We are naturally drawn to things we can see and touch. The beauties of nature and the wonder of our relations with our families and loved ones are overwhelming. But they are also quite capable of distracting us from God, whom we cannot see and whom we can only know by faith and Revelation. The gift of knowledge is a liberating force that allows us to place creation in its proper sphere, so that created things assist us rather than obscure the faith we seek.
The first step along this path is pleasant, at least for a time; it is the period of experimentation with the things that delight us most. At some point, like St. Augustine, we “grow up”, and decide that food, sex, money – the list is nearly endless – may be diverting, even addicting, but it doesn’t quite satisfy us.
In his Confessions, St. Augustine describes the climactic day when he finally determined to lay aside his former beliefs.
The very toy of toys, and vanity of vanities, my ancient mistresses, still held me; they plucked my fleshly garment and whispered softly, “Dost thou cast us off?” (VIII.26)
Augustine was speaking to a friend, but realized he had to be alone. He walked off by himself.
I cast myself down I know not how, under a certain fig-tree, giving full vent to my tears; and the floods of mine eyes gushed out an acceptable sacrifice to Thee…So was I speaking and weeping in the most bitter contrition of my heart, when lo! I heard from a neighboring house a voice, as of a boy or girl…chanting and oft repeating, “Take up and read; take up and read.”
…So checking the torrent of my tears, I arose…I seized, opened, and in silence read that section [of the Scripture] on which my eyes first fell: “…put ye on Jesus Christ, and make not provision for the flesh…”
Augustine’s tears may resemble our own as we mourn the death of someone we love or – perhaps more poignantly – when we look at our own lives and realize how short they are, and how little we may have done with them.
An early 20th Century Dominican, H.D. Gardeil, asked,
What am I? What is man, then? It is God who inspires these tears. Converts experience it: these tears have led them back to God. Fervent Christians experience it also. In this vision of nothingness and this melancholy which it inspires they find a motive for turning away from creatures and of soaring towards God. The tears of the bereaved, the tears of the unhappy; they are one more effect of the knowledge which the Holy Spirit inspires within us.(The Holy Spirit in Christian Life, p. 103)
This is the first light of the gift of knowledge, the realization that the pleasure of created things does not last, and that true happiness must lie somewhere else. Freeing ourselves from the grip of our pleasures may prove to be a lifetime struggle, but the Spirit’s gift of knowledge is God’s assurance that something greater than a moment’s pleasure will reward the effort.
At the same time, knowledge allows us to realize that when created things no longer control us, when we no longer need some thing to define who we are, the undeniable beauty of creation possesses a remarkable capacity to reflect its Creator. Then, Fr. Gardeil writes, instead of betraying us, creation acquires the capacity to “betray” (in the sense of revealing) “God, the divine intelligence and goodness.” (Gardeil, p. 96)
And this can be another source of tears, the tears of longing that we encounter in many of the saints. The gift of knowledge enables us to see the face of God reflected in the faces of those we love. They draw us to God, but we cannot see Him. “God takes us captive,” Fr. Gardeil says, “but we cannot reach Him.” He continues,
[these are] no longer tears of repentance but tears of desire and anguish. We see him, but partially; we feel him but cannot overtake him. The blessed Virgin, when she finds our Lord in the Temple, reproaches him thus: “What hast thou done? Thy father and I have sought thee, weeping.” The spouse seeks God as the mother seeks her son, weeping. (Gardeil, p. 105)
St. Thomas Aquinas makes a connection between the gift of knowledge and the third beatitude, which promises a blessing to those who mourn. His comment is less poetic than his Dominican successor, but it is no less to the point.
It is by forming a right judgment of creatures that man becomes aware of the loss (of which they [creatures] may be the occasion), which judgment he exercises through the gift of knowledge. Hence the beatitude of sorrow is said to correspond to the gift of knowledge. (ST II-II, 9.4)
This ought to lead us to a moment of self-discovery. We are no less a part of creation than anyone or anything else God has created. The Spirit’s gift of knowledge should inspire in us a two-fold vision in which we see every creature as altogether dependent upon God, yet possessing the immense potential to reveal something of God’s perfection.
We do ourselves (or God) no credit if we hide our face, shuffle our feet, and say, “Aw, shucks!” if someone mentions our accomplishments. Cities built on hills cannot be hidden, Jesus says, and lamps are lighted to give light to households. No created thing has any value in itself, yet every created thing is immensely valuable because it has the capacity to reveal something of God’s perfection.
We commit the gravest of sins, the sin of scandal, if we use our intelligence or charm to lead others into sin. On the other hand, what greater gift can we give others than to share with them the good things the gift of knowledge allows us to discern in ourselves, which will lead them to God? St. Thomas observes that our happiness “consist[s] somewhat in the right use of creatures, and in well-ordered love of them; and I say this with regard to the beatitude of a wayfarer.” (ST II-II, 9.4, ad. 3)
St. Thomas’ use of the term “wayfarer” reminds us of our pilgrimage through life, and the lives of the saints demonstrate how powerfully the gift of knowledge can direct the prayer that accompanies and eases this journey.
St. Teresa of Avila writes that the first step of the soul toward contemplation occurs when the soul leaves its interior castle to wander among the beauties of the world. At some point the God calls the soul, telling it that these created splendors are not enough. The soul then retreats into its castle again, where God’s word can lift it to greater and greater heights.
The first step in this journey toward eternal happiness is the individual’s responding to the Spirit’s gift of knowledge, and acknowledging that created things, in themselves, cannot bring the satisfaction we seek.
The Holy Spirit, with whom we should have the most intimate relations, detaches us from creatures, makes us hear his call of invitation, and through recollection, places us in the first stage of the supernatural states of prayer. (Gardeil, p. 99)
