In Defense of Purity

by Dietrich von Hildebrand

  6. “Every creature spiritualised, elevated and deified by faith becomes Christ’s sister; and when that faith blossoms into love the sister becomes the bride: ‘my sister, my bride’ are the words in the Song of Songs. No doubt there are degrees within this relationship—innumerable degrees, possibly as many as the souls that love. ‘The bride,’ says St. Bernard, ‘is every soul that loves.’ Even those who have thought fit to bestow on a human being the hallowed name of bridegroom have not on that account lost the right to call their Redeemer by that name.” Charles Gay, op. cit. II, x.

  7. One day a Dominican Friar, “perhaps to test her [St. Catherine of Genoa] or because of some mistaken notion, told her that he himself was better fitted for loving than she, because he having entered Religion and renounced all things both within and without, and she being married to the world, as he was to Religion, he found himself more free to love God, and more acted upon by Him. And the Friar went on and alleged many other reasons. But when he had spoken much and long, an ardent flame of pure love seized upon Catherine, and she sprang to her feet with such fervour as to appear beside herself and said: ‘If I thought that your habit had the power of gaining me one single additional spark of love, I should without fail take it from you by force, if I were not allowed to have it otherwise. That you should merit more than myself is a matter that I concede and do not seek; I leave it in your hands; but that I cannot love Him as much as you is a thing that you will never by any means be able to make me understand.’ And she said this with such force and fervour, that all her hair came undone, and falling down, was scattered upon her shoulders. And yet all the while her vehement bearing was full of grace and dignity. And when back at home and alone with her Lord, she exclaimed: ‘O Love, who shall impede me from loving Thee? Though I were not only in the world as I am, but in a camp of soldiers, I could not be impeded from loving Thee.’” (Vita della. Caterina Fiesca Adorna, quoted and trans. by Baron F. von Hugel, The Mystical Element of Religion, vol. I, pp. 140-41.)

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The Ascetical Significance of Virginity

  AS A RESULT of the Fall there remains in man, even after his redemption, a downward trend, a tendency to pride and concupiscence. Even when his conduct is on the whole governed by the determination not to offend God, this downward impulse does not cease to exist, and his behavior all too easily displays a certain alloy of these vices. I am not thinking of those attitudes of concupiscence or pride which are grievously sinful, because they involve a deliberate rebellion against God, and which are therefore present when a man falls into mortal sin, nor yet of venial sin, but of man’s general weakness toward himself, his disorder, and the attitudes in which this imperfection is expressed. What joy is there in successful work, in the service and goodwill of others, in the very performance of duty, even in graces received, which is unmingled with a drop of self-satisfaction, pride, and selfish pleasure? What delight in the possession of a beautiful house, in the prestige of an exalted position, is wholly devoid of greedy self-love? What enjoyment of even lawful earthly goods pleasant to the senses, well-cooked food, for example, rare wines, or a soft bed, is altogether free from gluttonous indulgence, sloth, or passive yielding to desire? The life of the average Christian who avoids mortal sin and seeks to avoid venial sins, so far as he recognizes them—but who with no qualms of conscience surrenders to the obvious tendency of nature by concessions to self-love, and never shakes off this comfortable indolence, never emerges from the pleasant, warm stream of life—is still penetrated by pride and concupiscence, though they have certainly been expelled from the center of his being, and have lost the sovereignty of his person.

  The imperfection of such a Christian, the remains of pride and concupiscence with which his life is still permeated and alloyed, oppose an insuperable barrier to complete union with Jesus. Such Christians may be servants of the Lord, possibly even His friends, but never children, not to mention brides. Purification, therefore, from these relics of the spirit of the world, which still cleave to the soul, these remains of “the lust of the eyes, the lust of the flesh and the pride of life” has always been regarded as an indispensable prerequisite for that full and ultimate union which distinguishes the bride of Christ. To accomplish this purification is the task of asceticism. Asceticism calls upon us to renounce the enjoyment of lawful goods, even if in itself it involves no indulgence of the pride and concupiscence which still cling to us, because the renunciation closes and keeps closed the outlet for certain fundamental instincts and strengthens the dominion over pride and concupiscence of a self which humbly and reverently loves.

  That asceticism of this kind demands renunciation even when there is no actual danger of lapse into pride and concupiscence is further shown by the fact that it not only prohibits or limits the enjoyment of certain goods, but also requires the deliberate choice of certain evils. The discipline and the spiked belt, for example, to mention only two instances, are more than a renunciation of goods, they are a voluntary choice of evils. They may indeed be employed purely as a sacrifice1 or as temporary aids to overcome temptation.2 But their normal use is as a means of mortification; that is to say, to prepare the way by a special training for the necessary supremacy of the humble, reverent, and loving self over concupiscence and pride. This choice of evils is obviously not intended to repress in a concrete instance the operation of these vices, but to interrupt normal comfort and physical well-being, in itself harmless, in order to free the spiritual person generally from its weakness toward the body and its instincts.

  Sleep, for example, is in itself a divinely ordained refreshment of the body. Asceticism, however, requires not simply the restriction of sleep to the amount which reason shows to be necessary, that is to say, a refusal to make any concession to sloth, but in addition vigils, the mortification of a hard bed, and so on. By denying himself things which, like the normal measure of sleep, are in themselves no yielding to concupiscence, but which, nevertheless, necessarily involve a contact with the domain in which concupiscence operates and which provides an outlet for the body’s elementary need of refreshment, man should gradually so free himself from bondage to that domain that even his unavoidable contacts with it, as in sleep, eating, drinking, and so on, no longer involve any danger of surrendering to the remains of concupiscence. That is to say, the thoroughly legitimate use of certain good things is renounced for the purification thus effected. This refusal to open the natural outlets for certain elementary needs—for example, the urge to sleep, eat, drink, speak—is a mortification, a means whereby the spiritual person is set free from the life of the instincts and acquires a mastery over the entire domain of concupiscence.

  Asceticism, however, has another purpose. It requires the avoidance of every situation which involves the danger of entertaining emotions of pride or sensuality. Dainty dishes, for example, are refused because in a particular instance one is afraid of giving way to gluttony; a soft bed renounced for fear of yielding in any way to sloth; wealth, lest an undue delight in possessions should take hold of their owner; outward honor and success, lest they prove an occasion to gratify the stirrings of pride. In such cases the renunciation is not a method of self-training in order to make essential progress, a means of purification, but a prudent and wary avoidance of every occasion which might involve the danger, not primarily of mortal sin, but of the deliberate indulgence of an imperfection and ultimately of venial sin.

  Both points of view may be termed ascetic, though the significance of asceticism is more typically expressed by the former. Detachment from earthly goods for an ascetic motive is, therefore, essentially distinguished by the negative character of the object against which the struggle is made, namely pride and concupiscence. What, then, is the relationship between asceticism and virginity? We cannot answer the question until we have investigated more thoroughly the specific intention which determines the ascetic attitude toward certain goods. As we have already pointed out, even the entirely legitimate and innocent enjoyme
nt of many good things provides, in the first place, a certain outlet for man’s elementary instincts, secondly an opportunity for the indulgence of the relics of concupiscence and pride in fallen human nature, and thus involves in itself a certain danger of excess. To curb these instincts, even when the opening of the outlet would not lead to any excess, an explicit renunciation of pride and concupiscence is necessary, which, when inspired by the right intention, is at least a disciplinary method by which we free ourselves from their yoke. Delight, for example, in owning a fine house, or in beautiful dresses, is certainly not wrong in itself, but can very easily involve, even quite unconsciously, the indulgence of what St. John calls the lust of the eyes, a characteristic mixture of pride and sensuality.

  In any case, the free choice of a life of purity and the renunciation of all possessions provide a direct method by which the lust of the eyes can be completely overcome, whereas the innocent enjoyment of property, even when it does not lead to any deliberate excess, is, at any rate, no such instrument of purification. External freedom, the ability to do or leave undone what we will—of course only within the limits of what God has not forbidden—that exterior independence for which youth longs so passionately, is no doubt something genuinely good which it is perfectly legitimate to enjoy, but it may easily prove the indulgence of a disordered desire of freedom and a certain pride. This is the pride of life mentioned by St. John. In this case also the voluntary renunciation of this good is a direct means of self-emancipation, which the ordinary freedom, though in itself innocent, obviously is not. Similarly that high and holy good, marriage, involves, if even as a completely unintended by-product, contact with the sphere of fleshly lust, and with it the inevitable danger of yielding to its unconscious gratification. But for this very reason to refuse relief to the sting of the flesh is a peculiarly efficacious method of mortifying the flesh, which married life, even when the exercise of sex is confined to its highest function, cannot afford, since the act of wedded union always involves, however little it be deliberately sought, an outlet for the demands of sex.

  The evangelical counsels—poverty, obedience, and chastity3 —prescribe the external road to holiness, in which heroism renounces even those goods whose use is by no means sinful, indeed in itself good. Their purpose is in the first instance ascetic. As complete continence, consecrated virginity constitutes a union with God, in so far as it represents at the same time the entire renunciation of fleshly lust. The purpose of asceticism, here of primary importance, is purification by self-denial, since purification is a prerequisite for the perfect union with God. Its other purpose, the radical avoidance of all occasions involving the danger of a slip, may also play a part. But from this ascetic standpoint the virginity as such does not constitute a closer bond with God; on the contrary, that bond must be sought only in the heroic determination born of an extraordinary love of God to renounce any and every good rather than incur the risk of being separated from Him by some lapse.

  That is to say, considered from the ascetical standpoint, virginity lays the foundation of the closer union with God, but from this point of view the union with God which virginity as vowed continence creates is not specifically nuptial. It may indeed subserve the nuptial relation, inasmuch as it is an effective means to effect that union with God which wedlock with Jesus, in the sense of the allegory worked out above, involves. But in this respect it represents nothing essentially new as compared with poverty and obedience. They, too, are methods of purification of decisive importance. That is to say, the ascetic standpoint cannot provide the answer to our question; it cannot represent the factor in virginity which makes it and it alone the ground of a unique marriage with Christ.

  * * *

  1. Penance as a sacrifice offered to God lies, of course, entirely outside the sphere of asceticism.

  2. For example, when St. Benedict and St. Francis plunged into thorns in order to destroy by the physical pain the fascination of the temptations which assailed them.

  3. The term “chastity” must be here taken in the sense of complete continence, not in the stricter sense explained above.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Virginity as Undividedness

  THE ASCETIC, however, is not the most profound or most distinctive meaning of the evangelical counsels.1 As we penetrate the significance of this state of life we become aware of a further element of great importance: undivided appurtenance to God. If a man is bound to earthly goods his heart also must be still occupied with them and cannot be given wholly and undividedly to the things of God. This truth is expressed in the parable of the great supper. “A certain man made a great supper; and he invited many: and he sent forth his slave at supper time to say to them that were invited. Come, for all things are now ready. And they all with one consent began to make excuse. The first said unto him, I have bought a field, and I must needs go out and see it: I pray thee hold me excused. And another said, I have bought five yoke of oxen and I go to prove them: I pray thee hold me excused. And another said, I have married a wife, and therefore I cannot come” (Luke 14:16–21). The freer the heart from earthly ties, the more unreservedly can it belong to God. We are not now concerned, as when we were discussing the ascetic aspect, with the struggle against something in itself worthless, against the relics of pride and concupiscence, but with a renunciation of earthly goods of a lofty and noble nature, in order to exclude the danger of perverting the relation which should obtain between Creator and creature, by attaching the heart to a created good more closely than is consistent with the divinely willed order, and so dividing it between God and creatures.

  The motive is no longer purification, but undividedness in the strictest sense—the inner emptiness indispensable if we are to be filled with God, complete inner freedom. From the ascetic standpoint renunciation becomes less necessary, the higher and nobler the good; the danger of excess being correspondingly less, the less can its renunciation be regarded as a mere penance, the less appropriate is it as a simple disciplinary method. It is no accident that the object of asceticism as a specific discipline is chiefly the superficial goods, that this asceticism consists mainly in fasting, vigils, scourging, mortification of the pleasure of the eyes, and so on, and not primarily in renouncing the enjoyment of great works of art or noble friendships. But the danger of dividing the heart, on the contrary, is from one point of view greater, the higher and nobler the good in question. We must, however, remember that every good thing of high rank, when rightly understood and used, also, as we shall see later, unites the soul with God; moreover, the nobler it is, the more effectively does it fulfill this function.

  Virginity produces an undividedness in its subject, as being not simply the complete renunciation of fleshly lust, but the renunciation of that community of love and life which marriage represents. This renunciation of the highest earthly good is for that very reason preeminently the way to achieve undividedness, for man’s heart is here in the greatest danger of being divided. The division which marriage may produce can assume many forms. As a result of its community of life and love the heart may easily become absorbed too deeply in the beloved, the gaze be no longer directed exclusively to God. “He that is married careth . . . how he may please his wife.” Thoughts, wishes, interests easily become divided; that is, they will not be referred to the other party only in God and according to the due scale of values: regard for the partner’s interest in the first place will be isolated as an end complete in itself, and, secondly, will violate the true order of values and so thrust itself between God and the soul. This danger may reveal itself by a superficial distraction of the thoughts and attention from God. In consequence of man’s restricted field of attention, which holds good also in the emotional sphere, married people are particularly exposed to the risk that their thoughts, wishes, and interests—in short, the actual content of consciousness—will be so exclusively occupied by the beloved and the myriad concerns of their common life in the world, that they do not live for God, but at best are c
ontent to avoid breaking His commandments. Moreover, the married man has his duties as such; as a married man he lives in a special sense in the “world”; he is obliged to attend to many worldly matters, which the married state—still more the foundation of a family—involves. If he permits all his thoughts and interests to be absorbed by these things, he becomes a servant of God, a friend at best—he cannot be a child, still less a bride.

  But the most profound threat to single-minded service of God does not come from the distraction or dispersal of a man’s powers which marriage tends to effect by the bond with the world that it sets up. It consists rather in a division of the fundamental aim of life, which the mutual love and common life of wedlock directly tend to produce. Since our very nature makes it difficult for us to keep our hearts in and for God, if noble earthly goods entice us and take strong hold of our affections our hearts all too easily depart from the order which should be observed between God and the creature we love. The danger is not, indeed, that we should love a creature too much, for the love of one creature for another is greatest when that love is a participation of Jesus’s love for the beloved, that is to say, a love in Jesus. It is the danger of a disordered love which, without being any greater for that—it is, on the contrary, necessarily less, love of a less perfect kind—sets itself up as its own sufficient end, in isolation from God, and therefore absorbs the lover and withdraws his heart from Him. Even if the will still belongs entirely to God, the heart is no longer completely His. That man may be God’s servant, friend, even child—but not His bride. For the bride’s heart belongs to Jesus, the God-man. This element of danger implicit in every created love is increased immeasurably by marriage, because marriage in its unique, intimate, indissoluble and lifelong partnership constitutes objectively “a life for another” as does no other partnership between creatures.