One of the curious things that you may sometimes hear nuns say is, I have no time for prayer', a curious thing for anyone to say. One would suppose that prayer were an exercise like eating, over and done with; as though prayer were an act that began and ended at a certain time. You hear too: ‘I didn't say my prayers this morning'. ‘No prayers?’ ‘Oh, yes, but not all. Curious, isn't it? I look on prayer as a duty to be portioned off. How can I say I haven't time for prayer? Haven't time to raise my mind and heart to God? They mean they haven't time to sit and do nothing else but pray. We have always got time for prayer. Constant prayer is the idea of the New Testament, Christ's teaching. Anything is prayer, prayer is anything. It is not an individual thing, it can speak all languages, it is us varied as our life. Prayer is natural to the soul. That we have no time for that is incredible, impossible.

It is almost a truism to say that a creature's primary duty is to glorify its creator, a duty fulfilled by the creature's being itself to perfection. The Lauds canticle, Benedicite, is an expression of this idea, the whole of creation singing a hymn of praise to God. But man occupies a special position in this choir, in that, of all its members, he alone is free in offering his praise. All carry out this work by living according to the nature God has given them-the animals, the trees and flowers, the very sticks and stones-but it is of their nature to be incapable of any. thing else. It is of man's nature to be free, and so his praise of God must be voluntary, if it is to be truly human. He has only two alternatives, either to glorify God by choosing to worship him, or to insult him by refusing. That is why man's service of God is meritorious, and his neglect blameworthy.

Well directed and earnest study, … and the clash of diverse opinions and their discussion, provided love of truth and due submission to the Church be their arbiter, will open rich bright vistas whose light will help to progress in kindred sacred sciences. These words of Pope Pius XII, written in 1943, present an ideal for liturgical enthusiasts. Before all else it is among students of the liturgy that we expect to find a spirit of tolerance and charity, because the inspiration of their study is Calvary, itself the source of charity. Bitterness in dispute is particularly out of place here. Disagreement itself is, as the Pope has pointed out, a sign of health: but when discussion becomes scrimonious something has gone wrong. Intolerance is bred from inaccurate thinking and the most inaccurate thought springs from the confusion of essentials with accidentals. Short vestments may be undignified and lacking in symbolism, but that does not convict the wearer of heresy.

Anyone who has reached the period of spiritual life known as the Night of the Senses will find that prayer has so changed its character as to be almost a new kind of human activity. Hitherto the time devoted to actual prayers will have been divided up between liturgical practices and private meditations. The Christian will have become accustomed, perhaps through the habits formed during many years, to set about these devotions in a methodical way, always bearing in mind the adage that if he wishes to prosper he must, while leaving all to God in his petitions, act as though all depended on himself. He will have learned a manner of assisting at Mass; he will have recited the same number of Paters and Aves, acts of contrition and charity, while he knelt beside his bed at morning and night; his rosary or ‘stations’ will be prominent in his regular horary; and finally his times of quiet at meditation will be organised by a method, interspersed with ‘acts’ and sometimes predominantly concerned with struggles against distractions and drowsiness.

Any Catholic who takes his spiritual life seriously must A have echoed St Peter's words when the moment comes for leaving the divine presence after Mass or Benediction. Here he would remain, here he would always be. But for him, as for the chosen three, the bright cloud falls and he must descend the mount. He must go down into the everyday world, often like the apostles to find himself faced with an apparently insoluble problem, a demoniac child. This may be a personal grief or a realisation of the spiritual state of the world sharpened by contrast with the timeless peace from which he has freshly come.

[Honorius of Autun c. 1125, a contemporary and fellow-countryman of Saint Bernard, calls himself ‘ecclesiae presbyter et scholastious’. A seventeenth-century editor of his work ‘Inevitabile’ prefaces it with the following eulogy:

'About the one thousand and eighty-seventh year from the passing of Christ our Saviour from this world to the Father, there flourished in the duchy of Burgundy a certain priest Honorius, worthy indeed to be crowned with glory and honour, and shining among the clergy as a planet among stars.

‘He was deeply versed in the Sacred Scriptures and most learned in secular knowledge; a man deeply erudite, subtle of mind, lucid in speech, one who had attained the rank of Scholasticus in Autun, the former capital and see of that region of Burgundy (Aeduorum), and who showed himself by his works and life to be a true Doctor and Luminary of the Church.

On the Tuesday in Easter week, April 12th, 1594, St Francis de Sales preached a short but very beautiful homily on the theological virtues. He draws from the appearance of our Lord related in the Gospel of the day a charming description of the virtues of jaith, hope and charity, and shows how fittingly each one is connected with the risen Christ.

Our authority for dating this sermon is the edition of 1643, which the recent Annecy Edition preserves. The 1643 edition was the first to give it as being preached on Easter Tuesday; it has no title in the edition of 1641. Certain analogies of style between the following sermon and those of the first period of the Saint's life justify this attribution.