The name of Fr. Erich Przywara will be chiefly familiar to English readers through his “Augustine Synthesis” and “Newman Synthesis.” In “Majestas Divina” he has attempted what may be described as an interpretation of the Spiritual Exercises of St Ignatius. Many people find the Spiritual Exercises a baffling work. Even those who are familiar with the practice of making retreats may fall into a literalism in their study of the text which prevents their seeing the movement of thought and feeling which makes the book of the Exercises the powerful instrument that it can be. It seems to be the great merit of Fr. Przywara’s work that it brings out the pattern woven by the words of St. Ignatius, and by linking up the language of the Exercises with St. Ignatius’s other writings—his Constitutions and Letters in particular—clarifies that often misunderstood thing, “Ignatian Spirituality.”

In this first section, the author is concerned to underline the general dispositions of mind and heart that are required of one who would learn aright the lessons that St Ignatius is seeking to teach. The section is entitled “Solitude” because a certain solitude of spirit, expressed in the practice of silence and withdrawal characteristic of a retreat, is fundamental if the exercitant is to draw near to God.

The translator has adopted the device of printing his version in short phrases simply in order to make it possible for the English reader to cope with the massive German sentences of the original.

Lovers of the Mass, and especially lovers of the theology of the Mass, are under a great debt of gratitude to Dom Romanus Rios, O.S.B., for his article in The Clergy Review of November, 1942,’ on “ Sacrifioium Quod Immolamus.” Our gratitude would have been still greater if the valuable list of words had been referred to their place in the Mass.

His two concluding sentences ofier an inducement to clear up some theological difficulties. He writes: “Lainez, S.J., when presenting his Votum on the Eucharistic Sacrifice defined the Sacrifice of the Last Supper, the Sacrifice of the Cross, and the Sacrifice of the Mass, each by itself and in its own way as a verum et plenum sacrificium. He was merely echoing the traditional Catholic doctrine as expressed particularly in the Secrets of the Mass.” (Clergy Review, November, 1942, p. 487.)

(1) The theological difficulty betokened by these words of Lainez called forth this plain decree of the Council:—Si quis dixerit, blasphemiam irrogari aanctissimo Christi sacrificio in Cruce peracto per Missae sacrifioium, aut illi per hoc derogari—anathema sit. (Sess xxii. De Sacrificio Missae, Can. iv.) Many minds, both inside and outside the visible Church, were perplexed by the words of those theologians who, rightly enough, maintained the sacrificial character of the Last Supper and of the Mass.

Theologians of the Church scrupled to call the Last Supper a sacrifice. To them it seemed that if the Last Supper was Christ’s redemptive sacrifice, then the Passion and Death were not Christ's redemptive sacrifice

Quia quaesisti a me, in Christo mihi charissime frater Joannes, quomodo oportet incedere in thesauro scientiae acquirendo, tale a me tibi super hoc traditur consilium : ut per rivulos, et non statim in mare, eligas introire; quia per faciha ad difficilia oportet devenire.

Huiusmodi est ergo monitio mea de vita tua :

Tardiloquum te esse iubeo, et tarde ad locutorium acceden- tem;

Conscientiae puritatem am-plecti;

Orationi vacare non desinas;

Cellam frequenter diligas, si vis in cellam vinariam introduci;

Omnibus amabilem te exhibeas, vel exhibere studeas; sed nem-ini familiärem te multum os-tendas; quia nimia familiaritas parit contemptum et retardationis materiam a studio subministrat;

Et de factis et verbis saecularium nullatenus te intromittas;

Discursum super omnia fugias;

Sanctorum et proborum virorum imitari vestigia non omittas.

Brother John, most dear to me in Christ: Since you have asked me how one should set about to acquire the treasure of knowledge, this is my advice to you concerning it: namely, that you should choose to enter, not straightway into the ocean, but by way of the little streams; for difficult things ought to be reached by way of easy ones.

The following, therefore, is my advice to you concerning your way of living:

I urge you to hesitate before speaking, and to hesitate before visiting the common room;

Hold fast to the cleanness of your conscience;

Do not cease from devoting time to prayer;

Love your cell by making constant use of it, if you want to be admitted into the wine-cellar;

Chesterton reflecting on the grotesque in nature wrote,

But certain gestures in God’s providence even more than in His creation hint at whatever in the divine intellect is the prototype of a sense of humour in ours.

It seems, for instance, something like a heavenly jest that the canonisation of Margaret of Hungary should have been reserved for an age that passionately disapproves of almost everything she exemplifies. To begin with, was she not doomed by her parents, even before her birth, to a life of inhuman self-repression?

In 1241 Bela IV of Hungary and his queen had been hunted from one refuge to another by a Tartar invasion—that nightmare of eastern Europe in the 13th century. Tracked to their last resort, an island fortress in the Adriatic, they awaited inevitable capture and such gruesome death as might suit the horrid humour of their pursuers. At the queen’s suggestion they promised to consecrate their unborn child to God if He should save their kingdom and lives. Thereupon the Tartars, their attention suddenly distracted by news recalling them to their own country, turned their backs on the prey within their reach and departed.

Margaret of Hungary belongs to the category of born saints. For generations God had been preparing her as a willing victim for her country. Sanctity was in her blood. Hungary’s first three kings, her ancestors, had been St. Stephen, St. Emeric and St. Ladislas I.

Rest is the final pattern of all that God has made. In time, in place, each thing has its own mode: it is created thus, and here and now. The singleness of sun and moon, of rock and flower and tiger; the separateness of men, each man a person unique and at last alone—here might seem a broken pattern, each thing good but each thing solitary. But on the seventh day of creation God rests. He blesses and sanctifies the day of his resting, and with it all that he has made: the whole creation is one in that ascription of praise to the creator of all.

The sabbath-rest of God is God’s contemplation of himself as creator: in it the unity and goodness of the things he has made are revealed. They are his: they are one in him. So, in the history of his chosen people, the seventh day came to be observed as a day of rest and gladness, a still point in the changing world for man to pause and remember. “See that thou keep my sabbath; because it is a sign between me and you in your generations: that you may know I am the Lord who sanctify you. ... It is an everlasting covenant between me and the children of Israel, and a perpetual sign. For in six days the Lord made heaven and earth, and in the seventh he ceased from work.”

“Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God.” This is the seventh of the sayings of the Son of God in his sermon on the mount.

The Apostolate of Christ the Worker merits high rank among the associations of the Church because it sees social work and holiness in their right perspective.

The apostle of Christ the Worker does not draw a great distinction between being holy and helping other people. His (or her) work for others is an essential part of the quest of sanctity.

Those who are received into the Church later in life lack an inestimable privilege. Not for them the intimacy of long acquaintance, nor the memories of a childhood spent at their mother’s knee, not for them the almost imperceptible growth in an atmosphere perfectly adapted to the needs of their soul. It is only with faltering footsteps, not rarely after some profound crisis, that the convert approaches the Church, conscious of his defects, yet eager to learn. Then, as he meets the Teaching Church, this desire will quickly deepen into love, a love which seeks expression in manifold ways. It is true he may discover no new features in the well-loved face. But as Her perfections are infinite, Her praise admits of endless variations.

It was seven or eight years ago, I believe, in the Cathedral of Cologne, with its vast spaces and soaring pillars, its lofty chapels and the majestic aloofness of the High Altar, that the meaning of the word “ House of God ” first dawned on me. Unlimited space moulded into the austerity of form, exuberance of life disciplined by perfect order, infinite variety in complete harmony. This was indeed a mansion worthy of the Most High, with places set apart for various purposes, each of profound significance, all worthy of further exploration. It is true, the faithful who pursued their different errands in this vast building were dwarfed by the grandeur in which the overwhelming majesty of God became outwardly visible. It seemed to matter little that they were there. Yet, even so, I cannot but recall a strange feeling of wonder at the ease with which they moved in a house, the presence of whose Divine Host, though invisible, was everywhere manifest.

Though we may not agree altogether there can be no doubt that modern English writers do lack a sense of assurance. Geoffrey Chaucer is known to us for his good tempered satirising of the evils of his time and his genuine enjoyment of the commonplace things of life. Shakespeare and his contemporaries enjoyed life, too, and in spite of less reputable interludes we are compelled to admire their assurance. Yet both these men ended their lives with a Confiteor and Orate pro me. Chaucer retracts his Tales, “thilke that sounen into sinne,” and begs the reader “that ye preye for me, that Crist have mercy on me and foryeve me my giltes”; and Shakespeare in the person of Prospero appeals to his audience,

In our age of frenzy and unrest, when peace and tranquility are threatening to leave Europe altogether, it is a good thing to reflect for a while upon patience, and thus reflecting to recover that spirit of quiet and detachment, which is an essential condition of our spiritual regeneration.

Patience is not a popular virtue. It lacks the splendour of charity, or the persuasiveness of humility. Its light pales beside the brilliance of an heroic virtue such as courage. To the superficial observer its attraction is only slight. This low estimation of patience is not unfounded in fact. St Thomas Aquinas teaches that this virtue is not only second to the theological virtues; it ranks lower than prudence and justice, fortitude and temperance. For these either establish man in the good life or restrain him from the more serious obstacles to virtue, while patience only enables him to suffer evil without being unduly cast down by it. Thus patience appears as an almost negative quality, no more than a necessary condition for the practice of virtue and the development of the spiritual life.

Yet patience is by no means an insignificant virtue. God Himself attached to it a promise which is well worth pondering, “In your patience you shall possess your souls.’’ The Church, in her wisdom, reminds us of that virtue in the very periods of the liturgical year, which are marked by slow development rather than by outstanding events. The “Dominus autem, dirigat corda et corpora nostra in caritate Dei et patientia Christi” of the Apostle is a prayer appropriate to that hidden life of the spirit, which continues quietly under the surface, whose fruits will only be revealed in the next world.

Some twenty years ago Pius XI pointed out how important is the role of the contemplative in the Church. He said that they who assiduously fulfil the duty of prayer and penance contribute much more to the increase of the Church and the welfare of mankind than those who labour in tilling the Master’s field; for unless the former drew down from heaven a shower of divine graces to water the field that is being tilled, the evangelical labourers would reap indeed from their toil a more scanty crop. It is true that his words were addressed to cloistered religious, but they are none the less of universal application.

Signs are not wanting that the truth of the Pope s words is beginning to be understood outside the cloister. It is surely not without significance, too, that Pius XI should, just a year after writing the words quoted above have canonized St Theresa of Lisieux and made her Patroness of Missions, and a year afterwards declared St John of the Cross a Doctor of the Church. St Theresa was a Carmelite nun living in the direct tradition of the two great Carmelite teachers, St Teresa of Avila and St John of the Cross, and the Little Way that she describes in her Histoire d’une âme interprets to modern readers the essence of the teaching of these Carmelite masters, and points out its application to modern needs and conditions. In this she is important as they in their day, no less than in our own, were important for another reason—namely, that living as they did in full flood of the counter-reformation they yet carried on the traditional in their teaching on the spiritual life and prayer.

The following lines are offered with all reverence in an attempt at understanding some of the implications of S. Thomas’s teaching on the sufferings of our Lord, They are meant to suggest the apparent ineffectualness of the theologian’s doctrine in face of the bitter experience of the disciple.

You speak to me of the sufferings of Christ; you tell me to think of them in my pain; to bear my own, and’to offer them up with his. They are the penalty of my sins, and Christ's Passion has given them meaning and purpose, if only I accept them as he did for me. Yet what consolation is that to me, for his sufferings cannot compare with mine? You pretend the Passion was a sortof Epiphany : a manifestation of the realityof Christ’s Humanity. But Christ was not like us, not equal to us in all things ! A very human God would be a consolation and a help. Why was not Christ like us in all things: subject to suffering, pain, ignorance, temptation and sin? You have to draw the line because your Saviour was not merely man but God. It seems to me that the Incarnation has failed to reach me in my suffering, just at those points where I need it most—give me my comrade who is mere man and not this pale Sufferer!

You tell me to think of the bodily suffering of the Christ upon his Cross: the hanging body, the riven members, the wounds, the thorns, the burning thirst.

The Christian life is pre-eminently a hidden life. This is a commonplace, but it seems difficult to grasp in our noisy time, which worships publicity and confuses activities with action. Yet God Himself has set before us the beauty and power of the hidden life when he chose to be born in a stable in an unknown tqwn of an obscure province of the Roman Empire, and to live in a carpenter’s family for thirty years. The devil, too, knew the strength of hiddenness, when he tempted our Lord with the prospect of spectacular success, the miraculous flight from the pinnacle of the Temple, the possession of all the kingdoms of the earth. But our Lord chose to hide himself on the Cross between two thieves, and thenceforth has remained hidden even more deeply and impenetrably under a little Bread and Wine: In Cruce latebat sola Deitas, At hic latet simul et humanitas. . . .

Yet, what power on earth has ever equalled the power of the Figure hidden and lifted upon the Cross and in the Mass? It is one of the scandals of Christianity, this mysterious hiddenness which the world ever derides: “ Is not this the carpenter’s son? Is not his Mother called Mary? . . . Whence therefore hath he all these things? And they were scandalized in him.” And he shares this hiddenness with his friends, and the nearer they are to him, the more they love to hide their lives with him in God.