Catherine Lachmanová
It is a very interesting and perhaps not very well-known fact that at the foundation of Teresa's second conversion stands a strong Eucharistic experience. This experience became the beginning of a deep process of her inner transformation, maturing in love for God, which soon began to manifest itself in a new love for people, a desire to cooperate in the salvation of others. It must be emphasized that this process of rapid maturation begins not with her decision or increased effort, but as a gift from God, a powerful experience of faith during the midnight Mass on Christmas 1886.
Teresa is just under fourteen years old and is experiencing a very difficult period. For several years, she has shown great emotional imbalance, likely a consequence of profound trauma experienced at four years old, when she lost her mother, and the recent farewell to her older sisters, who gradually leave for Carmel. Pavlína has been a substitute mother for her since her mother's death, and therefore she experiences her loss very hard. With her departure three years ago, little Teresa went through a serious psychosomatic illness, from which she was miraculously healed through the intercession of the Virgin Mary. Physical problems have ceased, but her psychological fragility persists. Externally, she was further negatively impacted by school retreats experienced at thirteen: it was then that Teresa started what she calls a "terrible disease of scruples," the echoes of which will linger with her even at Carmel.
In summary, at the age of fourteen, Teresa exhibits such hypersensitivity that it is "truly unbearable," as she later describes it. Almost exclusively, her thoughts revolve around herself (even in her spiritual life), she cries over every little thing, and when she realizes this, she cries because she had previously cried so unnecessarily and saddened others. Although she does not lack good will, it is not enough for substantial change. Those around her would probably not believe that in less than two years, she would be capable of entering Carmel and beginning a life of asceticism entirely focused on forgetting herself, completely directed towards the salvation of others. She later writes about it: "I do not know how I could nurture the sweet thought of entering Carmel when I was still in my childhood diapers!... God must have performed a small miracle to give me in an instant the ability to grow up, and this miracle took place on that unforgettable day of Christmas. On that bright night, (...) Jesus, the newborn Child, changed the night of my soul into streams of light." (AS p. 95)
Saint Teresa of Lisieux is commonly associated with the path of spiritual childhood. However, spiritual childhood is not a return to childish self-centeredness, even in some spiritual form, that is, experienced in relation to God; it is rather a higher school of love. If we are to become a child in the sense of the Gospel, we must grow out of our childhood diapers, as Teresa says. We must cease to be a child in the sense of infantile self-centeredness, focusing on ourselves, and learn to live as a child of God, focused on the Father, in complete surrender and dependency on Him, who is the source of life for His children – and in openness to brothers and sisters of that immense divine family. Thus, Teresa writes: "It was on December 25, 1886, when I received the grace that I stopped being a child. In a word, I received the grace of complete conversion." (ibid.)
As already stated, the decisive turnaround did not occur due to her resolution, but through grace. Teresa was given to experience firsthand the very essence of the Gospel: Jesus Christ humbled Himself to exalt us, becoming weak to strengthen us, taking on our sin so that we might put on His righteousness. Teresa writes: "On that night, when He became weak and suffering out of love for me, He made me strong and courageous, clothed me with His armor, and since that blessed night I have not been overcome in any battle, but rather, I have walked from victory to victory and have started to run almost like a 'giant'! The source of my tears dried up, and since then it has opened only rarely and with difficulty." (ibid.)
The paradox of Christmas has much in common with the paradox of Easter: In the maximum humiliation and apparent helplessness, God reveals His maximum power and glory. The cross of Christ appears as the pinnacle of Jesus's helplessness, but for us who believe, it is an expression of divine power, as the Apostle Paul writes (cf. 1 Cor 1:18). Similarly, Christ, even as a child in the manger, becomes weak and suffering, completely dependent on others, yet He does not cease to be God, the Holy One, the Mighty One, and the Immortal, the One who saves the weak.
Therefore, Teresa initially speaks of the Divine Child, of Jesus, who that night became "weak and suffering" out of love for her, but shortly thereafter, when she describes the Christmas incident in more detail, she expresses herself almost the opposite: "We were returning from the midnight Mass, during which I had the good fortune to receive God, the strong and powerful." (Teresa emphasizes these last words in her manuscript.) Thus, the strong God becomes weak (ironically making Him even stronger!) – in order to descend to the bottom of her weakness and thereby make her "strong and courageous."
This occurred not during a personal ecstatic prayer, nor through some private revelation, as happened with some other saints of Carmel, but during the Holy Communion at the midnight Mass. (In this moment, Teresa is a teacher of the ordinary path, a path accessible for everyone.) Immediately after returning home, a small episode occurred that proved that Teresa indeed underwent an inner transformation: her father saw Teresa's little shoe in the fireplace, prepared for gifts, and since he was apparently tired, he grumbled to himself: "Thank God this is the last time this year!" Teresa heard this from the staircase – and there would normally certainly have followed a stream of tears. Therefore, Celina advises her not to go downstairs and spoil the ending of the holiday for everyone. "However, Teresa was no longer the same," she later writes about herself, "Jesus changed her heart." (AS p. 96)
The tearful scene did not occur, and for Teresa begins a period full of grace (though also full of trials) and also a period of unparalleled spiritual fruitfulness. Soon after, a vocation opens up for intense intercessory prayer, and she experiences a first great encouragement in the miraculous conversion of the sinner Pranzini. However, the essential point is that after such a strong experience of God's mercy, which has descended upon her in her misery and inability, Teresa will not be inclined to attribute the subsequent spiritual successes to herself – neither her own spiritual progress nor the moments when she manages to help someone else, whether by advice or prayer. Just as Peter once had to experience his fishing helplessness through a fruitless all-night effort, only to then appreciate the miraculous catch of fish and above all its originator, Christ, in the morning, so too did Teresa have to enjoy the contrast of her weakness and God's strength to later know to whom the praise and glory belong: "But we have this treasure in earthen vessels, so that the excellence of the power may be of God and not of us," teaches Saint Paul (2 Cor 4:7). Later, Teresa expresses it this way: "In a single moment, Jesus accomplished the work that I would have been unable to achieve in 10 years. He was satisfied with my good will, which I never lacked. I could say to Him like the apostles: 'Lord, we worked all night and caught nothing.' To me, Jesus was even more merciful than to His disciples, He Himself took the net, threw it and pulled the full fish. He made me a fisher of souls, and I felt a great desire to work for the conversion of sinners, a desire I had not felt so vividly before. In a word, I felt that fraternal love had entered my heart, the need to forget myself in order to bring joy to others, and ever since, I have been happy!" (AS, p. 96.)
"I felt that fraternal love (la charité) had entered my heart," writes Teresa. She probably does not even realize that she is making a very precise theological statement, because the Apostle Paul wrote long before her: "The love of God is poured into our hearts by the Holy Spirit, who was given to us." (Rom 5:5) "Love is of God," similarly proclaimed the Apostle John (1 Jn 4:7), adding: "We love because He first loved us." (1 Jn 4:19) We cannot therefore love solely on the basis that God commands us to love. We cannot love for Him, but in Him; in order to live by love, we all need to receive His love.
Something similar happens in a special way at every celebration of the Eucharist. Not automatically, but through living faith. We might compare Holy Communion to a piece of uranium: uranium looks like an ordinary stone, yet there is immense energy hidden within it. For this energy to be released and a chain reaction to occur, one must know how to do it. Nuclear physicists have developed amazing devices that today allow them to provoke nuclear reactions and release that enormous energy (what humanity will then use it for is another question).
We Christians also have available some kind of "fissile" device – the so-called divine (theological) virtues: faith, hope, and love. Divine because they are given to us by God at baptism as part of our equipment; all we need to do is unpack and use them. Faith can see in the white host Christ, the Son of God, who is the same yesterday, today, and forever; love is able to embrace Him, to unite with Him; and hope allows us to persevere in faith and love even in situations when we do not feel God in any way, when it seems that His help is far away and we are drowning in our weakness. Hope is indeed anchored not in feelings and visible reality, but in God's promises. We might say in God's love for us and in God's power. Hope is a kind of magnet that draws us forward on our journey and helps us overcome obstacles, temptations of despondency, and dryness.
These three divine virtues, infused into us at baptism, must be "activated," set in motion – especially when receiving the sacraments. There is indeed a difference in whether we approach Holy Communion with faith or without faith: it is a similar difference as when a nuclear physicist approaches a piece of uranium, or a small child. A small child might hold it in their hand for a while and then throw it away because it does not look particularly attractive. The physicist will be able to release immense energy from it, which will provide light, heat, and power machines in factories and devices in hospitals, etc.
We know that at the Mass before the consecration, the priest calls down the Holy Spirit not only on the gifts brought but on the entire assembly. What would happen if we truly opened ourselves to Him in faith? Teresa's weakness and smallness, combined with her great desire and trust, seemingly attracted the Holy Spirit, who is both God's love and God's power, so that He descended into Teresa's heart and enabled her to love, to offer selfless love to others. Without receiving the Holy Spirit, who is love, she would not have been able to step out of her limited little world, where she was the center with her problems, and open her heart to the pains of the world – in whose center, however, is no longer her, but the Lamb of God, the Savior of the world. He is actually the only true Fisher of souls; all others can and should have a share in His "fishing," but only in union with Him.
It is no coincidence that Teresa later feels a deep sympathy for the figure of Saint Joan of Arc. In a short play about this saint, which she wrote for her sisters, she writes about her:
She is just a poor shepherdess,
but God is Almighty:
to the timid maiden He wishes to grant
a fiery heart and a warrior spirit.1
