How Precious Was the Death of Mary
On this day the Church sets before us two solemn observances in honor of Mary: the first, her happy departure from this earth; the second, her glorious Assumption into heaven. In the present discourse we shall speak of her departure from this earth, and in the next of her Assumption.
How precious was the death of Mary! First, on account of the special grace that attended it; second, on account of the manner of it.
Since death is the punishment of sin, it would seem that the divine Mother, all holy and free from every stain, should not be subject to death, nor suffer the same misfortune as the children of Adam, who are already infected by the poison of sin. But God, wishing Mary in all things to be like Jesus, required that, as the Son had died, the Mother should also die; and because he wished to give the just an example of the precious death prepared for them, he decreed that the Virgin should die, but by a death wholly sweet and happy. Let us, then, consider how precious was the death of Mary: first, on account of the special grace by which it was accompanied; second, on account of the manner in which it took place.
First Point. Three things make death bitter: attachment to earth, remorse for sin, and the uncertainty of salvation. But the death of Mary was entirely free from any such causes of bitterness, and was attended by three beautiful circumstances that made it precious and joyful. She died, as she had always lived, entirely detached from all earthly things; she died in the most perfect peace of conscience; she died in the certainty of eternal glory.
And in the first place, there is no doubt that attachment to the goods of earth makes the death of worldly men bitter and miserable, as the Holy Spirit says: “O death, how bitter is the remembrance of thee to a man that hath peace in his possessions!” (Ecclus. 41:1). But because the saints die detached from the things of the world, their death is not bitter, but sweet, lovely, and precious; or, as St. Bernard explains, it is worth being purchased at any price. “Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord” (Apoc. 14:13). Who are they that, being dead, die? Precisely those happy souls that pass into eternity already detached, and, as it were, dead to all affection for earthly things, having found in God alone their every good—like St. Francis of Assisi, who exclaimed: Deus meus et omnia—“My God and my all.” But what soul was ever more detached from the things of the world, and more united to God, than the beautiful soul of Mary?
She was indeed entirely detached from her parents, since at the age of three years—when children are most dependent on their parents and have the greatest need of their care—Mary left them with great resolution and went to shut herself up in the temple to attend to the things of God alone. She was detached from riches, content to live always poor and to support herself by the labor of her hands. She was detached from honors, loving a humble and lowly life, although queenly honor belonged to her, for she traced her descent from the kings of Israel. The Virgin herself revealed to St. Elizabeth, a Benedictine nun, that when she was left in the temple by her parents, she resolved in her heart to have no other father, and to love no other good, but God.
St. John saw Mary represented in that woman clothed with the sun, who held the moon under her feet: “And a great sign appeared in heaven: a woman clothed with the sun, and the moon under her feet” (Apoc. 12:1). Interpreters explain the moon to signify the goods of this earth, which are fleeting and wane as the moon does. All these goods Mary never had in her heart, but always despised them and kept them under her feet—living in this world like a solitary turtledove in a desert, placing her affection on no earthly thing, so that it was said of her: “The voice of the turtle is heard in our land” (Cant. 2:12). And again: “Who is she that goeth up by the desert?” (Cant. 3:6). On which Rupert says: “You have gone up by the desert, that is, having a solitary soul.” Mary, then, having always lived entirely detached from the things of earth, and united to God alone, found death not bitter, but very sweet and dear, since it united her more closely to God by the eternal bonds of paradise.
Secondly, peace of conscience makes the death of the just precious. The sins committed in life are those worms that most torment and gnaw the heart of poor dying sinners who, about to be presented at the divine tribunal, see themselves in that moment surrounded by their sins, which terrify them and pursue them with cries, as St. Bernard says: “We are your works; we will not desert you.” Certainly Mary could not be afflicted in death by any remorse of conscience, for she was always holy, always pure, and always free from every shadow of actual and original sin; and so it was said of her: “Thou art all fair, O my love, and there is not a spot in thee” (Cant. 4:7). As soon as she had the use of reason—that is, from the first moment of her Immaculate Conception in the womb of St. Anne—from that time she began with all her powers to love her God; and so she continued to do, ever advancing in perfection and love throughout her whole life. All her thoughts, her desires, her affections were wholly given to God; not a word, not a movement, not a glance of the eye, not a breath of hers that was not for God and for his glory—never departing one step, never separating herself for one moment from the divine love.
Ah, in the happy hour of her death, how did all the lovely virtues she had practiced during her life gather around her blessed bed! That faith so constant, that loving confidence in God, that patience so strong in the midst of sufferings, that humility in the midst of so many privileges, that modesty, that meekness, that compassion for souls, that zeal for the divine glory, and above all that perfect charity toward God, with that entire conformity to the divine will—all, in a word, thronged around her, and consoling her, said: “We are your works; we will not desert you.” O Lady and Mother, we are all the children of your loving heart; now that you are leaving this miserable life, we will not leave you; we too will go to attend you and honor you in paradise, where, by our means, you will be crowned Queen of all men and of all the angels.
In the third place, the certainty of eternal salvation makes death sweet. Death is called a passage, since through death we pass from this short life to life eternal. And as great is the dread of those who die in doubt of their salvation, and who approach the solemn moment with just fear of passing into an eternal death, so, on the other hand, very great is the joy of the saints at the end of life, hoping with some assurance to go and possess God in heaven. A nun of the order of St. Teresa, when the physician announced to her that death was near, was so full of joy that she said to him: “And how does it happen, sir, that you tell me this good news and ask no fee for it?” St. Lawrence Justinian, being at the point of death and seeing his friends weeping around him, said to them: “Away, away with your tears; this is no time for tears.” Go elsewhere to weep; if you will remain with me, you must rejoice, as I rejoice, in seeing the gate of paradise open to unite me with my God. And so, too, St. Peter of Alcantara, St. Aloysius Gonzaga, and many other saints, on hearing that death was at hand, burst forth into exclamations of joy and gladness. And yet they were not certain of the divine favor, nor sure of their own holiness, as Mary was sure of hers.
But what joy must the divine Mother have felt in learning that her death was at hand—she who had the fullest certainty of enjoying the divine favor, especially after the angel Gabriel had assured her that she was full of grace and already possessed God: “Hail, full of grace; the Lord is with thee… thou hast found grace” (Luke 1:28, 30)! And well did she herself know that her heart was burning continually with divine love; for, as Bernardine de Bustis says, Mary, by a singular grace not granted to any other saint, loved and was always actually engaged in loving God in every moment of her life, and so ardently that, as St. Bernard says, it required a perpetual miracle to preserve her life in the midst of such burning flames.
It was said of Mary in the sacred Canticles: “Who is she that goeth up by the desert as a pillar of smoke of aromatical spices, of myrrh, and frankincense, and of all the powders of the perfumer?” (Cant. 3:6). Her entire mortification was prefigured in the myrrh, her fervent prayers were signified by the incense, and all her holy virtues united to her perfect charity toward God kindled in her a flame so great that her holy soul, wholly given to and consumed by divine love, rose continually to God like a pillar of smoke that breathed sweet odor on every side. “Like a pillar of smoke, O blessed Lady,” wrote Rupert, “you breathed forth a sweet odor to the Most High.” And St. Jerome, writing to Eustochium, expresses it still more strongly: a pillar of smoke, because, burning interiorly as a holocaust with the flame of divine love, she sent forth a most sweet odor. As the loving Virgin lived, so she died. As the divine love had given her life, so it gave her death; for she died—as the holy Doctors and Fathers of the Church generally affirm—of no other infirmity than pure love; for St. Ildephonsus says that Mary either ought not to die, or only to die of love.
Second Point. But let us now see what were the circumstances of her happy death. After the Ascension of Jesus Christ, Mary remained on earth to attend to the spread of the faith. And so the disciples of Jesus had recourse to her, and she resolved their doubts, comforted them in their persecutions, and encouraged them to labor for the divine glory and for the salvation of the souls redeemed by her Son. She willingly remained on earth, understanding this to be the will of God for the good of the Church; but she could not help feeling the pain of being far from the presence and sight of her beloved Son, who had ascended into heaven. “Where your treasure is,” said the Redeemer, “there will your heart be also” (Luke 12:34). Where anyone believes his treasure and his happiness to be, there he always keeps the love and desire of his heart fixed. If Mary, then, loved no other good but Jesus, and he was in heaven, then in heaven were all her desires.
Tauler wrote of Mary: “The cell of Mary was heaven,” for, being in heaven with her affection, she made it her continual dwelling. “Her school was eternity,” for she was always detached from temporal possessions. “Her teacher was divine truth,” for she was always guided in her actions by the divine light. “Her mirror was the Divinity,” for she looked upon nothing but God, in order to conform herself always to the divine will. “Her ornament was devotion,” for she was always ready to fulfill the divine commands. “Her repose was union with God,” for her peace lay only in uniting herself wholly with God. In a word, the place and treasure of her heart was God alone.
The most holy Virgin consoled her loving heart during this hard separation by visiting, as it is related, the holy places of Palestine, where her Son had lived. She often visited now the stable of Bethlehem, where her Son was born; now the workshop of Nazareth, where her Son had lived so many years, poor and despised; now the garden of Gethsemane, where her Son had begun his Passion; now the hall of Pilate, where he was scourged; now the place where he was crowned; but most often she visited Calvary, where her Son had expired, and the holy sepulcher, where she had at last left him. And so the most loving Mother used to soothe the pains of her cruel exile. But this was not enough to satisfy her heart, which could find no perfect rest upon this earth; and so her continual sighs were rising to her Lord, as she exclaimed with David, but with more ardent love: “Who will give me wings like a dove, and I will fly and be at rest?” (Ps. 54:7). Who will give me wings like a dove, to fly to my God and there find my rest? “As the hart panteth after the fountains of water, so my soul panteth after thee, O God” (Ps. 41:2). As the wounded stag pants for the fountain, so my soul, wounded by your love, O my God, desires and sighs for you. Ah, the sighs of this holy turtledove could not but reach the heart of her God, who loved her so much: “The voice of the turtle is heard in our land.” And so, unwilling to defer any longer the consolation of his beloved, behold, he graciously hears her desire and calls her to his kingdom.
Cedrenus, Nicephorus, and Metaphrastes relate that the Lord, some days before her death, sent her the angel Gabriel—the same who had once announced to her that she was the blessed woman chosen to be the Mother of God. “My Lady and Queen,” said the angel to her, “God has already graciously heard your holy desires, and he has sent me to tell you to prepare to leave the earth, for he wishes you with him in paradise. Come, then, to take possession of your kingdom; for I and all its holy citizens await and desire you.” At this happy announcement, what should our most humble and holy Virgin do but hide herself the more deeply in the center of her most profound humility, and reply in those same words with which she had answered St. Gabriel when he announced to her that she was to become the Mother of God: “Behold the handmaid of the Lord” (Luke 1:38). Behold, she answered again, the servant of the Lord; in his pure goodness he has chosen me and made me his Mother; now he calls me to paradise. I merited neither the one honor nor the other; but since he wishes to display his infinite generosity toward me, I am ready to go wherever he wishes. “Behold the handmaid of the Lord”; may the will of my God and Lord always be fulfilled in me.
After receiving this precious news, she imparted it to St. John; and we may imagine with what grief and tender emotion he heard it—he who for so many years had been near her as a son, and had enjoyed the heavenly company of this most holy Mother. She then visited anew the holy places of Jerusalem, tenderly taking leave of them, especially of Calvary, where her beloved Son had laid down his life. And then she returned to her poor dwelling to prepare for death. During this time the angels did not cease to come and visit their beloved Queen, consoling themselves with the thought that they should soon see her crowned in heaven. Many authors assert that, before she died, by a divine miracle the apostles and also some of the disciples came from the different places where they were dispersed, and all assembled in the room of Mary; and that when she saw all these her dear children gathered together in her presence, she thus addressed them:
“My dear children, for love of you, and to help you, my Son left me on this earth. But now the holy faith is spread throughout the world; already the fruit of the divine seed has grown up. And so my divine Son, seeing that my assistance was no longer needed upon the earth, and having compassion on the pain of my separation, has graciously heard my desire to depart from this life and go to see him in glory. Remain, then, to labor for his glory. If I leave you, I do not leave you in heart; I will carry with me, and there shall always remain with me, the great love I bear you. I am going to paradise to pray for you.”
At these sorrowful tidings, who can imagine how great were the tears and lamentations of these holy disciples, knowing that they were shortly to be separated from their Mother? “Then, O Mary,” they all said, weeping, “you will leave us! It is true that this earth is not a worthy or fitting place for you, and that we are not worthy to enjoy the company of a Mother of God. But remember that you are our Mother. Until now you have enlightened us in our doubts, consoled us in our sorrows, and strengthened us in persecutions. How can you now abandon us, leaving us alone, without your comfort, in the midst of so many enemies and so many conflicts? We have already lost on earth Jesus, our master and our Father, who has ascended into heaven; we have since been consoled by you, our Mother. And now how can you leave us orphans, without father or mother? O remain with us, O our Lady! Or take us with you.” Thus writes St. John Damascene.
“No, my children,” the loving Queen sweetly replied, “this is not according to the will of God; be content to do what he has appointed for you and for me. To you it yet remains to labor on earth for the glory of your Redeemer, and to complete your eternal crown. I do not leave you to abandon you, but to help you the more by my intercession with God in heaven. Be at peace. I commend to you the holy Church; I commend to you the souls redeemed by my Son. Let this be my last farewell, and the only remembrance that I leave you: if you love me, labor for souls and for the glory of my Son; for one day we shall meet again in paradise, never more to be separated for all eternity.”
Then she begged them to give burial to her body after her death, and she blessed them. She directed St. John, as Damascene relates, that after her death he should give two of her garments to two virgins who had served her for some time. And then she decently composed herself upon her poor little bed, where she laid herself down to await death—and with death the meeting with her divine Spouse, who was shortly to come and take her with him to the kingdom of the blessed. And behold, she already feels in her heart a great joy, the forerunner of the coming of the Spouse, which overwhelms her with a great and new sweetness.
The holy apostles, seeing that Mary was already about to depart from this earth, burst forth into fresh weeping and knelt around her bed: some kissed her holy feet, others asked her special blessing, one commended to her some particular need of his, and all wept bitterly, for their hearts were pierced with grief at being obliged to part forever in this life from their beloved Lady. And she, their most loving Mother, had compassion on all and consoled each one—promising her protection to some, blessing others with special affection, and encouraging others to labor for the conversion of the world. In particular she called St. Peter to her, and, as the head of the Church and the vicar of her Son, commended to him above all the spread of the faith, promising him her special protection from heaven. But in a very special manner she called to her St. John, who felt a deeper sorrow than all the others at the moment of separation from that holy Mother. And the most grateful Lady, calling to mind the affection and attention with which this holy disciple had served her through all the years she had remained on earth since the death of her Son, said to him with great tenderness: “My John, I thank you for all the help you have given me; my son, be assured that I will never be ungrateful to you for it. If I leave you now, I am going to pray for you. Remain in peace in this life until we meet in heaven, where I will await you. Do not forget me; in all your needs call me to your aid, for I will never forget you, my beloved son. My son, I bless you; I leave you my benediction. Rest in peace—farewell.”
But now the death of Mary draws near. The divine love, with its blessed and ardent flames, has now almost wholly consumed her vital spirits; the heavenly phoenix is about to lose her life in the midst of this fire. Then the hosts of angels come to meet her, as if to stand ready for the great triumph with which they were to accompany her to paradise. Mary was indeed consoled at the sight of these holy spirits, but not fully consoled, for she did not yet see her beloved Jesus, who was the whole love of her heart. And so she often repeated to the angels who came down to greet her: “I adjure you, O daughters of Jerusalem, if you find my beloved, that you tell him that I languish with love” (Cant. 5:8). O holy angels, O blessed citizens of the heavenly Jerusalem! You come in hosts to console me, and you all console me with your sweet presence; I thank you, but you do not fully content me, for I do not yet see my Son coming to console me. Go, if you love me; return to paradise, and tell my beloved, from me, that I languish and faint for his love. Tell him to come, and to come quickly, for I am dying with desire to see him.
But behold, Jesus himself comes to take his Mother to the kingdom of the blessed. It was revealed to St. Elizabeth that the Son appeared to Mary before she expired, with the cross in his hand, to show the special glory he had obtained from the Redemption, having by his death gained that great creature who through the ages of eternity was to honor him more than all men and all angels. St. John Damascene relates that he himself then gave her the holy Viaticum, saying to her tenderly: “Take, O my Mother, from my hands that same body which you gave me.” And the Mother, having received with the greatest love that final communion, with her last sighs said to him: “My Son, into your hands I commend my spirit. I commend to you this soul, which in your goodness you created from the beginning, rich in so many graces, and by a singular privilege preserved from every stain of sin. I commend to you my body, from which you deigned to take flesh and blood. I commend to you, too, these my dear children”—speaking of the holy disciples who were around her—“they are afflicted at my departure; console them yourself, you who love them more than I do; bless them, and give them strength to do great things for your glory.”
The end of the life of Mary having now arrived, there was heard in the room where she lay, as St. Jerome relates, a great harmony; and also, as it was revealed to St. Bridget, a great brightness was seen. By this harmony and unusual splendor the holy apostles perceived that Mary was then departing; at which they broke forth again into tears and prayers, and, raising their hands, with one voice exclaimed: “O our Mother, now you are going to heaven and are leaving us; give us your last blessing, and do not forget us in our misery.” And Mary, turning her eyes around upon them all, as if bidding them farewell for the last time, said: “Farewell, my children; I bless you. Do not fear that I shall forget you.”
And now death came—not clothed in mourning and sadness, as it comes to others, but adorned with light and joy. But why call it death? Rather let us say that divine love came to cut the thread of that noble life. And as a lamp, before going out, flashes forth more brightly amid its last flickerings and then expires, so this beautiful soul, her Son inviting her to follow him, wrapped in the flame of her charity and in the midst of her loving sighs, breathed forth a greater sigh of love, and expired, and died. And thus that great soul, that beautiful dove of the Lord, was released from the bonds of this life and entered into the glory of the blessed, where she sits, and will sit, as Queen of paradise for all eternity.
Now Mary has left the earth; now she is in heaven. From there this kind Mother looks down upon us, who are still in this valley of tears; she has compassion on us, and promises us her help if we will have it. Let us pray her always that, by the merits of her blessed death, she may obtain for us a happy death; and, if it please God, that she may obtain for us to die on a Saturday, which is dedicated to her honor, or on a day of the novena or octave of one of her feasts, as she has obtained for so many of her servants—and especially for St. Stanislaus Kostka, for whom she obtained the grace of dying on the day of her glorious Assumption, as Father Bartoli relates in his life of the saint.
Example
While this holy youth was still living, wholly devoted to the love of Mary, it happened that on the first day of August he heard a sermon by Father Peter Canisius, who, preaching to the novices of the Society, fervently urged upon all the great counsel to live every day as if it were the last of their life, after which they were to be presented at the divine tribunal. When the sermon was over, St. Stanislaus told his companions that this counsel had been for him in particular the voice of God, for he was to die in that very month. He said this either because God had expressly revealed it to him, or at least because he gave him a certain inward presentiment of what afterward happened.
Four days later, the blessed youth went with Father Emmanuel Sá to St. Mary Major, and, beginning to speak of the approaching feast of the Assumption, he said: “Father, I believe that on that day a new paradise is seen in paradise, the glory of the Mother of God being seen there, crowned Queen of heaven and seated so near the Lord, above all the choirs of angels. And if it is true—as I hold for certain—that every year this feast is renewed in heaven, I hope to see the next one.” The glorious martyr St. Lawrence having fallen to the saint by lot as his patron for the month, according to the custom of that Society, it is said that Stanislaus wrote a letter to his Mother Mary, in which he prayed her to obtain for him that he might be present to see that feast of hers in paradise. On St. Lawrence’s day he received communion, and afterward begged the saint to present that letter to the divine Mother, and to add his own intercession to it, that the most holy Mary might graciously hear his prayer.
And behold, at the close of that very day, a fever came upon him; and though it was very slight, he held from that hour for certain the grace he had asked—an early death. Indeed, on going to bed he said joyfully, with a smile: “From this bed I shall never rise.” And to Father Claudio Acquaviva he added: “I believe that St. Lawrence has already obtained for me from Mary the grace of being in heaven for the feast of her Assumption.” But no one thought much of these words. When the vigil arrived, his illness continued to appear slight; but the saint told a brother that he would die the next night. The brother answered: “O brother, it would be a greater miracle to die of so slight an illness than to be cured.” But behold, after noon he was seized with a deadly faintness, and then came a cold sweat, and he entirely lost his strength. The superior hurried to him, and Stanislaus begged him to order that he be placed on the bare floor, that he might die as a penitent. This was granted to satisfy him, and he was laid on the floor on a mattress.
Then he made his confession and received the Viaticum, not without the tears of all present; for when the divine Sacrament was brought into the room, his eyes kindled with heavenly joy, and his whole countenance was so radiant with holy love that he seemed a seraph. He also received Extreme Unction, and meanwhile did nothing but now raise his eyes to heaven, now gaze upon, kiss, and lovingly press to his breast an image of Mary. A father said to him: “Of what use is it to keep that rosary wound around your hand, if you cannot recite it?” He answered: “It serves to console me, for it is something belonging to my Mother.” “Oh, how much more,” said the father, “will you be consoled by seeing her, and kissing her hands in heaven before long!” Then the saint, his face all on fire, raised his hands, expressing in this way his desire to find himself soon in her presence. Then his dear Mother appeared to him, as he himself declared to those around him; and soon after, at the dawn of the fifteenth of August, he expired with the look of a blessed soul, his eyes fixed on heaven, without any movement—so that only afterward, when the image of the most holy Virgin was presented and he made no movement toward it, was it perceived that he had already gone to kiss in paradise the feet of his beloved Queen.
Prayer
O our most sweet Lady and Mother, you have already left the earth and reached the kingdom where you sit as Queen over all the choirs of angels, as the holy Church sings: She was exalted above the choirs of angels in the heavenly kingdoms—Exaltata est super choros angelorum ad caelestia regna. We know that we sinners are not worthy to have you with us in this valley of darkness. But we know, too, that you in your grandeur have never forgotten us in our misery, and that, raised to such glory, you have not lost—but rather increased in yourself—compassion for us poor children of Adam. From the high throne, then, where you reign, turn your pitying eyes, O Mary, even upon us, and have compassion on us. Remember, too, that on leaving this world you promised not to forget us. Look upon us and help us. See in what tempests and in how many dangers we are, and ever shall be, until the end of our life arrives. By the merits of your holy death, obtain for us holy perseverance in the divine friendship, that we may at last depart from this life in the grace of God, and so come one day to kiss your feet in paradise, and to unite ourselves with the blessed spirits in praising you and singing your glories, as you deserve. Amen.
Points for Reflection
1. “Three things make death bitter: attachment to earth, remorse for sin, and the uncertainty of salvation.”
2. “She died, as she had always lived, entirely detached from all earthly things; she died in the most perfect peace of conscience; she died in the certainty of eternal glory.”
3. “And now death came—not clothed in mourning and sadness, as it comes to others, but adorned with light and joy.”