frail infirmity of the man
will suffer, yet he is not satisfied unless he say it again, and
yet after that again. And when he hath said the same thing thrice,
as little is he satisfied with the last time as the first. And
then is his heart evermore in heaviness, unquiet, and fear, full
of doubt and dullness, without comfort or spiritual consolation.
With this night's fear the devil sore troubleth the mind of many a
right good man, and that doth he to bring him to some great evil.
For he will, if he can, drive him so much to the fearful minding
of God's rigorous justice, that he will keep him from the
comfortable remembrance of God's great mighty mercy, and so make
him do all his good works wearily and without consolation or
quickness.
Moreover, he maketh him take for a sin something that is not one,
and for a deadly sin one that is but venial, to the intent that
when he shall fall into them he shall, by reason of his scruple,
sin where otherwise he would not, or sin mortally (because his
conscience, in doing the deed, so told him) where otherwise indeed
he would have offended only venially.
Yes, and further, the devil longeth to make all his good works and
spiritual exercises so painful and so tedious to him, that, with
some other subtle suggestion or false wily doctrine of a false
spiritual liberty, he should be easily conveyed from that evil
fault into one much worse, for the false ease and pleasure that he
should suddenly find therein. And then should he have his
conscience as wide and large afterward as ever it was narrow and
straight before. For better is yet, of truth, a conscience a
little too narrow than a little too large.
My mother had, when I was a little boy, a good old woman who took
care of her children. They called her Mother Maud--I daresay you
have heard of her?
VINCENT: Yea, yea, very much.
ANTHONY: She was wont, when she sat by the fire with us, to tell
us who were children many childish tales. But as Pliny saith that
there is no book lightly so bad but that a man may pick some good
thing out of it, so think I that there is almost no tale so
foolish but that yet in one matter or another, it may hap to serve
to some purpose.
For I remember me that among others of her foolish tales, she told
us once that the ass and the wolf came upon a time to confession
to the fox. The poor ass came to shrift in Shrovetide, a day or
two before Ash Wednesday. But the wolf would not come to
confession till he saw first Palm Sunday past, and then he put it
off yet further until Good Friday.
The fox asked the ass, before he began _"Benedicite,"_ wherefore
he came to confession so soon, before Lent began. The poor beast
answered him that it was for fear of deadly sin, if he should lose
his part of any of those prayers that the priests in the cleansing
days pray for them who are then confessed already. Then in his
shrift he had a marvellous grudge in his inward conscience, that
he had one day given his master a cause of anger in that, with his
rude roaring before his master arose, he had wakened him out of
his sleep and bereaved him of his rest. The fox, for that fault,
like a good discreet confessor, charged him to do so no more, but
to lie still and sleep like a good son himself until his master
were up and ready to go to work, and so should he be sure that he
should wake him no more.
To tell you all the poor ass's confession, it would be a long
work. For everything that he did was deadly sin with him, the poor
soul was so scrupulous. But his wise wily confessor accounted them
for trifles (as they were) and swore afterward to the badger that
he was so weary to sit so long and hear him that, saving for the
sake of manners, he had rather have sat all that time at breakfast
with a good fat goose. But when it came to the giving of the
penance, the fox found that the most weighty sin in all his shrift
was gluttony. And therefore he discreetly gave him in penance that
he should never for greediness of his food do any other beast any
harm or hindrance. And then he should eat his food and worry no
more.
Now, as good Mother Maud told us, when the wolf came to Father
Reynard (that was, she said, the fox's name) to confession upon
Good Friday, his confessor shook his great pair of beads at him,
almost as big as bowling balls, and asked him wherefore he came so
late. "Forsooth, Father Reynard," quoth he, "I must needs tell you
the truth--I come, you know, for that. I dared not come sooner for
fear lest you would, for my gluttony, have given me in penance to
fast some part of this Lent." "Nay, nay," quoth Father Fox, "I am
not so unreasonable, for I fast none of it myself. For I may say
to thee, son, between us twain here in confession, it is no
commandment of God, this fasting, but an invention of man. The
priests make folk fast, and then put them to trouble about the
moonshine in the water, and do but make folk fools. But they shall
make me no such fool, I warrant thee, son, for I ate flesh all
this Lent, myself. Howbeit indeed, because I will not be occasion
of slander, I ate it secretly in my chamber, out of sight of all
such foolish brethren as for their weak scrupulous conscience
would wax offended by it. And so would I counsel you to do."
"Forsooth, Father Fox," quoth the wolf, "and so, thank God, I do,
as near as I can. For when I go to my meal, I take no other
company with me but such sure brethren as are of mine own nature,
whose consciences are not weak, I warrant you, but their stomachs
are as strong as mine." "Well, then, no matter," quoth Father Fox.
But when he heard afterward, by his confession, that he was so
great a ravener that he devoured and spent sometimes so much
victuals at a meal that the price of them would well keep some
poor man with his wife and children almost all the week, then he
prudently reproved that point in him, and preached him a sermon of
his own temperance. For he never used, he said, to pass the value
of sixpence at a meal--no, nor even that much, "For when I bring
home a goose," quoth he, "it is not out of the poulterer's shop,
where folk find them with their feathers ready plucked and see
which is the fattest, and yet for sixpence buy and choose the
best; but out of the housewife's house, at first hand, which can
supply them somewhat cheaper, you know, than the poulterer can.
Nor yet can I be suffered to see them plucked, and stand and
choose them by day, but am fain by night to take one at adventure.
And when I come home, I am fain to do the labour to pluck it
myself too. Yet, for all this, though it be but lean and, I know,
not well worth a groat, it serveth me sometimes both for dinner
and for supper too. As for the fact that you live of ravine, I can
find no fault in that. You have used it so long that I think you
can do no otherwise, and therefore it would be folly to forbid it
to you--and, to say the truth, against good conscience too. For
live you must, I know, and other craft know you none, and
therefore, as reason is, must you live by that. But yet, you know,
too much is too much, and measure is a merry mean, which I
perceive by your shrift you have never used to keep. And therefore
surely this shall be your penance, that you shall all this year
never pass the price of sixpence at a meal, as near as your
conscience can guess the price."
Their shrift have I told you, as Mother Maud told it to us. But now
serveth for our matter the conscience of them both in the true
performing of their penance. The poor ass after his shrift, when he
waxed an-hungered, saw a sow lie with her pigs, well lapped in new
straw. And he drew near and thought to have eaten of the straw, but
anon his scrupulous conscience began therein to grudge him. For
since his penance was that, for greediness of his good, he should
do nobody else any harm, he thought he might not eat one straw
there lest, for lack of that straw, some of those pigs might hap to
die for cold. So he held still his hunger until someone brought him
food. But when he was about to fall to it, then fell he yet into a
far further scruple. For then it came in his mind that he should
yet break his penance if he should eat any of that either, since he
was commanded by his ghostly father that he should not, for his own
food, hinder any other beast. For he thought that if he ate not
that food, some other beast might hap to have it. And so should he,
by the eating of it, peradventure hinder another. And thus stayed
he still fasting till, when he told the cause, his ghostly father
came and informed him better, and then he cast off that scruple and
fell mannerly to his meal, and was a right honest ass many a fair
day after.
The wolf now, coming from shrift clean absolved from his sins,
went about to do as a certain shrewish wife once told her husband
that she would do, when she came from shrift. "Be merry, man,"
quoth she now, "for this day, I thank God, I was well shriven. And
I purpose now therefore to leave off all mine old shrewishness and
begin even afresh!"
VINCENT: Ah, well, uncle, can you report her so? That word I
heard her speak, but she said it in sport to make her goodman
laugh.
ANTHONY: Indeed, it seemed she spoke it half in sport. For in
that she said she would cast away all her old shrewishness,
therein I daresay she sported. But in that she said she would
begin it all afresh, her husband found that in good earnest!
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