Openings

Cynics care what a man does, not who he is,
and can scarcely distinguish between the two.

Release your grip, relax and slip,
fall back and down, sink, sink, drop through,
trust Peace, and let Presence examine you.

Inside, the flame of Christ, and my poor heart dripping away. The subtle separating from the gross. Softly falling dregs of flesh, and perfumes of softly wafting soul; the incense of His Love. Cumbersome senses put to sleep, endless questions laid to rest, passions never fixed. Language crumbling into dust. The Virgin scattering into birds. Intimations breaking cloudbanks, and carried off by angels; for the Lord looks kindly on those who cannot fly.

My Soul, your great ambition was to be the artist. But, after a mere taste of humility, you wanted to be the brush. Another taste, and you swore you could become the paint. Yet another, and now you are even thinking like the canvas! So, for Christ's sake, be still. The LORD is painting his self-portrait.

My greatest insights are experienced at the limits of my understanding. It is only in the self-honest sense of my uncertainty and ignorance that I begin to touch my deepest truth. Only when the mystery remains intact, have I come to the ends of myself; if I am not confounded, it is because I have stopped short of the precipice. Every answer has in it something of a lie, and every question something of a truth.

Silence -- not listening to, but hearing from God -- is truth.

Because he spoke, because he loved, because he moved;
by his will, the Father draws us into communion with himself,
and what can we do, but wait upon his Word?

Man is either a slave of passion or a servant of love, --
but, for a single instant, when he chooses his destiny,
he is free; if only to decide who his master will be.

Your pain as well as your pleasure, your anger as well as your joy, your weakness as well as your strength, your fear as well as your faith, -- make you lovely in the eyes of the Lord.

He is mystery. He is awe. He is radiant design. Serendipity with a style. The abyss winking at you from behind the world. He is a chorus of light in the mind. Splendor beneath the surface of time. We should marvel at his depths. He is the reason for himself.

What a perfect expression it is, to say that we "reflect on" what we take into our minds, since we really do come to resemble, like a reflection, the matters we focus on. We cannot spend a day in the study of the saints without acquiring a conspicuous blush of goodness. And though we may become pale again a day later, all at once, the blood of Christ will run back into our cheeks, provided that we turn again to what is good. Saintliness is little more than an ingrained habit of fascination with goodness, and with God, who alone is good. Not all at once, nor once and for all, did the good become good. Rather, they became good by dwelling persistently on what is good. Even Jesus had to pray, and has to still. But, then, if he did not pray, he would not be himself. God is Prayer to God.