Prayer

If our facility in prayer increases we can always extend our program, but it is always better to be too short than too long. We have a long road before us, and the important thing is to persevere to the end.

Let it be always remembered that Christian life is an entering into Christ's life rather than the perfecting of one's own life, that Christian prayer is an entering into Christ's prayer rather than the flowering of one's own prayer, and that in the particular case under discussion, where we have to abandon our own prayer to join in the prayers of the congregation, we are really putting on Christ. Where two or three are gathered in His name, He is in the midst of them, as He has promised, and when we join in their prayer, we are really exchanging our own poor prayer for the powerful prayer of Christ.

One thing we insist upon. You must make a grim, ruthless resolve, that never, never, never, on any account whatsoever, will you give up the practice of attempting to pray thus daily, no matter how fruitless your attempt may seem. Until you make that resolve, your progress in the spiritual life will never be anything more than that of a cripple. No matter how often you take up the spiritual life, you will sooner or later be faced with the choice of giving it up, or making such a resolution about daily prayer.

This Tremendous Lover, M. Eugene Boylan, O.Cist.R

Supernatural Faith

There is nothing uncertain and there is nothing unreasonable about Catholic faith. The proper meaning of belief is to accept truth on the testimony of another. Since in ordinary cases, our informant may be in error or may mislead us, there may be room for uncertainty. But in supernatural faith, we accept truth on the testimony of God Himself, so that it leads to absolute certainty.

-- M. Eugene Boylan, O. Cist. R., This Tremendous Lover

The Life of the Soul

In the Blessed Sacrament there are really and truly present the Body, the Blood, the Soul and the Divinity of Christ. If this be the food of the soul, -- what must be its life? Can it be anything less than God Himself, in some way living in the soul?

-- M. Eugene Boylan, O. Cist. R., This Tremendous Lover

This Tremendous Lover

For the heart of the Crucified burned with a more intense love of God than the world has ever known, and the Son's heart was torn by the offenses that men offer to His heavenly Father. And in that same heart there was a fire of love for men, of love for each man and for every man; and the Lover's heart was torn by the thought of the coldness of those whom He loved and the loss they were incurring by their refusal to love Him. On the previous Sunday we heard the lament that wrung tears from the eyes of God: and thou wouldest not; on the cross on Friday the same love wrings every drop of blood from that divine heart. Truly, we must call Him, "This Tremendous Lover."

-- M. Eugene Boylan, O. Cist. R., This Tremendous Lover

With the Impatience of a Lover

When one remembers who our Lord really was, and what infinite power was at His disposal, the whole wonder of His public life is not the marvelous works He actually did, but the many and more wonderful works which He could have done and did not do. And one gets the impression that, throughout all this period, His chief desire was to press on to the final stage of His life -- that the works of His public ministry formed but a small part of His plan, a part perfectly performed, but still something that He seemed to have far less at heart than the final stage, -- the baptism wherewith He was to be baptized (Lk 12:50), -- and to which He hurries on, if one may say so, with the impatience of a lover.

-- M. Eugene Boylan, O. Cist. R., This Tremendous Lover

Like Beads Passing through Devout Hands

Our life is limited in its extent and still more limited in its possession, for it comes to us bit by bit, in succession and not all at once. We have to let go of one moment to take hold of the next; it is like beads passing through devout hands.

--M. Eugene Boylan, O. Cist. R, This Tremendous Lover

Villain, elle?, Daniel Gibbons

I am a burning book, a book of flame:
pale letters glow on skin-thin ash
an instant as your hand crumbles cinders, same.

If a book burns in the forest, without reader or name,
Is it no book, a glob of marks?—In its pages stashed:
“I am a burning book, a book of flame!”

Can I remember Sarajevo, who to blame
for a snow of black pages, a tabernacle hammered into trash,
even for an instant as I crumble cinders, same?

Whether in Caesar’s, Theophilus’, or Omar’s name,
In the slow grace of towers crumbling under some Alexander’s lash,
I am a burning book, a book of flame.

When a human burns in the salt womb (who’s to blame?)
of history, who among us will cast the first penitent ash
from an infant’s hand that has crumbled into cinders—same?

Haunted into sterile rooms, who will sign their names?
In quiet abattoirs, over mute cries with no past—shhh…
“I am a burning book, a book of flame
an instant, until my hand crumbles… cinders…”