“Pater, non mea voluntas, sed tua
fiat”
Plinio Corrêa de Oliveira (*)
“When Jesus had said these things, He went forth with His
disciples over the brook Cedron, where there was a
garden, into which He entered with His disciples” (John, 18:1).
Jesus went forth from
The Messiah loved the
It was night.
The Jews felt no need of Jesus. To guide their souls, they
preferred Annas, Caiphas,
and their kind. To watch over their national interests, they had Herod. They
tolerated Pilate with a deeply resigned ill-humor. Under the care of these
spiritual and temporal shepherds they could eat, drink, and enjoy themselves
freely, then console their consciences later with a prayer or sacrifice in the
Jesus had come to disturb this peace. He had spoken about death,
judgment, Heaven, and Hell without understanding that the world around Him did
not tolerate such preaching and that a rabbi’s first duty lay in adapting
himself to the demands of the times. Endowed with a profound understanding of
the Sacred Scriptures, skillful in His reasoning, adept at impressing the
multitudes and in attracting people into the intimacy of His persuasive
colloquies, He seemed resolved to demonstrate the irremediable incompatibility
between religion on the one hand and the easygoing, unbridled, and commodious
life on the other. He thus pulled on both sides of the bow and sooner or later
would reduce everything to ruins. But this did not bother Him, for He was
neither balanced nor reasonable.
Accentuating the dangerous effect of His words, He performed
miracles and, bolstered by the prestige gained thereby, He further disturbed
souls by teaching that the road to Heaven is narrow, thus emphasizing the need
of purity, honesty, and uprightness for gaining entry into it. Had He, who so
preached mercy, no feeling for the travails of soul, the dramas of conscience
He thus created? Did He, who so preached humility, not recognize the need to
conform Himself with the example of prudence being given Him by the Chief
Priests?
It is true that at one time
He seemed to be on the verge of succeeding, but the Sanhedrin had acted in
time. Generously opening its coffers, it had sent emissaries amidst the
multitude, raising suspicions against the insolent one. These emissaries were
agile, and they knew how to strike the right psychological chords. The rabbi’s
chances had been eliminated.
Jesus’ preaching was over and He was leaving the city, for there
was nothing for Him to do there. To associate with the tepid and drowsy
tranquility of the somnolent consciences He had tried to awaken was
incompatible with His perfection. The only recourse was to leave. Leave, yes, so
as to express a complete estrangement, a complete separation, an undisguised
incompatibility. So He departed.
Left behind were the lights as He penetrated the darkness of the
night. Left behind was the multitude, as He took with Him only a handful of
followers. Left behind was everything of power, of wealth, of human glory as He
searched for a solitary and poor place accompanied by only a few foreigners
without social standing, without cultural qualifications, with nothing. Behind
Him were the joys of life; He was walking towards the desolation of those who
are abandoned and the terrible anguishes of those awaiting death.
“And He saith to His disciples: Sit you
here, while I pray” (Mark,
His isolation was greater than it would seem at first sight. The
Apostles followed Him, it is true, but with their souls filled with attachment
to everything they were leaving behind in this terrible separation and with
dread in face of everything that their hazy perspectives of the future allowed
them to foresee. Their souls no longer felt like praying: This was the
beginning of their defection, since he who does not pray is tumbling headlong
into the abyss. Pray? They “could not.” Return to
Sitting. Soon they were
fast asleep, and soon after they fled!
Not praying, thinking little about Christ’s Passion and much about
one’s own sorrows, all of this leads one to “sit down” alongside the road and
let Jesus walk on. After this, there is only heaviness, slumber, lukewarmness... and flight.
It is a terrible, terrible lesson for all those who set out on the
long journey on the road to perfection!
Jesus had warned them, “Pray, lest you enter into temptation”
(Luke
“And taking with Him Peter and the two sons of Zebedee,
He began to grow sorrowful and to be sad.” (Matt. 26:37).
A selection, as some were less dulled by the pain of abandonment,
defeat, and total separation from the world. The suffering of Jesus pained them
more vividly. They deserved to be called aside and to witness the beginning of
the infinitely precious sorrows of the Redeemer.
How many receive the same call! Grace attracts them to a greater
piety, a more profound orthodoxy, a more exact understanding of the terrible
situation of the Church in our days. To correspond to these graces requires the
courage to participate in Our Lord’s sadness, and this requires generosity,
strength, and seriousness.
How does one refuse this grace? By refusing the sadness of Our
Lord, dwelling on bagatelles, idolizing sports, centering one’s life on radio
and television, jesting as the sole theme of one’s conversations; by fleeing
from a consideration of the terrible duties our times impose and the gravity of
the problems they cause, instead becoming engulfed in petty concerns of daily
life.
Such people do not receive the adorable trust of the sorrows of
the Heart of Jesus. They are like toads, which live with their bellies hugging
the earth, and not like eagles, which penetrate the highest heavens with their
powerful flight.
“Then He saith to them: My soul is
sorrowful even unto death: stay you here, and watch with Me”
(Matt. 26:38).
“My soul is sorrowful,” says the Saviour,
not “I am sorrowful.” He wanted to indicate that His torment was an entirely
moral torment. That of His body had not yet begun. The pains of His flesh are
much dwelt on in the Passion, and this is good. Nevertheless, the devotion to
the Sacred Heart of Jesus came to emphasize the sorrows of His soul, and this
is excellent, for sorrows of the soul are more profound, more excruciating, and
more noble than those of the body; they stand in
greater opposition to the defects of soul that most offend God.
And with what was Christ’s soul suffering? With what should we
suffer? With seeing the will of the Eternal Father violated and Jesus, Our
Lord, rejected, denied, and hated. To ponder this, to measure the scope and
gravity of this is to suffer within us the spiritual pains of Our Lord.
Jesus Christ and His Church constitute just one whole. Every time
we encounter an immoral advertisement, an unjust statement, an institution or a
law opposed to the Church’s doctrine, we should suffer. If
not, if for this we have neither zeal nor strength, than we are good for
nothing but to remain “sitting” and, when the hour of danger arrives, to flee.
“Sorrowful unto death.” In other words, a supreme sadness. The sadness of seeing
God’s law violated, the Church persecuted, the glory of God denied, should be
in us a supreme sadness and not just one of those emotional and ephemeral
little sadnesses emanating from frivolous and
impressionable souls like the ignis fatuus of swamps and cemeteries. It should not be merely a
petty sadness, one only skin-deep, that does not wrench from us serious
resolutions, profound zeal, effective renunciation of everything so that we
live exclusively in the fight. A soul “sorrowful unto death” is not consoled
with magazines, with fine clothing or restaurants, with strolls, with trifles,
honest... or dishonest! It will live in the mortal sorrow of seeing God’s glory
scorned and will find a palliative only, but only, in the interior life and in
the apostolate.
“Stay here,” that is, do not mingle with
the perfidious sons of
“Stay with me.” Yes, participate in My
solitude, in My defeat, in My sorrow. And make of this your glory, your joy, your riches.
“And going a little further, He fell upon His face” (Matt. 26:39).
Why did He go “a little further” after having told the three Apostles to “stay
with Me”?
To stay with Our Lord is to stay close to Him in spirit, it is be
united with Him. Staying with Him means standing with the Church with one’s
whole heart, one’s whole soul, one’s whole understanding.
He who in the hours of agony thinks of Our Lord and not of himself,
“stays” with Him. He who thinks only about Our Lord, and not about the world,
its spirit and delights, “stays” with Him.
Our Lord advanced just “a little,” a “stone’s cast,” says St. Luke
(
Our Lord wanted to be seen so as to maintain His three chosen
Apostles in their fidelity. He wanted to console them and to console Himself by
feeling them close by. It was necessary, however, that He “go further” because
an hour of special gravity had arrived. He was going to speak with God, and God with Him. Just as in the Jewish worship the
priest entered the Holy of Holies alone, so also Our Lord wished to take this
first step of His Passion alone.
Have we holy solitudes in our souls such as this one? Peaks upon
which only God and we stand, and to which no confidant, no friend, no earthly
affection climbs and to which we admit only the gaze of our spiritual director?
Or are we of those souls with no reservation or nobility, open to
any wind, any scrutiny, any step, like some dull public square?
“He fell upon His face.” A complete humiliation, a total
renunciation; this is the victim prepared for the holocaust.
What preparation for prayer! When we speak with God, do we “fall
upon our face” beforehand? In other words, do we approach humbly, ready to
obey, desirous of renouncing everything, recognizing our worthlessness? Or do
we approach with reservations, with reticence, with sore points in which God
cannot ask of us a sacrifice? When we listen to the Church, do we throw
ourselves face down on the ground, renouncing all of our opinions, all of our
choices, so as to obey? In face of those who edify us, bringing us closer to
the Church and the Pope, do we “fall upon our faces,” accepting their
influence? Or do we erect barricades, set up restrictions?
“Praying and saying: My Father, if it be possible, let this
chalice pass from Me. Nevertheless
not as I will but as Thou wilt” (Matt. 26:39).
To be prostrate on the ground, but at the same time praying, with
the body lying on what is most lowly, the ground, and with the soul ascending
to the highest of Heaven, the throne of God! In this consists the invincibility
of the true Catholic. In the apex of affliction, of
humiliation, of abandonment, he has in his hands the weapon that overcomes all
adversaries. How true this is for the struggles of the interior life. With no
resources for finding the right path, or resisting, we pray... and we end up
successfully. And how true this is in the apostolate.
Are we intimidated by the impetus of the paganizing
wave? Immediately we think of conceding, in which we sacrifice the accidental
because it is accidental, then the secondary essentials because they are
secondary, and finally that which is fundamental... “so
as to avoid greater harm.” If only we knew the strength of prayer, if only we
knew how to throw ourselves face down on the ground and pray, we would
understand better the efficacy of our supernatural weapons, the meaning, worth,
and usefulness of Christian intransigence. The Divine Saviour
suffered here for the pessimists, for those who are discouraged and have no
idea of the Church’s triumphant force.
“Let this chalice pass from Me.” What
chalice? It was the approaching atrocious, crushing, and unjust suffering that
Jesus foresaw. At this moment, the Divine Master suffered for all those who sin
through optimism; for all those who, confronted with the perspective of having
to fight, with anguish and pain, resort to the ostrich policy and choose to
imagine that “all goes well.” To foresee the pain, to prepare courageously for
it, this is elevated, most elevated, virtue. And this,
whether in our private lives or for the cause of the
Such was the example given us by the Divine Master. He withdrew
from everyone so that, face to face with God, He could fathom the full depth of
the ocean of pain and sorrow into which He was to be immersed and take a stand
in face of this perspective.
What stand? “If it be possible, let this chalice pass from Me. Nevertheless not as I will but as Thou
wilt.”
Two supplications are comprised here. In one, the God-man asks
that these pains and sorrows be removed from Him “if it be possible.” In the
other, He accepts them in the event they cannot be avoided.
A holy attitude this, one with no
theatrics or vainglory. Pain naturally provokes fear in man, and
Our Lord, not only true God but true man as well, dreaded this pain. He asked,
therefore, that it pass from Him “if possible.” Avoiding pain is legitimate,
wise, holy. But avoiding it at any price, no! -- only “if it be possible.”
“If possible.”
What does this mean? It means that, if the Divine Will, in light of the humble
plea of a Just One crushed by the anticipation of the pains, would show Itself compassionate by removing the suffering, let it be
so. On the contrary, if removing the suffering were to introduce a change in
the plans of
“If it be possible....” What a sublime conditional, unknown to our
century. And because of this the whole world is in crisis, in distress, in
agony. Earthly goods, wealth, glory, health, beauty, all of these are good in
the measure in which we give precedence to God’s will. But, if it be necessary
for us to renounce everything, because in light of this or that interior or
exterior circumstance “it is not possible” to have these things without
displeasing God, then let us make the complete renunciation. If all men were to
think and feel this way, the world would be another! Because of the absence of
this conditional -- which comprises the entirety of order and good --
civilization perishes.
“Not as I will but as Thou wilt.” Upon these words rests the
entire life of the Church, of souls, and of nations. Holy, sweet, hard, and
terrible words that today’s man chooses not to understand. These words provide
a perfect definition of obedience, of that obedience which the world, from
Luther’s day until now, has hated with increasing hatred.
Yes, may the will of God be done rather than mine; I will fulfill
the Commandments and will not follow my own whims. I will think as the Pope
thinks, even if another doctrine seems preferable to me. I will obey everyone
who exercises a legitimate authority over me, for he represents God and I will
therefore do his will and not mine.
My Jesus, in view of this, how can one explain that Thou art
called a revolutionary and that Thou didst come to bring the Revolution to the
earth?
After this, there is silence. The Gospels do not tell us what
answer He received, nor what Jesus replied to this answer. Why say it? And with what words?
More than likely, only one person on this earth saw, knew, and
adored everything: Mary Most Holy, present undoubtedly in spirit and
participating in everything.
The matter is too elevated for us to interpret this silence, which
not even the Evangelists chose to break. Let us beseech the Mediatrix
of all graces that She introduce us into the
recollection of the interior life and into the ineffable mysteries of this
moment of silence.
Jesus accepted. “And there appeared to Him an angel from Heaven,
strengthening Him. And being in agony, He prayed the longer. And his sweat
became as drops of blood, trickling down upon the ground” (Luke
Thus began the Passion. Jesus had foreseen the pain and death and
had accepted them. The very foresight of the inevitable placed Him in face of
an overwhelming accumulation of torments.
But “an angel strengthened Him.” Yes, His humble prayer had been
heard. God was giving Him strength to overcome the invincible torment, to bear
the unbearable pain, to accept with conformity the unacceptable injustice.
If only we understood this! The Commandments seem too heavy for
us, the wind of unbridled appetites and diabolical temptations roars within us.
If only we understood that this is the hour of God. If we
only “prayed the longer.” If only we accepted the visit of the angel who
strengthens us!
Yes, because for us also, an angel always comes, so long as we
pray. At times it is an interior movement of grace, or a good book, or a friend
who gives us good example or good advice. But, we do not pray. As a result, we
fall.
In the Agony, the angel came, as a fruit of prayer. After the
visit, Our Lord continued to pray. Yes, praying the harder is the secret of
victory. He who prays, saves himself; he who does not
pray, damns himself, St. Alphonsus Liguori used to say. And how right he was!
Jesus sweat blood. The redeeming blood
flowed because of the pressure of the moral sorrow. One can say that it was
blood from the heart. What a magnificent theme for devotees of the Sacred
Heart.
Sweating blood is the utmost of pain. It is the highest pressure
point of the moral suffering upon the body. One would say that Our Lord was
enduring every suffering possible. Nevertheless, He had not yet taken even the
first step of His Via Sacra.
His martyrdom was beginning where that of others reaches its apex.
How does one explain this incomparable resistance?
It is because “there appeared to Him an angel from Heaven,
strengthening Him,” and because “He prayed the longer.”
Oh, the value of the supernatural! And we dare say that we
capitulate in the interior life or in the struggles of the apostolate from lack
of strength!
Three times did Our Lord present his ”fiat” (cf. Matt. 26:39-44), returning to His disciples after each
time.
After the first, “He found them sleeping” (Matt. 26:40), and He
advised them, “Watch ye, and pray that ye enter not into temptation. The spirit
indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak” (Matt. 26:41).
But they paid no heed. Why? They were drowsy. Theirs was a
somnolence stemming from two opposite excesses. On the one hand, despair, on
the other, presumption. -- Despair: Faced with the human defeat of Jesus, their
dreams of worldly grandeur were undone. What was left them? Only
that darkness, that solitude, that hard and ordinary ground on which they
rested. Their careers were cut short, O sorrow of sorrows! Under the
burden of this sorrow, the only thing to do was sleep. -- Presumption:
Nevertheless, they considered themselves strong. They had fought so much;
certainly it was an insult to doubt their strength. Convinced of their
resistance, unconcerned with their perseverance, they “killed time” by
sleeping.
It was a sleep that was rude as well. The Lord suffered and they
slept! What could they care about the Lord? Were they not already rendering Him
an infinite favor by being there with Him in that abandonment? What else did He
want? For them to pray at so late an hour? By no means. He could watch if He wanted to. As for the
Apostles, they were going to sleep.
The more one enters into sleep the heavier it becomes. Such also
is the progress of lukewarmness. The second time,
Jesus “found them sleeping, for their eyes were heavy with sleep” (Matt.
26:42), a sleep of mediocrity, of indolence, of softness. Did they still follow
the Master? Yes and no. Yes, because after all, they were there. No, because
they no longer listened to Him. He would speak and they would disobey. He would
suffer and they would sleep. It was the beginning of a rupture.
How do such disastrous falls occur? To sleep while Jesus speaks
is, for me, to be inattentive, indifferent, lukewarm when I am spoken to by
those who represent the Holy Church, by those who would guide me along the ways
of sanctity, by those who personify for me -- because of their example --
orthodoxy, generosity, hunger and thirst of virtue. When I fall into this
sleep, what remedy is there, except to wake up, “watching and praying lest I
fall into temptation?” And if I do not do so, what is the outcome?
The result is failure in one’s spiritual life and in one’s
vocation. The third time, Our Lord’s words are a rebuke: “Sleep ye now and take your rest; behold the hour is at hand, and
the Son of man shall be betrayed into the hands of sinners. Rise, let us go:
Behold he is at hand that will betray Me” (Matt.
26:45-46).
It was past the hour. Not even the affectionate and doleful
supplication, “couldest thou not watch one hour?”
(Mark
Shortly thereafter, “while he was yet speaking, cometh Judas
Iscariot, one of the twelve: and with him a great multitude with swords and
staves” (Mark,
Yes, they fled, for they had been lukewarm, had slept, and had not
prayed. If I, Lord, do not wish to flee, I must be steadfast, I cannot sleep, I
must pray.
Grant me, Lord, this grace of perseverance in every situation, every anguish, every bitterness; this grace of fidelity in
every abandonment, every forsaking, every defeat; this grace of constancy even
when all have abandoned Thee, oppressed by sleep or maddened by concupiscence
for the things of this world. Otherwise, my God, take me from this life, for
there is one thing I do not want, that is, to flee.
Through the omnipotent intercession of Thy Most Holy Mother, Lord
Jesus, this is the grace of perseverance I beseech of Thee.
TFP Magazine, March-April 1993