Indeed the watered river of Rogation observance runs along life's path, not through Gaul only but through nearly the whole world, and cleanses the earth infected with vices by the abundant flow of yearly satisfaction. Yet the cause of service and of joy is more peculiarly our own in this very institution, because what now flows hence for the benefit of all first sprang from our own fountain; and perhaps it may now pertain to the adornment of whatever privilege, that the beginning of the institution was first undertaken here.
But when an unspeakable necessity had subdued the rigid hearts of the people of Vienne to humility of this kind, our church, perceiving the cause of its sickness—reckoning that there was need of instruction by the present observance not for itself as though above all, but as though alone of all—sought a remedy more solicitously than a primacy. And indeed I know that many of us recall the causes of the terror of that time. For frequent conflagrations, continual earthquakes, nocturnal sounds, threatened some prodigious funeral-pyre, as it were, for the whole world's death. For amid the crowded throngs of men there appeared, among households, the likeness of wild forest beasts—God saw whether mocking the eyes or led on by portents.
Yet whichever of these two it might be, it was understood to be equally monstrous—whether that the savage hearts of beasts were thus truly being tamed, or that phantoms of a false vision could be so horribly fashioned before the sight of the terrified. Amid these things there was a divided opinion of the crowd, and varying views among the different orders. Some, dissembling what they felt, ascribed to chance what they were unwilling to give to weeping; others, of more wholesome spirit, interpreted even these abominable novelties by fitting significations proper to evils. For who, amid the frequent fires, would not fear the rains of Sodom? Who, when the elements trembled, would not believe that either the fall of roofs or the rending of the earth was imminent?
Who, seeing—or at least thinking he saw—stags naturally greedy pressing through the narrow gates as far as the broad open forum, would not dread an impending sentence of desolation? What need of many words? These things were dragged out amid public fears and private rumours, up to the impending night of the solemn vigils, on which the yearly custom demanded the feast of the Lord's Resurrection to be celebrated. For all awaited this night with common hearts—the help of their labours, the end of their evils, the security of the fearful. That venerable night came, therefore, which had laid open the votive solemnity to the hope of public absolution. But soon there thundered forth, far more violently, a crash like the stroke of a scourge that strikes more heavily:
inasmuch as, the steps being now traversed, it was understood that nothing more surpassing followed than chaos. For a public building, which the sublimity of the city's lofty summit had immeasurably raised on high, began at twilight to blaze with terrible flames. The gladness of the solemnity is therefore interrupted by tidings of danger: the church is emptied of a people full of fears. For all feared a like ruin to their fortunes or their own homes from a certain citadel of the towering conflagration. Yet the unconquered bishop stood firm before the festal altars, and, kindling the heat of his faith with a river of tears, curbed the power granted to the fires, the conflagration withdrawing.
Despair being laid aside, they return to the church, and, the light of the flames being quenched, the beauty of the lamps shines clear. Nor indeed is any further delay drawn out in seizing the medicine of compunction. For my predecessor, and my spiritual father from baptism, the bishop Mamertus—whom the father of Cainis, as it seemed good to God, succeeded in the office of the priesthood not many years before—conceived in his holy mind, on that night of vigils of holy Easter which we mentioned above, the whole Rogations; and there, silent with God, he softened whatever the world today cries out in psalms and prayers. When therefore the Paschal solemnity had come round again, it is treated first in secret conference, not now what, but how or when it ought to be done.
It was thought by some that the senate of Vienne—whose council then flourished with numerous illustrious men—could not be brought to submit to innovations, since it scarcely acquiesced in being bent to lawful ones. But the pious and solicitous pastor, lavish with the salt of wisdom, softened the spirit of the sheep to be made gentle by praying first, rather than their hearing by pleading. He therefore lays open his plan, appoints the order, sets forth its wholesomeness; and to a man of a genius as religious as it was skilful it was too little if he should merely disclose the purpose of the institution to the obedient, unless among its beginnings he should also assign the bond of custom. When therefore God inspired the hearts of the compunct, it is heard by all, confirmed, exalted:
the present three-day period is chosen for the time, which, between the observance of the holy Ascension and the Lord's Day, was bordered as it were by a fitting hem of proper opportunity, the solemnities being set round about. But the bishop, testing the fervour of the beginning, and greatly fearing lest, on account of the slow compliance of the people, the observance itself, undertaken by too few, should straightway grow cheap in its very novelty, appointed the prayer of the first procession to the basilica which was then nearer to the walls of the city. They go with thronging alacrity, in copious multitude, with the greatest compunction: so that in truth, by reason of the people's tears and labours, the procession seemed short and narrow.
But when the holy bishop gathered from the effect of the lesser the tokens of greater things, on the following day was instituted that which now, for the first time—that is, tomorrow, if the Lord grant—we are about to labour at. In succeeding time certain churches of Gaul followed a matter of so approvable an example; yet in such wise that this very thing was not celebrated among all on the same days on which it had been instituted among us. Nor moreover did it greatly matter which three-day period was chosen, provided that the offices of the psalms were rendered by yearly functions of tears. Yet, with love of the Rogations and with the growing concord even of the bishops, universal observance passed, by care, to one time—that is, to the present days.
Moreover, it has been to this end that I have prefaced these things: that, whether we have recounted them to those who recall them, or perhaps to those who are ignorant, all nevertheless may attend to this—that the Church which sent to others the form of the institution is manifoldly a debtor in showing alacrity, and ought to be first in the office of compunction, since in a matter so necessary to all it has been made a mother by its example. Wherefore we announce that the most laborious festivity of our Rogations is now impending, if God grant—not as to those who know it not, but we commend it as to those who await it. For although the custom of that very profession cannot be kept without labour, yet the harshness of the medicine delights, in which the hope of salvation has frequently been proved to be found.
'If we say,' says the Apostle, 'that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves' (1 John 1:8). And if we ought continually to confess that we sin, there is need of the office of confessing, of the humility of doing penance. Especially since the compunction of the assembled people can so be fitted to the incitement of a good work, that the rebellious one more fittingly blushes, if, contradicting the whole multitude by the solitude of his own mind, he does not bewail his sins or vices together with the weeping people. Therefore the conspiracy of a good work is necessary. One takes from another either an example of humility or solace in confession. More perilously is single combat waged, in which to test one's strength on either side belongs to few.
But truly, when the assent of a multitude fights against the common enemy, another's valour draws along even the timid soldier. Amid strong combatants weakness lies hidden, and by a certain suffrage of unity there is praise for the feeble, to be reckoned in the army of the brave. Finally, when victory befalls, it is won for all; and though the right hand of a few has fought, the glory of all has triumphed. This I say concerning common weakness, which, if it does not withdraw itself from those who pray, even when it has by itself accomplished less, nevertheless will not wholly lack fruit. In that glorious and altogether singular history of the Ninevites, against the drawn sword of the moved Divinity, even the age of infancy was compelled to fight, joined to the strength of the elders.
The hunger of the cattle too increased the reward and grace of human fasting. Nay, that very irrational creature, which could not fear offence, in some manner sought pardon. And because men had sinned by living in the manner of animals, in turn they compelled their animals to fast as though they were men. On account of this distinction, therefore, in the Gospel the Lord says: 'Ask, and ye shall receive; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you' (Matt. 7:7). For to ask belongs to the learned, to seek to the devout; the knowing asks, the unknowing seeks. When thou askest, thou wilt to receive what thou understandest; when thou seekest, thou art still striving to find what thou mayest ask. Therefore let those who are already higher ask by praying; let the weak seek by labouring. But to knock is common to all.
For no one knocks at a barred entrance with words: that pertains to the hands, and is an act of the body. Let knowledge therefore ask, let love seek, let action knock, especially in the present observance. For it is a festivity whose whole gladness is sobriety alone, whose banquets are tears, whose food is hunger: whose beginning lies in that necessity, its perseverance in love, its action in rest, its rest in labour: since this whole observance is the confession of one doing penance for guilt, and of one asking for pardon. And indeed the present Gospel reading has set forth the usefulness of supplication, when, in the ship, the choir of the disciples, trembling amid the din of the tempest, roused the sleeping Lord (Matt. 8:24).
Nor moreover was there any other reason, in so great a conflict of winds and waves warring against one another, that our Lord lay more deeply asleep in undisturbed rest, than that, amid the perils we suffer, the cause of our fear might flee to Him. This tempest wearies us with continual blows; with terrible onset the thunder of the world cries out against us; with rays that flash for a moment the world's commotion does not illumine but flashes lightning. The Church is the ship that leads us through divers chances as though amid the ocean's whirlpools. Our ears indeed it batters with detractions and the shrieking of blasphemies, as if the joining of its sides were loosened; but that which wearies cannot penetrate the stern, built with the solidity of truth.
And because our Lord promised to the Church, 'Behold, I am with you all days, even to the consummation of the world' (Matt. 28:20), He is indeed in the ship in which we are, but it can no longer fear what we fear. For after His resurrection and ascension He rests wholly amid our perils. There is rather need of another's fear, that He who lay secure may awake. Let Him therefore be called with the voices of supplication; and, if with the peril growing heavier He does not yet hear, let Him be knocked at with the hands of bounty, and let it be said to Him: 'Arise, why sleepest Thou, O Lord, forgetful of our want and of our tribulation?' (Ps. 43:23-24). Being awakened, He will indeed say: 'Why are ye fearful, O ye of little faith?' (Matt. 8:26). Let Him restore salvation, and rebuke our weakness.
And if our faith is small, because we fear worldly things, yet it is somewhat, if we have recourse to the Lord. But He would not be feared before us, if He Himself were feared. Yet the least conscience of righteousness is the greatest cause of trembling, especially in our life, in which the continuation of crimes becomes a multitude of perils. Wherefore, if we have not said to Christ, 'Watch with us,' let us at least say, 'Awake for our sake.' We did not ask that He should depart; let us obtain that He return, and that He not abandon the course of our infirm voyage, until He command silence to the wind and the sea, and with swiftest end curb the rage of the raving world, and there come to pass, in the retribution of judgment, that great tranquillity which cannot exist in this world. For 'if ye were of the world' (John
15:19), the world would love its own. But, the world being vanquished, let us come to the supernal rest: where, since the possibility of perishing will be absent, no cause of peril will arise; where the Lord is ever with us, and we, if He grant it, ever with Him: and He who here at times sleeps to the negligent will there for ever be awake to those who enjoy Him without end.