It is impossible to read The Story of a Soul and not be struck by St. Therese’s marked predilection for the word littleness.
She likes to compare herself to a little toy or a little ball belonging to the Infant Jesus; she describes her soul as a little boat; to Mere Agnes she loves to speak of herself as a little hermit, a little reed, or a little grain of sand, and the Autobiography has as its subtitle: “The Story of the Springtime of a Little White Flower.” This constant habit of using diminutives she extends also to others. In 1893, Celine, now twenty-four years old, appears to her as “a little drop of dew.” The year following, speaking of her work among the novices, she calls herself “a little setter” running after her “little rabbits.” (SST, 122-123)
Is this term, though, merely a natural phenomenon of her personality, merely a natural disposition that eminently fitted her to be the instructress of a unique supernatural outlook on the faith? Some have certainly interpreted it that way:
To understand the “littleness” of “the little way of spiritual childhood” as Therese understood it, we must be careful to distinguish it from an entirely different kind of “littleness” which plays a large part in Therese’s thought and words. As she was the youngest of the family, she quite naturally spoke of herself as “little Therese,” and all those around her used similar words. They multiplied their terms of affection. She was the little queen, the little flower, the little ray of sunshine, etc., and even in 1889 when she had been nine months in the Carmel, she was still for her eldest sister a “little lamb.” (SST, 122)
Did grace ever perfect nature more harmoniously? Therese was always little. In the family circle at home, the last of nine children, she lived under the affectionate tutelage of her older sisters. In Carmel, preceded by two of her sisters and entering at the age of fifteen, she was to die at twenty-four. The only seniority she ever enjoyed was in the novitiate; she never reached the canonical age which would have allowed her to exercise her rights of religious profession. She was always “little Therese,” both in her family setting and among her friends. She remained this supernaturally up to her entrance into heaven, due to a grace which made her understand with rigorous and absolute logic the model [of the little child] given us by Jesus to His most intimate disciples.
Therese found no difficulty in imitating the external attitudes of a child with her affectionate and charming gestures and her use of language. But we should not allow ourselves to be deceived by these externals, which are not the essential characteristics of childhood and which could even lead to a falsification. (UTHL, 116-117)
The good Abbe Combes would seem willingly to dismiss the term littleness altogether as inapplicable to Therese’s essential spirituality:
The superficial reader may regard these constant diminutives as somewhat puerile, and his impression may be strengthened by the readiness of Therese to speak of herself in metaphors of similar character.[…] These details of thought and style are due to the freshness of imagination, to tender feeling, to humility, or to a sentimental attachment to early memories, and they need not scandalize anyone, for they are abundantly compensated for from the very beginning by elevated thoughts and noble language. Still less should they lead any student of St. Therese into error, for they have nothing whatever in common with her authentic idea of spiritual childhood, unless it be a disposition to think little of herself. (SST, 123) [Emphasis mine.]
On the other hand, others like Rev. Mere Amabel du Coeur de Jesus, place the word at very heart of what Therese would teach us:
Therese rests with a sort of predilection on the term “Little souls.” That is because, in order to understand the heroism of Littleness, the magnanimity of nothingness, the strength of virtue needed to attain what is most perfect, there is need of a mind which is supernaturalized, enlightened by the fire of eternal wisdom. And who will possess this if not a simple soul, one who considers all things from God’s viewpoint, with the limpid eye of a child…. (TLTS, 40)
It is one thing to acknowledge the role a natural littleness admittedly played in the life of our heroine, but we dare not stop there. Therese herself, in making this so-called “littleness” the differentiating note between her and the other saints renowned for their “greatness,” gives the term an entirely new depth of meaning, the grasping of which is as intriguing a challenge as it is elusive.
Does “Littleness” Mean “Humility”?
It is easy enough to equate littleness with humility, and a great many of the Little Flower’s commentators do so. Let us look at three examples.
— (1) Msgr. Vernon Johnson says that for Therese littleness and humility “are one and the same thing” (SC, 54). And why should he not? Is this not what littleness means in the context of all the other saints connected with the word? St. Paul wished his name to mean “little pebble” as an expression of his humility. St. Francis of Assisi called his community of followers the “Little Brothers” as a testimony to their lowliness, just as St. Francis of Paola ennobled his Order with the title of “Minims” or “Littlest of All.” Were not these great saints expressing by this word how they and their works were of no account in comparison with the great God Who inspired them? Is that not the very essence of humility — to glorify God by abasing one’s self?
The difficulty with this position is that — as can be seen in our precious article, “On Great Souls and Little Souls” — St. Therese’s humility manifested itself very differently than the humility we encounter in the lives of the great saints who preceded her. Nowhere in Therese’s life or teachings do we find language akin to that used here by St. Francis de Sales: “[I]t is a most excellent thing to own one’s self poor, vile, abject, and unworthy of appearing in the presence of God” (CTSFDS, 35). “Poor,” yes — but “vile”? Are little children “vile”? Hear how St. Elizabeth of the Trinity expresses the same sentiments:
As a “little one,” I dwell in the depths of my poverty; I see my nothingness, my penury, my weakness; I see that I am incapable of progress, of perseverance; I appear to myself in all my destitution; I prostrate myself in my wretchedness, and recognizing my state of dire need, I spread it out before You…. (DI, 1045)
— (2) Pere Gabriel Martin defines littleness-as-humility as the loved sight of our lowliness.
The first mark of a child is its being small. According as it grows, the child ceases to be a child. The first thing to do in order to enter into the way of spiritual childhood is therefore to become very, very, little before God. Now to be little is to be humble; to be very, very little is to be perfectly humble. It is to see ourselves such as we are of ourselves, such as we are without the Divine Mercy — that is to say, a mere nothing and no more. And not only to see, but to like to see ourselves such as we have just said and to rejoice at this sight. For one may thoroughly know his wretchedness and yet be exceedingly proud — witness Satan. True humility is not in the sight, but in the loved sight of our lowliness. This is humility of heart, the only true humility. It ought to be that of the little one. (LWSC, 9)
This certainly seems to fit with the dispositions of the Little Flower, who said, “I am experiencing a very sweet joy, not only at being considered imperfect, but feeling that I really am” (TLTS, 146). This joy at the sight of one’s imperfections is unquestionably a true component of spiritual childhood:
Some might object, “Why must we love this state of imperfection?” Is it not enough that we acknowledge and accept it? No! It is not enough to acknowledge the truth. We must also love it. We have a perfect grasp of truth only when we love to see ourselves as we truly are in God’s sight. Moreover, we do not love the state of imperfection for its own sake. We love it because it disposes us for God’s merciful action in our soul. (CSDST, 44)
But what then becomes of St. Francis de Sales’ position on the exact same question?
To attain perfection, we must endure our imperfection. I say: we must suffer it with patience, not love or cherish it; humility is fortified in suffering. (CTSFDS, 126) As the weakness and infirmity of an infant displeases its mother, yet she does not cease to love it, but loves it tenderly and compassionately, so God, while He does not approve of our imperfections or venial sins, ceases not to love us tenderly. (ibid., 128)
There is no real contradiction here, of course, though ostensibly St. Therese says we must love our imperfections and the Gentleman Doctor says we must not. They are both correct. Each perspective embodies a true form of the virtue of humility. That there are two forms at play here is exactly the point I wish to make.
— (3) Fr. Andre Noche, SJ, also has littleness being synonymous with humility, “and yet when littleness is mentioned, we add to it a note of simplicity, a nuance of sweet self-effacement” (CSDST, 302). In this case, though, how would Therese’s humility be any different from the sweet self-effacement of a St. Catherine of Siena, begging her Spouse to let the imprint of His Wounds on her body remain invisible; or the sweet self-effacement of St. Ignatius of Loyola begging his confreres not once but twice to hold reelections after he himself had been unanimously chosen as the first superior of the young Society of Jesus? Yet, we know that it is different…somehow.
Thus, to define littleness as humility appears only to work if we adopt the saint herself as its modifier: as in, “Theresian humility.” And this type of humility is, in fact, such a distinct thing from that other more familiar form, that some of the her admirers go so far as to equate hers with “true” humility, as Pere Liagre seems to do in this passage:
[N]othing is less complicated and more simple than humility. Too complicate it is to falsify it. To set forth steps to acquire humility, to analyze it, to lay down its degrees, all this almost inevitably turns the soul inward and makes it think of self, whereas humility [i.e., “Theresian humility — read littleness] really consists in turning the eyes, the glance of the soul, away from self: Tolle oculum tuum ad te. In practice this consists in forgetting self, in looking on self, in fact, as nothing. How are we to do this? By turning our eyes, our gaze, towards God. (RST, 34)
Certainly, no one could object to this portrayal of humility; but one wonders — where does it leave the glorious St. Benedict whose Twelve Degrees of Humility given in the seventh chapter of his Rule erected the spiritual scaffolding for the sanctity of countless thousands of monks down through the centuries? Where does this holy refusal to look upon oneself at all leave the great saints who looked on themselves quite a bit, and none too favorably:
I know what to do to placate God. I will consider myself as dung, I will render myself intolerable to myself; and when I shall see myself humiliated and scorned, trampled upon and filled with ignominies, I shall rejoice and be happy. I will ask help from all the creatures of God, desiring to be confounded and punished by them, since I offended their Creator. (St. Bonaventure) (SD, Feb. 6)
Does “Littleness” Mean “Sanctity for Everyman”?
Other authors, instead of identifying littleness as a positive virtue, see it as consisting of a negation. They would have littleness consist in a person’s subjective inability to imitate that which is extraordinary in the lives of “great” saints. In other words, littleness is “sanctity for Everyman.”
Does the idea that you can become a great saint seem more like a joke than a real possibility? If it seems like a joke, is that because you think of yourself as being too (take your pick) selfish, sinful, prideful, lazy, busy, greedy, rich, poor, mean, jaded, cold, indifferent, fun loving, lustful, gossipy, angry, uninterested, bored, confused, distracted, envious, smart, stupid, sophisticated, stylish, unfaithful, uncaring, wounded, brokenhearted, rebellious, rational, addicted, worldly, wimpy, normal, scared, aggressive, superficial, modern, old fashioned, good looking, ugly, plain, twisted, loud, quiet, famous, unknown, violent, vindictive, passive, depressed, crazy, imbalanced, inconsistent, insincere, young, or old to be a saint…then, like me, you’re probably a “little soul.” (CHJ, 21)
Blessed Therese…called “little souls.”..those who, not being called to imitate the splendid achievements of the great saints, must for that very reason walk in simplicity of the common way during their whole life. (LWSC, VII)
Yet this position does not quite take into account that the mystical theology handed down to us by the masters has never considered sanctity as necessarily dependent on or even connected with the extraordinary. On the contrary, sanctity has always been held to consist essentially in love, in the conformity of our will to God’s, and in the performance of our daily duties — concepts duly emphasized by our Little Saint, yes, but also by all the saints. Here are three examples:
— St. Francis de Sales: “Some make the sanctification of man to consist in austerity, others in giving to charity, others in frequenting the sacraments, others in prayer. But for my part, I know of no other perfection than loving God with all one’s heart. Without this love, all the virtues are only a heap of stones.”
— St. Teresa of Avila: “Be assured that in this conformity [of man’s will with God’s] consists the highest perfection we can attain, and those who practice it with the greatest care will be favored by God’s greatest gifts and will make the quickest progress in the interior life. Do not imagine there are other secrets. All our good consists in this.
— St. Alphonsus Rodriguez: “On what deeds do all our progress and perfection depend? On all those which fall to our lot to do, but especially the ordinary ones we perform daily. These are frequent, hence in them, more than in others, we must use greater diligence. If we perform them perfectly, we will be perfect; if we perform them imperfectly, we will be imperfect. Thus, the difference between a perfect and an imperfect [soul] is not that the former performs more and varied duties, but that he does the ordinary duties to perfection.” (SD, August 9)
If St. Therese based her littleness on an inability to measure up to others’ greatness, why did her Sisters in religion not point out to her the error of such a position? And when her commentators insist on emphasizing how she “…understood that she was meant to seek the secret of perfection in her religious life itself, and, in order to weave her web of sanctity, she did not go searching at a distance, but seized the thread ready to her hand, drawing it from all her actions and from the smallest events. On this web so slight her love embroidered virtue-flowers of great richness and exquisite beauty. It is in thus making use of quite small things that she has become a great saint” (LWSC, 120) — how can we be faulted for pointing out that so did all the other saints!
Which brings us back to our original perplexity: If Little Therese only taught what all the saints had taught before her — that with God’s grace all heights of love are possible — why does the Church give “her doctrine” so much attention?
Is “Littleness” the Absence of the Extraordinary?
Still other authors define littleness in terms of an objective absence of the external manifestations commonly associated with sanctity, whether imitable or not.
Visions, ecstasies, revelations, these things have no place in the “Little Way” which our holy Mistress sets before us. She well knew the danger of these things and how easily the soul may be deceived by false lights; she knew how safe and sure is the way of bare faith alone, in which the soul walks securely without the danger of illusion or deception which extraordinary happenings bring with them. (STF, 143)
Therese’s has, in this line of thinking, been dubbed a “pure holiness,” almost as though any extraordinary gifts given on God’s part would put their recipient out of reach of our heroine’s spirituality.
If we consider the other saints, we shall usually find external manifestations, more or less striking, of their holiness, strictly so-called. Thus we have the blood of the martyrs, the writings of the Doctors, the austerities of the ascetics, the various labors of the confessors, the virgins, and the holy women, the Summa of St. Thomas Aquinas, the visions of St. Bernadette, the orphans of St. Vincent de Paul, of St. John Bosco, or of Pere Brottier. With St. Therese, it is simply her Rule, and that, for her and for one who judges from without, is synonymous with an absence of active works. (SST, 158)
In vain should we seek in her life anything extraordinary…unless it be the extraordinary perfection with which she accomplished the most ordinary deeds. (LWST, 120)
This explanation, however, runs into two difficulties according to which meaning is given to “extraordinary.” Does “extraordinary” require that the gifts or graces be witnessed by outsiders? If not, then St. Catherine Laboure’s vision of Our Lady of the Miraculous Medal, St. Faustina’s visions of Our Lord as the Source of Divine Mercy, St. John Bosco’s dreams could not qualify as “extraordinary,” as they were no more witnessed by additional persons than the archangel’s visits to the Virgin and the Carpenter of Nazareth. On the other hand, if we say with Fr. Garrigou-Lagrange (cf. The Three Ages of the Interior Life, pp. 580-607) that the “extraordinary” includes any type of divine revelations, visions, supernatural locutions, divine touches, and ecstasies, then it can in no wise be claimed that St. Therese was not the object of extraordinary gifts and graces.
Proof of the Extraordinary in the Life of the Little Flower
Even in the natural order, there are things about Therese that would disqualify her from being “normal” by most people’s standards. Possessing the use of reason from the age of three years old, for example — and being able to say seriously that “from that age she denied God nothing.” We know also that her prodigious memory allowed to her memorize the entire Imitation of Christ by the time she was nine.
Of course, it is the supernatural that is commonly meant when we speak of the extraordinary. Our little Saint was not exempt from these graces either. To start with — her childhood illness was extraordinary. She tells us that on the evening of March 25, 1883…
My headache developed most violently, and I was seized with a strange trembling, which went on all night. […] I do not know how to describe that strange illness. I said things I did not think and did things as if I were forced to do them in spite of myself. I seemed to be delirious nearly all the time, but I am sure I never lost my reason for a moment. Sometimes I was in a coma for hours on end, unable to move at all, though all through it, I was able to hear distinctly what anyone near me was saying, even in a whisper, and I can remember it to this day.
How the devil terrified me! I became frightened of everything. My bed seemed to be surrounded by frightful precipices; some nails in the wall of my room petrified me because they looked to me like great, black, charred fingers — until sometimes I had to cry out. One day, Father was looking down at me in silence, holding his hat, when suddenly it seemed to turn into a horrible shape. I showed such terror that poor Father went out sobbing. (SS, Ch. 3)
On May 13, after having been sick for nearly two months, Therese received an extraordinary cure.
[T]urning toward Our Lady’s statue, [Marie] began praying for me with all the fervor of a mother interceding for her baby’s life. Leonie and Celine began to pray too, and Heaven opened its gates in answer to their faith. As I could find no help on earth and was almost dying of misery, I, too, turned to my Heavenly Mother, asking her with all my heart to take pity on me now. Suddenly the statue came to life, and Mary appeared utterly lovely, with a divine beauty I could not possibly describe. There was a wonderful sweetness and goodness about her face, and her expression was infinitely tender, but what went right to my heart was her smile. Then, all my pain was gone. Silently two big tears trickled down my cheeks, tears of complete and heavenly happiness. Our Lady had come to me! (SS, Ch. 3)
In addition to this, there was the extraordinary vision she had of her father.
Father had gone on a journey and was not due back until late. At about two or three o’clock, I think, when the afternoon sun was shining and nature was at its best, I happened to be standing all alone, my mind full of delightful thoughts, at a window overlooking the garden at the back. Then, across the garden by the wash-house, I saw a man dressed exactly like Father, the same height and the same walk, only much older and with a stoop. I say he looked older, but this was only the impression I got. I could not see his face because it was heavily veiled. Slowly, deliberately, he came toward me; he passed my own little plot of garden; and then a strange fear crept over me; I began to cry out, my voice trembling, “Father! Father!” He did not seem to hear, did not even turn around, but passed straight on toward the group of fir trees which divided in two the main path of the garden. I waited, expecting him to reappear on the other side of the trees, but the prophetic vision was gone. This all took place in a short space of time, but it made such a vivid impression on me that the memory of it is just as real to me as the vision itself. (SS, Ch. 2)
As a Religious, Therese was also granted more than one extraordinary dream, the first of which she recounts in Chapter 8 of the Story of a Soul:
I do not attach any importance to my dreams; besides, I rarely have any symbolic ones. I often wonder why I do not dream about God since I think about Him all day. My dreams are usually about woods, flowers, rivers and the sea. I am nearly always with children or chasing butterflies and birds I have never seen before; so you can see they are far from mystical, however poetic they may seem. But one night after Mother Genevieve had died, I had one that was more consoling. I dreamed that she was giving each of us something which had belonged to her, and when my turn came, she was empty-handed. I thought there would be nothing for me, but she said three times, looking at me tenderly: “To you I leave my heart.”
A second dream is spoken of in Chapter 10 and bears being quoted at length, so magnificent is it:
O Jesus, the tender way You lead my soul is beyond all telling. From Easter, the radiant feast of Your triumph, until May, a storm was raging in its depths, but then the dark night was lit by the pure rays of the light of Your grace. I thought of the mysterious dreams You sometimes give to those You love and told myself that such consolations were not for me; night was my lot, always darkest night. Amid the storm I fell asleep.
The very next day — it was May 10th — just as the dawn was breaking, though before I was awake, I found myself walking in a gallery with our Mother. Without knowing how they got there, I suddenly saw three Carmelites in their mantles and long veils. I knew they had come from Heaven. Then I thought: “If only I could see the face of one of these Carmelites! I would be so happy!””As if she had heard me, the tallest of these Saints advanced toward me. I fell on my knees, and then to my joy she raised her veil, or rather, cast it all about me. I recognized her at once; it was the Venerable Mother Anne of Jesus, the Foundress of Carmel in France. How lovely she was; there was an unearthly beauty about her face, and though the heavy veil enveloped us, it seemed transfused with a gentle light I cannot describe. It seemed to be shining from within, but it did not cast any rays.
She kissed me tenderly, and when I saw how much she loved me, I took courage and spoke to her: “Tell me, Mother, I beg of you, is God going to leave me here much longer? Will He come and fetch me soon?”She smiled most tenderly, and said: “Soon…yes, soon…I promise you.”
“Answer me something more, Mother; does God want anything more from me than the little things I do for Him, and my desires? Is He pleased with me?” A new light seemed to suffuse her face at once, and her expression appeared to me incomparably more tender. “God asks no more of you,” she said, “and He is pleased with you; very, very pleased.” She took my head between her hands, and I cannot possibly express how tender were the kisses that she showered on me. Gladness filled my heart, and remembering my Sisters, I was about to ask for favors for them too, but I awoke. I cannot say how lighthearted I was! Several months have gone by since this wonderful dream, yet the heavenly charm of it has lost none of its freshness. I can still see her loving gaze, her loving smile; I still seem to feel the touch of all her kisses.
Finally, Therese was to reveal the following to her superior on her deathbed:
I have had several transports of love, and one in particular during my Novitiate when I remained for a whole week far removed from this world. It seemeded as though a veil were thrown over all earthly things. But, I was not then consumed by a real fire. I was able to bear those transports of love without expecting to see the ties that bound me to earth give way; whilst, on the day of which I mentioned (the dart of fire), one minute, one second more and my soul must have been set free…. True, the Divine Hand had withdrawn the fiery dart — but the wound was unto death! (MMM, 68-69)
She is referring here, of course, to the extraordinary Mystical Wound of Love which she received only days after making her Act of Oblation to Merciful Love on June 9, 1895.
I had commenced the Stations of the Cross in Choir, then all at once I felt myself wounded by a dart of fire so ardent that I thought I must die. I do not know how to explain it; it was as if an invisible hand had plunged me wholly into fire. Oh, what fire, and what sweetness at the same time! I was burning with love, and I thought one minute, nay, one second more, and I shall not be able to support such ardor without dying. I understood then what the Saints have said of those states which they had experienced so often. For me I have but experienced it that once, only for an instant, and afterwards I fell back again into my habitual dryness. From the age of fourteen I have also experienced the assaults of love. Ah! how much I love God! But it was not at all to be compared to what I experienced after my offering to Love…. (MMM, 68)
If littleness consists in an absence anything remarkable, then we are forced to conclude that the Little Flower herself was not little!
Is “Littleness” the Absence of the Externally Remarkable?
It may be argued that St. Therese’s extraordinary gifts were not such as drew attention to her from the outside world. Could not littleness then be defined as the absence of externally manifest phenomena? Consider: if we do that, then along with her, it is only fitting that we include others who preceded her chronologically. Three in particular come to mind: St. Aloysius Gonzaga, St. Gabriel Possenti, and St. Stanislaus Kostka. Like Therese, all three of these saints died young, having worked no ostensible miracles or — excepting St. Stanislaus’ vision of our Blessed Mother — had any extraordinary gifts associated with them beyond a high degree of virtue. And so we are brought back once more to our original question: if Therese truly was no different than they, why the shower of roses that has made the whole Catholic world enamored of her?
We cannot help but mention as a final word against this particular understanding of littleness that other souls who can be classified with Therese — at least according to the criteria proposed elsewhere — which is to say, bearing in common with her far more essential qualities than the absence of non-essentials — were in fact gifted with “extraordinary” gratiae gratis datae which she never had. Br. Marcel Van had visions and locutions of Therese herself, as well as (later on) of Our Lord and Our Lady, and Bl. Consolata Betrone had frequent communications and revelations given to her by Our Lord. This seems to me clear evidence that littleness cannot be limited to a lack of the marvelous.
Is “Littleness” a Quality of Temperament?
Could it be that this mystifying littleness is just so exclusively Therese’s own quality that, instead of connecting it to broader concepts such as humility or sanctity, we should rather restrict it to being a unique component of her personal temperament? Does it not often happen that people take to a certain word or idea, even to the point of coloring their whole spiritual life by it, as Wisdom captured St. Louis Marie de Montfort, and Nada St. John of the Cross? Fr. Leonard Feeney would seem to have had a similar affinity for the word littleness, and when teased about his over-usage of it, offered this charming explanation:
I think that “little” is definitely a Catholic epithet, used not in a dimensional, but in an appropriative sense. We call anything little that we like so much we want to make it small enough to consider it our own. There is an order of nuns in the Church known, one and all, as the Little Sisters of the Poor. But they do not weigh their postulants before receiving, nor send them reducing exercises so as to establish vocations. Our Lord speaks of the whole Church as His “little flock.” Saint Francis of Assisi is known as “the Little Poor Man,” and Saint Therese of Lisieux as “the Little Flower.” Even St. Ignatius, perhaps given to diminutives least of all the saints, refers to the regiment of his spiritual solders as “this little Society of Jesus.” (STS, 33)
It would seem, however, that St. Therese herself discredits the notion of a purely natural understanding of littleness when, in the closing lines of her autobiography, she calls on God raise up a legion of little victims worthy of His love (SS, 206). How could interest in, never mind admittance to Therese’s now-famous “Little Legion” be based on temperamental similarities? Her temperament fitted her for her Mission, no doubt; but to define littleness in terms of any natural quality hardly matches the supernatural character assigned to it by the Little Flower herself.
The Conundrum Remains
There are no two ways about it: when countless authors claim that St. Therese was a revolutionary figure in her own right, whose canonization is “a fact of outstanding importance in the history of holiness” (RST, 12), they were not exaggerating, being rather genuinely convinced that, “It will be some centuries before the prodigious and many-sided influence of St. Therese can be exactly appreciated. Then it will be recognized that she has been the principal and providential promoter of a new epoch” (Fr. H. Petitot, OP) (DLW, 95).
They note the success of her autobiography:
[T]he circulation of this book alone is one of her grandest miracles…. [F]rom 1898 to 1925, 410,000 copies of the complete edition have been sold, without mentioning the two million copies of the abridged Life summarized from the original work. Added to this unprecedented success of the French original is that of its thirty-five translations into different languages which have found their way into every corner of the world during the last fifteen years [i.e., by 1928, when the book giving these statistics was published]. Such a result, obtained as it was without advertisement, seems to denote supernatural intervention. Apart from the circulation of the Histoire, the enormous number of 30,388,000 pictures and 17,507,000 relic-sachets and relic-pictures have been distributed within the same period. (STEJ, 395)
They note the enthusiasm of the souls brought into contact with her:
Up until 1911 the Carmel [at Lisieux] received about fifty letters daily. Soldiers read her book on both sides of No Man’s Land and dubbed her Little Sister of the Trenches. After 1914, letters were averaging 500 a day. Pius XI called her “a hurricane of glory.” (Martin Herbert) (DLW, 108)
They note the cause behind that enthusiasm:
Other young saints, it is true, have in as short a time had the happiness of sanctifying themselves and the glory of being beatified. But what is new, we believe, in the history of canonizations is the unprecedented movement to which her cause has given rise throughout the whole world. From every quarter of the universe, in fact, from uncivilized as well as civilized countries, from all classes of society, have come innumerable and most touching supplications begging the Holy See to raise to the honors of the Altar the humble little Carmelite, who, on the last evening of September, 1897, passed gently away at the monastery of Lisieux without, however, having done anything remarkable in the ordinary sense of the word, and, at all events, practically unknown to her contemporaries at the time of her death.
Such a movement, astonishing though it be, may apparently be explained by the extraordinary abundance of favors attributed to her intercession. But these favors in their turn demand an explanation. For God does nothing without motive, and above all, He is not lavish of His miracles without weighty reasons. (LWSC, V-VI)
And they are forced to conclude — rightly — that all is God’s doing.
Other saints have passed through this life and have been flaming torches of knowledge and sublime models because of their shining virtues and heroic deeds, but how many can we name who have exercised the sanctifying influence of our Saint? If God has desired that Therese’s sanctity should shine with such brilliancy before the eyes of men; if He has given her such an extraordinary hold on people, it must be that, besides showing her virtues, He wished to confirm and, as it were, proclaim as His own the spiritual doctrine of this saint. (CSDST, 25-26)
But what is “the spiritual doctrine of this saint”? It being so obviously true that, “The Church, in officially consecrating her triumph, has but consecrated the particular form of her virtue” (LSCW, 125), what, we must ask, is this “form” of Therese’s virtue?
What, indeed, if not — littleness?
Far from being a separate virtue in itself, littleness is rather the form, the distinguishing feature, of all her virtues: her humility is a “little” humility; her simplicity, her self-sacrifice, her patience, her abandonment — all are marked by this mysterious, enchanting quality. That is why the present inquiry is so important. If God through His Church has sanctioned Therese’s understanding of this one little word, it behooves us to understand it as she did.
“Littleness” Is an Attitude of Soul
I believe that Rev. Jamart’s assessment is the true one, for he says:
The question which has often been asked, is what constitutes the fundamental characteristic of Therese’s doctrine. Here again the answers differ according to the mentality of the writer or according to what impressed him most. Some affirm that that fundamental note is simplicity — others, confidence; for others again it is love or a sum of several virtues taken together.
Now, the true characteristic of the Theresian doctrine is not found in this or that particular virtue, nor in any sum of virtues. Other saints or spiritual writers have insisted on humility, or love, or on simplicity. When we look for the dominant character of Therese’s doctrine, we find that it does not consist in any particular virtue but in a special attitude of mind. Everything is based on and flows from an attitude of spiritual childhood. It is this which gives unity to her teaching and imparts to it that simplicity which is so striking. (CSDST, 27)
It is not what she said or how she said it, what she did or did not do, that sets our Little Flower apart in God’s garden full of wonderfully diverse flowers. It is what she was. And I do not mean what she was because of some accidental characteristic that she had — you simply cannot say of Therese that she possessed a “childlikeness.” Many great saints were known for being childlike (St. Francis of Assisi, for instance, or St. Scholastica, according to Dom Gueranger), and all of the saints had to be at least spiritually childlike else, according to Christ Himself, they could not so much as enter the kingdom of Heaven (cf. Mt. 18:3). St. Therese was different in that she did not have to work to become a little child — she just was one. This is why Fr. Marie-Eugene says,
If spiritual childhood does not escape definition, it at least cannot be codified. It is neither a method nor a devotion. It does not follow any one particular exercise, exterior attitude, or type of language. It adapts itself to all settings and conditions of life. It is at once something more and something less than all these things: it is the realization of an attitude of soul. (UTHL, 86)
An attitude of soul, yes — “that of a little child, who becomes the perfect model to imitate in our lives” (UTHL, 116).
The True Nature of “Littleness”
Despite all the difficulties raised above, I have found that the answer to our dilemma is quite simple, simple enough to be worthy of one who might well be called the Saint of Simplicity. “For her,” Msgr. Vernon Johnson says, “being little meant admitting what she really was” (SC, 67).
Concedo. This, I also have concluded, is what sets the Little Flower apart from so many of the other saints — not her “childlikeness” but her “childness.” Littleness is humility, yes, but a child’s humility. To accede as much is to instantly make sense also of her simplicity, which was a child’s simplicity; her confidence, which was a child’s confidence; and, above all, her love, which was a child’s love.
Let us hear our heroine speak for herself. When St. Therese was asked what she meant by “remaining a little child,” she replied:
It is to recognize our nothingness, to expect everything from God as a little child expects everything from its father; it is to be disquieted about nothing, and not to be set on gaining a living…. To be little is not attributing to oneself the virtues that one practices, believing oneself capable of anything, but to recognize that God places this treasure in the hands of His little child to be used when necessary; but it remains always God’s treasure. Finally, it is not to become discouraged over one’s fault, for children fall often, but they are too little to hurt themselves very much. (UTHL, 117)
There is nothing especially difficult to understand here: to be little, in Therese’s world, means to be a child. We have all seen little children, their unquestioning docility, their perfect candor, and unabashed affectionateness. We know that these qualities, in combination with countless others, render children intrinsically lovable, so much so that God Himself has told us in the Gospels that we must become like them or else forfeit our eternal happiness. Hence, the childlikeness (i.e., the simplicity, the abandonment, etc.) of all the saints. What set Therese apart was that she was as much a child in the supernatural order as a six-month-old is in the natural order; she did not have to work to become a little child—she just was one.
It seems to me that in this context alone does our dear Carmelite and the littleness so characteristic of her spirituality fit into the larger framework of Catholic mystical theology, like the happy placement of a very enigmatic puzzle piece.
Sources
CHJ – Consoling the Heart of Jesus by Fr. Michael Gaitley, MIC
CSDST – The Complete Spiritual Doctrine of St. Therese by Fr. Francois Jamart
CTSFDS – Consoling Thoughts of St. Francis de Sales compiled by Pere Huguet
DI – Divine Intimacy by Fr. Gabriel of St. Mary Magdalen, OCD
DLW – St. Therese: Doctor of the Little Way compiled by the Franciscan Friars of the Immaculate
FC – The Foot of the Cross by Fr. Frederick William Faber
LWSC – The “Little Way” of Spiritual Childhood by Fr. Gabriel Martin
MMM – Mysteries, Marvels, and Miracles by Joan Carroll Cruz
MWL – My Way of Life by Fr. Walter Farrell, OP, and Martin Healy, STD
SST – The Spirituality of St. Therese (An Introduction) by Abbe Andre Combes
RST – Retreat with St. Therese by Pere Liagre, CSSp
SD – The Spiritual Diary
SST – The Silence of St. Thomas by Josef Pieper
STF – Saint Therese and the Faithful: A Book for Those Living in the World by Benedict Williamson
STS – Survival Till Seventeen by Fr. Leonard Feeney, MICM
STEJ – St. Therese de l’Enfant Jesus: The Definitive Biography by Msgr. Laveille
TLTS – To Love and to Suffer: The Gifts of the Holy Ghost in St. Therese of the Child Jesus by Rev. Mere Amabel du Coeur de Jesus
UTHL – Under the Torrent of His Love: Therese of Lisieux, Spiritual Genius by Fr. Marie- Eugene de L’Enfant Jesus
