The priest held his audience spellbound. His sermon was being broadcast so that thousands were listening, over and above those who thronged the church. He had done a brilliant course of studies before his priesthood. He had degrees and distinctions from universities. His discourses were prepared with care and delivered with force and immense earnestness. He could move the crowds as he willed, to sorrow or indignation; he could fire them with the desire to be up and doing in the work of Catholic Action. He had a fine presence, a clear voice perfectly modulated, a complete command of gesture.
He died. While his praises were on every tongue, the Judge was declaring: "I never knew you! Depart from Mel" Why this terrifying anticlimax? The mighty preacher was no more than "sounding brass and tinkling cymbal," because he lacked charity.
The man enjoyed a reputation for high sanctity. It was beyond question that he had worked miracles and from all quarters the sick and the depressed flocked to him. Money flowed easily into his hands and more easily out of them, for he helped the needy with lavish generosity. His last three years were lived amidst the horrors of a concentration camp; he developed diseases and the Communist judge ordered him to be cremated. He was burned alive.
But it all profited him nothing! It contributed not a whit towards his eternal salvation. It met with no reward in heaven. And why? Because, again to quote St. Paul, "he had no charity."
We cannot dare to dismiss such cases as fantastic because they are the very instances selected by the apostle. Perhaps they may be hypothetical; one fervently hopes so. But their lesson is one to consider with diligence. St. Paul has resorted to these extreme instances in order to throw all the clearer light on the point he would emphasize.
There are Catholics who pat themselves on the back because they go to Mass and the Sacraments, because they contribute largely to the upkeep of their church, because they are faithful to their prayers. And all the time they keep hatred in their heart for a neighbour. All these years they refuse to speak to another, snub him in the street, never miss an opportunity of tearing his character to shreds. Their whole spiritual life is built on a foundation of sand. They cast aside the one essential commandment to "love one another," and St. Paul's voice seems to tremble with anxiety for even their eternal salvation!
Jesus, You have warned us to leave our gift unoffered at Your altar until we first go and be reconciled with anyone with whom we are at variance. Should I leave this place of prayer and ask pardon and make friends with some neighbour? Is lack of charity the cause of my coldness in prayer? How can I expect to love You if I love not my brother?