St. Peter of Alcantara, Franciscan
St. Peter of Alcantara: A Franciscan priest who met Teresa in 1560, he counseled and encouraged Teresa to follow through with the Carmelite reform she had been contemplating for years. St. Peter penned a letter to her in 1562 that spoke of founding her first monastery at Avila. In turn, St. Teresa’s autobiography wrote warmly of Peter, and provided much of the known documentation about his life and works.
“Blessed be the penances which earned me such glory!” These were the words of St. Peter of Alcântara when, after his death, he appeared to St. Teresa of Avila telling her what had been reserved for him in Heaven. She recounted those penances that the Saint himself had described to her when he was alive:
For a period of 40 years he slept for only one and a half hours each day. To keep sleep from overcoming him, he used to remain standing or kneeling. When he permitted himself to sleep, he did so seated on a bench with his head resting on a block of wood fixed on the wall. He always went barefoot.
His only clothing was his habit and a cape, and often in the winter he would take off his cape and keep the door and windows open to suffer the cold. He would eat only every three days. His poverty was extreme.
“He was already very old when I met him for the first time,” said St. Teresa. She continued: “He was thin and his skin seemed more like the bark of a withered tree. He used to speak only when he was addressed. He had very good sense, and his conversation was amiable and pleasant.”
St. Peter of Alcantara was also a friend and confessor to St. Teresa of Avila. Below is Chapter 30 from her “Life” she wrote. In this chapter, she mentions how St. Peter helped her. Also with his recommendation to the bishop urging the approval of her founding her reformed Carmel of St. Joseph. (The Chapter below comes out wacky when posted but not on the edit page! I tried to fix it but it comes out the same. Sorry for the awful formatting!)
Chapter XXX – from The Life of St. Teresa of Jesus, of The Order of Our Lady of Carmel
St. Peter of Alcantara Comforts the Saint. Great Temptations and Interior Trials.
1. When I saw that I was able to do little or nothing towards avoiding these great impetuosities,
I began also to be afraid of them, because I could not understand how this pain and joy could subsist
together. I knew it was possible enough for bodily pain and spiritual joy to dwell together; but the
coexistence of a spiritual pain so excessive as this, and of joy so deep, troubled my understanding.
Still, I tried to continue my resistance; but I was so little able, that I was now and then wearied. I
used to take up the cross for protection, and try to defend myself against Him who, by the cross, is
the Protector of us all. I saw that no one understood me. I saw it very clearly myself, but I did not
dare to say so to any one except my confessor; for that would have been a real admission that I had
2. Our Lord was pleased to succour me in a great measure,—and, for the moment, altogether,—by
bringing to the place where I was that blessed friar, Peter of Alcantara. Of him I spoke before, and
said something of his penance. Among other things, I have been assured that he wore continually,
for twenty years, a girdle made of iron. He is the author of certain little books, in Spanish, on
prayer, which are now in common use; for, as he was much exercised therein, his writings are very
profitable to those who are given to prayer. He kept the first rule of the blessed St. Francis in all
its rigour, and did those things besides of which I spoke before.
3. When that widow, the servant of God and my friend, of whom I have already spoken, knew
that so great a man had come, she took her measures. She knew the straits I was in, for she was an
eye-witness of my afflictions, and was a great comfort to me. Her faith was so strong, that she could
not help believing that what others said was the work of the devil was really the work of the Spirit
of God; and as she is a person of great sense and great caution, and one to whom our Lord is very
bountiful in prayer, it pleased His Majesty to let her see what learned men failed to discern. My
confessors gave me leave to accept relief in some things from her, because in many ways she was
able to afford it. Some of those graces which our Lord bestowed on me fell to her lot occasionally,
together with instructions most profitable for her soul. So, then, when she knew that the blessed
man was come, without saying a word to me, she obtained leave from the Provincial for me to stay
eight days in her house, in order that I might the more easily confer with him. In that house, and
in one church or another, I had many conversations with him the first time he came here; for,
afterwards, I had many communications with him at diverse times.
4. I gave him an account, as briefly as I could, of my life, and of my way of prayer, with the
utmost clearness in my power. I have always held to this, to be perfectly frank and exact with those
to whom I make known the state of my soul.446 Even my first impulses I wish them to know; and
as for doubtful and suspicious matters, I used to make the most of them by arguing against myself.
Thus, then, without equivocation or concealment, I laid before him the state of my soul. I saw
almost at once that he understood me, by reason of his own experience. That was all I required; for
at that time I did not know myself as I do now,so as to give an account of my state. It was at a later
time that God enabled me to understand myself, and describe the graces which His Majesty bestows
upon me. It was necessary, then, that he who would clearly understand and explain my state should
have had experience of it himself.
5. The light he threw on the matter was of the clearest; for as to these visions, at least, which
were not imaginary, I could not understand how they could be. And it seemed that I could not
understand, too, how those could be which I saw with the eyes of the soul; for, as I said before,447
those visions only seemed to me to be of consequence which were seen with the bodily eyes: and
of these I had none. The holy man enlightened me on the whole question, explained it to me, and
bade me not to be distressed, but to praise God, and to abide in the full conviction that this was the
work of the Spirit of God; for, saving the faith, nothing could be more true, and there was nothing
on which I could more firmly rely. He was greatly comforted in me, was most kind and serviceable,
and ever afterwards took great care of me, and told me of his own affairs and labours; and when
he saw that I had those very desires which in himself were fulfilled already,—for our Lord had given me
very strong desires,—and also how great my resolution was, he delighted in conversing with me.
6. To a person whom our Lord has raised to this state, there is no pleasure or comfort equal to
that of meeting with another whom our Lord has begun to raise in the same way. At that time,
however, it must have been only a beginning with me, as I believe; and God grant I may not have
gone back now. He was extremely sorry for me. He told me that one of the greatest trials in this
world was that which I had borne,—namely, the contradiction of good people,448—and that more
was in reserve for me: I had need, therefore, of some one—and there was no one in this city—who
understood me; but he would speak to my confessor, and to that married nobleman, already spoken
of,449 who was one of those who tormented me most, and who, because of his great affection for
me, was the cause of all these attacks. He was a holy but timid man, and could not feel safe about
me, because he had seen how wicked I was, and that not long before. The holy man did so; he spoke
to them both, explained the matter, and gave them reasons why they should reassure themselves,
and disturb me no more. My confessor was easily satisfied,—not so the nobleman; for though they
were not enough to keep him quiet, yet they kept him in some measure from frightening me so
much as he used to do.
7. We made an agreement that I should write to him and tell him how it fared with me, for the
future, and that we should pray much for each other. Such was his humility, that he held to the
prayers of a wretch like me. It made me very much ashamed of myself. He left me in the greatest
consolation and joy, bidding me continue my prayer with confidence, and without any doubt that
it was the work of God. If I should have any doubts, for my greater security, I was to make them
known to my confessor, and, having done so, be in peace. Nevertheless, I was not able at all to feel
that confidence, for our Lord was leading me by the way of fear; and so, when they told me that
the devil had power over me, I believed them. Thus, then, not one of them was able to inspire me
with confidence on the one hand, or fear on the other, in such a way as to make me believe either
of them, otherwise than as our Lord allowed me. Accordingly, though the holy friar consoled and
calmed me, I did not rely so much on him as to be altogether without fear, particularly when our
Lord forsook me in the afflictions of my soul, of which I will now speak. Nevertheless, as I have
said, I was very much consoled.
8. I could not give thanks enough to God, and to my glorious father St. Joseph, who seemed to
me to have brought him here. He was the commissary-general of the custody450 of St. Joseph, to
whom, and to our Lady, I used to pray much.
9. I suffered at times—and even still, though not so often—the most grievous trials, together
with bodily pains and afflictions arising from violent sicknesses; so much so, that I could scarcely
control myself. At other times, my bodily sickness was more grievous; and as I had no spiritual
pain, I bore it with great joy: but, when both pains came upon me together, my distress was so
heavy, that I was reduced to sore straits.
10. I forgot all the mercies our Lord had shown me, and remembered them only as a dream, to
my great distress; for my understanding was so dull, that I had a thousand doubts and suspicions
whether I had ever understood matters aright, thinking that perhaps all was fancy, and that it was
enough for me to have deceived myself, without also deceiving good men. I looked upon myself as so wicked as to have been the cause, by my sins, of all the evils and all the heresies that had sprung up. This is but a false humility, and Satan invented it for the purpose of disquieting me, and trying whether he could thereby drive my soul to despair. I have now had
so much experience, that I know this was his work; so he, seeing that I understand him, does not
torment me in the same way as much as he used to do. That it is his work is clear from the
restlessness and discomfort with which it begins, and the trouble it causes in the soul while it lasts;
from the obscurity and distress, the aridity and indisposition for prayer and for every good work,
which it produces. It seems to stifle the soul and trammel the body, so as to make them good
11. Now, though the soul acknowledges itself to be miserable, and though it is painful to us to
see ourselves as we are, and though we have most deep convictions of our own wickedness,—deep
as those spoken of just now,451 and really felt,—yet true humility is not attended with trouble; it
does not disturb the soul; it causes neither obscurity nor aridity: on the contrary, it consoles. It is
altogether different, bringing with it calm, sweetness, and light. It is no doubt painful; but, on the
other hand, it is consoling, because we see how great is the mercy of our Lord in allowing the soul
to have that pain, and how well the soul is occupied. On the one hand, the soul grieves over its
offences against God; on the other, His compassion makes it glad. It has light, which makes it
ashamed of itself; and it gives thanks to His Majesty, who has borne with it so long. That other
humility, which is the work of Satan, furnishes no light for any good work; it pictures God as
bringing upon everything fire and sword; it dwells upon His justice; and the soul’s faith in the mercy
of God— for the power of the devil does not reach so far as to destroy faith—is of such a nature
as to give me no consolation: on the contrary, the consideration of mercies so great helps to increase
the pain, because I look upon myself as bound to render greater service.
12. This invention of Satan is one of the most painful, subtle, and crafty that I have known him
to possess; I should therefore like to warn you, my father, of it, in order that, if Satan should tempt
you herein, you may have some light, and be aware of his devices, if your understanding should
be left at liberty: because you must not suppose that learning and knowledge are of any use here;
for though I have none of them myself, yet now that I have escaped out of his hands I see clearly
that this is folly. What I understood by it is this: that it is our Lord’s pleasure to give him leave and
license, as He gave him of old to tempt Job;452 though in my case, because of my wretchedness, the
temptation is not so sharp.
13. It happened to me to be tempted once in this way; and I remember it was on the day before
the vigil of Corpus Christi,—a feast to which I have great devotion, though not so great as I ought
to have. The trial then lasted only till the day of the feast itself. But, on other occasions, it continued
one, two, and even three weeks and—I know not—perhaps longer. But I was specially liable to it
during the Holy Weeks, when it was my habit to make prayer my joy. Then the devil seizes on my
understanding in a moment; and occasionally, by means of things so trivial that I should laugh at
them at any other time, he makes it stumble over anything he likes. The soul, laid in fetters, loses
all control over itself, and all power of thinking of anything but the absurdities he puts before it,
which, being more or less unsubstantial, inconsistent, and disconnected, serve only to stifle the
soul, so that it has no power over itself; and accordingly—so it seems to me—the devils make a
football of it, and the soul is unable to escape out of their hands. It is impossible to describe the
sufferings of the soul in this state. It goes about in quest of relief, and God suffers it to find none.
The light of reason, in the freedom of its will, remains, but it is not clear; it seems to me as if its
eyes were covered with a veil. As a person who, having travelled often by a particular road, knows,
though it be night and dark, by his past experience of it, where he may stumble, and where he ought
to be on his guard against that risk, because he has seen the place by day, so the soul avoids offending
God: it seems to go on by habit—that is, if we put out of sight the fact that our Lord holds it by the
hand, which is the true explanation of the matter.
14. Faith is then as dead, and asleep, like all the other virtues; not lost, however,—for the soul
truly believes all that the church holds; but its profession of the faith is hardly more than an outward
profession of the mouth. And, on the other hand, temptations seem to press it down, and make it
dull, so that its knowledge of God becomes to it as that of something which it hears of far away.
So tepid is its love that, when it hears God spoken of, it listens and believes that He is what He is,
because the Church so teaches; but it recollects nothing of its own former experience. Vocal prayer
or solitude is only a greater affliction, because the interior suffering—whence it comes, it knows
not—is unendurable, and, as it seems to me, in some measure a counterpart of hell. So it is, as our
Lord showed me in a vision;453 for the soul itself is then burning in the fire, knowing not who has
kindled it, nor whence it comes, nor how to escape it, nor how to put it out: if it seeks relief from
the fire by spiritual reading, it cannot find any, just as if it could not read at all. On one occasion,
it occurred to me to read a life of a Saint, that I might forget myself, and be refreshed with the
recital of what he had suffered. Four or five times, I read as many lines; and, though they were
written in Spanish, I understood them less at the end than I did when I began: so I gave it up. It so
happened to me on more occasions than one, but I have a more distinct recollection of this.
15. To converse with any one is worse, for the devil then sends so offensive a spirit of bad
temper, that I think I could eat people up; nor can I help myself. I feel that I do something when I
keep myself under control; or rather our Lord does so, when He holds back with His hand any one
in this state from saying or doing something that may be hurtful to his neighbours and offensive to
God. Then, as to going to our confessor, that is of no use; for the certain result is—and very often
has it happened to me—what I shall now describe. Though my confessors, with whom I had to do
then, and have to do still, are so holy, they spoke to me and reproved me with such harshness, that
they were astonished at it afterwards when I told them of it. They said that they could not help
themselves; for, though they had resolved not to use such language, and though they pitied me also
very much,—yea, even had scruples on the subject, because of my grievous trials of soul and
body,—and were, moreover, determined to console me, they could not refrain. They did not use
unbecoming words—I mean, words offensive to God; yet their words were the most offensive that
could be borne with in confession. They must have aimed at mortifying me. At other times, I used
to delight in this, and was prepared to bear it; but it was then a torment altogether. I used to think,
too, that I deceived them; so I went to them, and cautioned them very earnestly to be on their guard
against me, for it might be that I deceived them. I saw well enough that I would not do so advisedly,
nor tell them an untruth;454 but everything made me afraid. One of them, on one occasion, when
he had heard me speak of this temptation, told me not to distress myself; for, even if I wished to
deceive him, he had sense enough not to be deceived. This gave me great comfort.
16. Sometimes, almost always,—at least, very frequently,—I used to find rest after Communion;
now and then, even, as I drew near to the most Holy Sacrament, all at once my soul and body would
be so well, that I was amazed. It seemed to be nothing else but an instantaneous dispersion of the
darkness that covered my soul: when the sun rose, I saw how silly I had been.
17. On other occasions, if our Lord spoke to me but one word, saying only, “Be not distressed,
have no fear,”—as I said before, I was made whole at once; or, if I saw a vision, I was as if I
had never been amiss. I rejoiced in God, and made my complaint to Him, because He permitted
me to undergo such afflictions; yet the recompense was great; for almost always, afterwards, His
mercies descended upon me in great abundance. The soul seemed to come forth as gold out of the
crucible, most refined, and made glorious to behold, our Lord dwelling within it. These trials
afterwards are light, though they once seemed to be unendurable; and the soul longs to undergo
them again, if that be more pleasing to our Lord. And though trials and persecutions increase, yet,
if we bear them without offending our Lord, rejoicing in suffering for His sake, it will be all the
greater gain: I, however, do not bear them as they ought to be borne, but rather in a most imperfect
way. At other times, my trials came upon me—they come still—in another form; and then it seems
to me as if the very possibility of thinking a good thought, or desiring the accomplishment of it,
were utterly taken from me: both soul and body are altogether useless and a heavy burden. However,
when I am in this state, I do not suffer from the other temptations and disquietudes, but only from
a certain loathing of I know not what, and my soul finds pleasure in nothing.
18. I used to try exterior good works, in order to occupy myself partly by violence; and I know
well how weak a soul is when grace is hiding itself. It did not distress me much, because the sight
of my own meanness gave me some satisfaction. On other occasions, I find myself unable to pray
or to fix my thoughts with any distinctness upon God, or anything that is good, though I may be
alone; but I have a sense that I know Him. It is the understanding and the imagination, I believe,
which hurt me here; for it seems to me that I have a good will, disposed for all good; but the
understanding is so lost, that it seems to be nothing else but a raving lunatic, which nobody can
restrain, and of which I am not mistress enough to keep it quiet for a minute.
19. Sometimes I laugh at myself, and recognize my wretchedness: I watch my understanding,
and leave it alone to see what it will do. Glory be to God, for a wonder, it never runs on what is
wrong, but only on indifferent things, considering what is going on here, or there, or elsewhere. I
see then, more and more, the exceeding great mercy of our Lord to me, when He keeps this lunatic
bound in the chains of perfect contemplation. I wonder what would happen if those people who
think I am good knew of my extravagance. I am very sorry when I see my soul in such bad company;
I long to see it delivered therefrom, and so I say to our Lord: When, O my God, shall I see my
whole soul praising Thee, that it may have the fruition of Thee in all its faculties? Let me be no
longer, O Lord, thus torn to pieces, and every one of them, as it were, running in a different direction.
This has been often the case with me, but I think that my scanty bodily health was now and then
enough to bring it about.
20. I dwell much on the harm which original sin has done us; that is, I believe, what has rendered
us incapable of the fruition of so great a good. My sins, too, must be in fault; for, if I had not
committed so many, I should have been more perfect in goodness. Another great affliction which
I suffered was this: all the books which I read on the subject of prayer, I thought I understood
thoroughly, and that I required them no longer, because our Lord had given me the gift of prayer.
I therefore ceased to read those books, and applied myself to lives of Saints, thinking that this would
improve me and give me courage; for I found myself very defective in every kind of service which
the Saints rendered unto God. Then it struck me that I had very little humility, when I could think
that I had attained to this degree of prayer; and so, when I could not come to any other conclusion,
I was greatly distressed, until certain learned persons, and the blessed friar, Peter of Alcantara, told
me not to trouble myself about the matter.
21. I see clearly enough that I have not yet begun to serve God, though He showers down upon
me those very graces which He gives to many good people. I am a mass of imperfection, except in
desire and in love; for herein I see well that our Lord has been gracious to me, in order that I may
please Him in some measure. I really think that I love Him; but my conduct, and the many
imperfections I discern in myself, make me sad.
22. My soul, also, is subject occasionally to a certain foolishness,—that is the right name to
give it,—when I seem to be doing neither good nor evil, but following in the wake of others, as
they say, without pain or pleasure, indifferent to life and death, pleasure and pain. I seem to have
no feeling. The soul seems to me like a little ass, which feeds and thrives, because it accepts the
food which is given it, and eats it without reflection. The soul in this state must be feeding on some
great mercies of God, seeing that its miserable life is no burden to it, and that it bears it patiently
but it is conscious of no sensible movements or results, whereby it may ascertain the state it is in.
23. It seems to me now like sailing with a very gentle wind, when one makes much way without
knowing how; for in the other states, so great are the effects, that the soul sees almost at once an
improvement in itself, because the desires instantly are on fire, and the soul is never satisfied. This
comes from those great impetuosities of love, spoken of before,458 in those to whom God grants
them. It is like those little wells I have seen flowing, wherein the upheaving of the sand never
ceases. This illustration and comparison seem to me to be a true description of those souls who
attain to this state; their love is ever active, thinking what it may do; it cannot contain itself, as the
water remains not in the earth, but is continually welling upwards. So is the soul, in general; it is
not at rest, nor can it contain itself, because of the love it has: it is so saturated therewith, that it
would have others drink of it, because there is more than enough for itself, in order that they might
help it to praise God.
24. I call to remembrance—oh, how often!—that living water of which our Lord spoke to the
Samaritan woman. That Gospel has a great attraction for me; and, indeed, so it had even when I
was a little child, though I did not understand it then as I do now. I used to pray much to our Lord
for that living water; and I had always a picture of it, representing our Lord at the well, with this
inscription, “Domine, da mihi aquam.”
25. This love is also like a great fire, which requires fuel continually, in order that it may not
burn out. So those souls I am speaking of, however much it may cost them, will always bring fuel,
in order that the fire may not be quenched. As for me, I should be glad, considering what I am, if
I had but straw even to throw upon it. And so it is with me occasionally—and, indeed, very often.
At one time, I laugh at myself; and at another, I am very much distressed. The inward stirring of
my love urges me to do something for the service of God; and I am not able to do more than adorn
images with boughs and flowers, clean or arrange an oratory, or some such trifling acts, so that I
am ashamed of myself. If I undertook any penitential practice, the whole was so slight, and was
done in such a way, that if our Lord did not accept my good will, I saw it was all worthless, and so
I laughed at myself. The failure of bodily strength, sufficient to do something for God, is no light
affliction for those souls to whom He, in His goodness, has communicated this fire of His love in
its fulness. It is a very good penance; for when souls are not strong enough to heap fuel on this fire,
and die of fear that the fire may go out, it seems to me that they become fuel themselves, are reduced
to ashes, or dissolved in tears, and burn away: and this is suffering enough, though it be sweet.
26. Let him, then, praise our Lord exceedingly, who has attained to this state; who has received
the bodily strength requisite for penance; who has learning, ability, and power to preach, to hear
confessions, and to draw souls unto God. Such a one neither knows nor comprehends the blessing
he possesses, unless he knows by experience what it is to be powerless to serve God in anything,
and at the same time to be receiving much from Him. May He be blessed for ever, and may the
angels glorify Him! Amen.
27. I know not if I do well to write so much in detail. But as you, my father, bade me again not
to be troubled by the minuteness of my account, nor to omit anything, I go on recounting clearly
and truly all I can call to mind. But I must omit much; for if I did not, I should have to spend more
time—and, as I said before, I have so little to spend, and perhaps, after all, nothing will be gained.