Bread of Life

 this is the bread that comes down from heaven so that one may eat it and not die. (john 6: 50)
The miracle of God’s physical presence to us at every Mass is the truest testament to Christ’s love for us and His desire for each of us to have a personal relationship with Him. Jesus Christ celebrated the first Mass with His disciples at the Last Supper, the night before He died. He commanded His disciples, “Do this in remembrance of me” (Luke 22:19). The celebration of the Mass then became the main form of worship in the early Church, as a reenactment of the Last Supper, as Christ had commanded. Each and every Mass since commemorates Jesus’ sacrifice on the cross through the Holy Eucharist. Because the Mass “re-presents” (makes present) the sacrifice on Calvary, Catholics all around the world join together to be made present in Christ’s timeless sacrifice for our sins. There is something fascinating about continuing to celebrate the same Mass—instituted by Christ and practiced by the early Church—with the whole community of Catholics around the world…and in heaven.


Why does the Catholic Church believe Christ is really present in the Eucharist?
The Catholic doctrine of the Real Presence is the belief that Jesus Christ is literally, not symbolically, present in the Holy Eucharist—body, blood, soul and divinity. Catholics believe in the Real Presence of Christ in the Eucharist because Jesus tells us this is true in the Bible:

“I am the bread of life. Your fathers ate the manna in the wilderness, and they died. This is the bread which comes down from heaven, that a man may eat of it and not die. I am the living bread which came down from heaven; if any one eats of this bread, he will live for ever; and the bread which I shall give for the life of the world is my flesh." The Jews then disputed among themselves, saying, ‘How can this man give us his flesh to eat?’ So Jesus said to them,

"Truly, truly, I say to you, unless you eat the flesh of the Son of man and drink his blood, you have no life in you; he who eats my flesh and drinks my blood has eternal life, and I will raise him up at the last day. For my flesh is food indeed, and my blood is drink indeed. He who eats my flesh and drinks my blood abides in me, and I in him” - John 6:48-56
Furthermore, the early Church Fathers either imply or directly state that the bread and wine offered in the celebration of the Lord’s Supper is really the body and blood of Jesus Christ. In other words, the doctrine of the Real Presence that Catholics believe today was believed by the earliest Christians 2,000 years ago!

This miracle of God’s physical presence to us at every Mass is the truest testament to Christ’s love for us and His desire for each of us to have a personal relationship with Him.

Thursday, May 26, 2016


This list is arranged by which famous Meister Eckhart quotes have received the most votes, so only the greatest Meister Eckhart quotes are at the top of the list.

All the most popular quotes from Meister Eckhart should be listed here, but if any were missed you can add more at the end of the list. This list includes notable Meister Eckhart quotes on various subjects, many of which are inspirational and thought provoking.

This list answers the questions, "What are the best Meister Eckhart quotes?" and "What is the most famous Meister Eckhart quote?"

If the only prayer you ever say in your entire life is thank you, it will be enough.
You may call God love, you may call God goodness. But the best name for God is compassion.
There exists only the present instant... a Now which always and without end is itself new. There is no yesterday nor any tomorrow, but only Now, as it was a thousand years ago and as it will be a thousand years hence.
To be full of things is to be empty of God. To be empty of things is to be full of God.
Time is what keeps the light from reaching us. There is no greater obstacle to God than time: and not only time but temporalities, not only temporal things but temporal affections, not only temporal affections but the very taint and smell of time.
God is at home, it's we who have gone out for a walk.
A human being has so many skins inside, covering the depths of the heart. We know so many things, but we don't know ourselves! Why, thirty or forty skins or hides, as thick and hard as an ox's or bear's, cover the soul. Go into your own ground and learn to know yourself there.
The more we have the less we own.
We are celebrating the feast of the Eternal Birth which God the Father has borne and never ceases to bear in all eternity.... But if it takes not place in me, what avails it? Everything lies in this, that it should take place in me.
Jesus might have said, I became man for you. If you do not become God for me, you wrong me.
God expects but one thing of you, and that is that you should come out of yourself in so far as you are a created being made and let God be God in you.
To be right, a person must do one of two things: either he must learn to have God in his work and hold fast to him there, or he must give up his work altogether. Since, however, we cannot live without activities that are both human and various, we must learn to keep God I everything we do, and whatever the job or place, keep on with him, letting nothing stand in our way.
He who would be serene and pure needs but one thing, detachment
What a man takes in by contemplation, that he pours out in love.
The knower and the known are one. Simple people imagine that they should see God as if he stood there and they here. This is not so. God and I, we are one in knowledge.
All God wants of man is a peaceful heart.
Only the hand that erases can write the true thing.
Man goes far away or near but God never goes far-off; he is always standing close at hand, and even if he cannot stay within he goes no further than the door.
The seed of God is in us. Given an intelligent and hard-working farmer, it will thrive and grow up to God, whose seed it is; and accordingly its fruits will be God-nature. Pear seeds grow into pear trees, nut seeds into nut trees, and God-seed into God.
To be sure, this requires effort and love, a careful cultivation of the spiritual life, and a watchful, honest, active oversight of all one's mental attitudes towards things and people. It is not to be learned by world-flight, running away from things, turning solitary and going apart from the world. Rather, one must learn an inner solitude, where or with whomsoever he may be. He must learn to penetrate things and find God there, to get a strong impression of God firmly fixed on his mind.
Every creature is a word of God.
No-one knows what the soul is...But what we do know is, the soul is where God works compassion.
The outward man is the swinging door; the inner man is the still hinge.
What we plant in the soil of contemplation, we shall reap in the harvest of action.

Sunday, May 15, 2016


by Karen Lynn Krugh

In my view, a study of one's childhood does tell more than anything else about one's whole life," said Caryll Houselander, commenting on her autobiography, "A Rocking-Horse Catholic."

"I mean that in the childhood lies the whole life, hidden like the life of a flower or a tree in the seed. Certainly we can't always read its secrets, but they are there."

Caryll Houselander, perhaps the most popular spiritual writer of her day, had an unusually difficult childhood, due both to lingering poor health and the strained relationship she had with her parents.

But it was precisely this time of trial that paved the way for her career, as a writer, artist, poet, mystic and amateur healer of neurotics. Houselander used the unique insight she had gained not only to peer into the lives of others, but into the life of Christ, and even into her own soul.

Today, many of her classic works, most notably "Wood of the Cradle, Wood of the Cross" (formerly the "Passion of the Infant Jesus") are getting a new read. Composed with the mind of an artist and the sensitivity of one exposed, not just to the struggle of an unhappy childhood, but also to the horrors of war, Houselander's books speak movingly to people of any age of the virtues of faith, hope and charity.

Frances Caryll Houselander was born in England to Gertrude Provis and Willmott Houselander on Oct. 29, 1901, the second of two daughters, and was considerably unlike the outgoing, attractive and athletic parents who bore her.

She was not expected to survive for more than a day, and so was baptized in haste at the insistence of her uncle, a gynecologist who assisted with the birth.

She was named after this uncle, and the yacht, "Caryll," upon which her mother had spent the last several months of her pregnancy. She went on to survive her first day, and indeed many more after that, though her health continued to be poor throughout her life.

When Houselander was 6 years old, a family friend persuaded Gertrude to have the children baptized Catholic, though the practice of the faith did not begin until some years later.

It was from this late entrance into the Church that Houselander fashioned the name of her autobiography, as she was more accurately a "rocking-horse Catholic" than she was a "cradle Catholic."

No formal religious education followed her reception into the Church, though her mother did require a strict piety from the girls, forcing them to construct small altars and repeat endless prayers for the benefit of visiting clergy.

Amidst this forced digestion of beliefs, Caryll developed an intense love for the Lord, which ultimately led her to seek, on her own, the earliest possible reception of her first Communion. And so at the age of 7, on the feast of the Precious Blood, she made her first Confession and received her first Communion.

Houselander greatly desired to frequent the sacraments, but a sudden and serious, though mysterious, illness put her in bed for months. Though she begged to receive the Eucharist, it was not until she seemed to be approaching death that her mother brought in a priest to administer last rites to the child.

Immediately upon receiving the Blessed Sacrament, she sat up and recovered, leading those present, her mother and the priest included, to question the legitimacy of her illness. For Houselander, however, it was the beginning of a lifelong love for Christ and for His Church.
When she was 9, her world was shattered when her parents announced their intention to divorce. Though they were never formally divorced, the separation which began at this time was to be a permanent one. For the next several years, she changed homes and schools, never fully settling in one place before she was moved to the next.

Her erratic health in various convent schools had led her doctors to advise that she avoid all class work, and, amazingly, the schools agreed. Thus, apart from the philosophical espousals of a family friend, whom the children lovingly referred to as "Smoky," by the time Houselander returned home in 1917, her formal education was virtually nonexistent.

She was a mystic, and the first of three visions came during her years in the convent schools while she was still a young girl. Though they varied greatly in imagery, the substance remained the same. Over and over again, she was being called to see Christ in all people. This principle would permeate all of her work, of writing, counseling, sculpting and volunteering.

Having survived London's Zeppelin raids in World War I, Houselander returned again to school, receiving a full scholarship for art school. It was during this period that she drifted from the Catholic Church for the only time in her life.

She soon found that no other religion could take the place of that which she had grown to love, and yearning again for the Eucharist, she returned to the Catholic Church at age 24.

Through her confessor, she quickly came into the friendship of Father Bliss, editor of The Messenger of the Sacred Heart and The Children's Messenger, who advised her to put away all other efforts and concentrate on her writing.

Houselander soon began to do articles and illustrations for his magazines, which ultimately led to her making the acquaintance of Frank Sheed and Maisie Ward. Sheed and Ward would become the largest publishers of Houselander's books.

Through her prolific articles and books, Houselander gained tremendous popularity and acclaim, a status she would have never sought for herself. Always one to open her home and her heart to those in need, she was frequently overwhelmed physically, emotionally and mentally by those who sought her for counsel and spiritual direction, yet she remained reluctant, despite illness or exhaustion, to turn people away.

She did on occasion seek refuge in the countryside, but she always found herself migrating back to London, invariably the place where she would be most beset by these callers. Msgr. Ronald Knox, a contemporary, and admirer of Houselander, recognized her tremendous gift of insight.

"She seemed," he said, "to see everything for the first time, and the driest of doctrinal considerations shone out like a restored picture when she had finished with it."

Her popularity and success in healing the hurts and the hearts of many became a formal work when Dr. Strauss, later President of the British Psychological Society, began to send patients to her for healing. Her gift? "She loved them back to life," he said.

Houselander seemed to possess a well that never ran dry for anyone but herself. She gave of her food to feed the hungry, her time to counsel those in need, her energy to write countless letters, articles and books, and ultimately her health for the health and well-being of others.

She spent years attending to the rigorous demands of her ailing parents, and, having been plagued by ill health her entire life, had become accustomed to pain and slow to address her own physical ailments.

Her lack of self-concern, however, which extended to everything from her looks, to her diet, her sleep, her health, her living quarters, etc., became her doom when she was diagnosed with breast cancer, the same disease that had just taken her mother.

During her last years, Houselander worked tirelessly to complete books, write letters, strengthen the works of charity she had begun, and minister to the many mentally ill children who were sent her way. She died on Oct. 12, 1954, after a prolonged period of suffering.

Tuesday, May 3, 2016


Caryll Houselander (1901-1954) was a British mystic, poet and spiritual teacher who wore a pair of big round tortoiseshell glasses, and lived in London during the Blitz, and her whole life, till she died at 53 from breast cancer, apparently barely slept or ate.

A friend observed: “She used to cover her face with some abominable chalky-white substance which gave it quite often a the tragic look one associates with clowns and great comedians.”

From the dustjacket of her 1951 book Guilt: “Caryll Houselander lives on the top floor of a high apartment building. Her rooms are color-washed, bare but for the essential furniture, many books, and two or three gleaming ikons: the windows look out on a view of the city.

As well as writing, Miss Houselander’s interests include working with children, wood carving, drawing and painting, and the study of Jungian psychology, Hebrew, and Russian spirituality.”

How can you not want to meet this woman?

Guilt has several short (3-4 page) reflections, plus grainy black-and-white pulsatingly weird head shots of, among others, Leopold and Loeb, Peter Kürten (the Monster of Düsseldorf), Hans Christian Andersen, Rimbaud, and St. Thérèse of Lisieux.

Rilke, who according to Caryll, did not fulfill his potential, neglected his wife and daughter, and turned into a mooch of rich dowager benefactresses to whom he could, eventually, no longer deign to speak, merits no photo at all.

Kafka’s photo is heartbreaking. He’s probably 4, and has been dressed in a vaguely military velvet pantsuit. In his left hand he clutches a broad-brimmed hat many sizes too large for his head, in his right he carries a kind of plume-topped baton, and he has been made to stand before one of those dreadful aspidistra-draped Victorian backdrops.

His little feet are smartly shod in pumps with grosgrain bows, one tiny elbow rests awkwardly on a plant stand, his hair is neatly parted in the middle, exactly as it is in that photo on the front of Collected Letters where he looks uncannily like an insect, and the eyes—the eyes whose depths are already suffused with the pain of the ineffective mother and the father who all his life he would loathe, fear, resent and adore—plead mutely, desperately, without hope, for help.

Caryll swore, drank, had an affinity for wounded children (her own childhood was nightmarish), was a Catholic convert, and wrote many books on spirituality, among them The Reed of God, A Rocking-Horse Catholic, and The Risen Christ.

"[Christ] did not teach in terms of right and wrong, but of joy and sorrow. Blessed…joyful, are the poor in spirit; woe, sorrow, to you rich. The only answer to the mechanical masses [i.e. the attractive, healthy, energetic, let’s-get-things-done folks] is the saint, for the saint is the only true individual, and in him we see Christ, and see His values, not as something forced on us by school teachers, but as something to envy.

Take St. Francis of Assisi, whom the whole world, not Catholics only, thinks of in connection with poverty. He lived in an age as worldly as ours; times change, but human nature never. St. Francis changed the outlook and the lives of countless people, not by scolding them, but by showing them, not by being a reformer, but by being a poor little man in love with all created loveliness.

The reason is so simple: he reflected on Christ, on whom his eyes were fixed; and when he lifted up his arms in ecstasy to receive his Lord’s wounds in his own body, the shadow that he cast on the white roads of Italy was the cruciform shadow of Christ."

--Caryll Houselander, from the novel A The Dry Wood:

"[The grain of wheat] must be buried in earth, that is, in us, who are made from the earth. The seed of Christ is not buried in angels, but in men. It is to flower and bear fruit through human experience: through our loves, our work, our sorrows, our joys, our temptations. It is to be literally our living and our dying.

We are the soil of the divine seed; there is no other. The flowering of Christ in us does not depend upon pious exercises, on good works outside our daily life, on an amateur practice of religion in our leisure time. It is in the marrow of our bones, in the experience of our daily life.

The seed is in darkness: the darkness of sorrow, the darkness of faith." --Caryll Houselander, from I don't know where *** From That Divine Eccentric, Maisie Ward's autobiography of Houselander:*

"The sure cure for bitterness, Caryll comments, is to pray and do penance for the person: love will grow in proportion. “It is not according to how much penance I do or how many prayers I say, but how much love I put into it.”

In a little country church she heard a priest preach on the Eucharist—and his teaching seemed somehow the more memorable because he was hideously ugly—resembling, said Caryll, “a florid pig.” He died a few weeks later. “Between the sermon and his death I was one day talking to him.

I was running someone down, saying beastly things of him. Suddenly I noticed that his eyes were shut. “You are not listening,’ I said. He replied, ‘I cannot—not to that; you see we are both present at the Mass. Whilst you were trying to make me think ill of X, Christ our Lord was offering Himself up to God to redeem them’”

“But we are not at Mass,” I said…and he said, “When your thoughts are hard or bitter or sad, let the sanctuary bell silence them. It is always ringing.”

“When you have done something really healing,” she wrote to a friend, “it happens so often that the only way you know it at first is by your own feeling of emptiness. Even Our Lord experienced this; when the woman who touched the hem of His garment was healed, He knew it by the sense of something having gone out of Him, an emptying ‘[power] has gone out of Me.’

It is the same for His followers—we know the moment of healing, not yet evident, not by exaltation and triumph but by emptiness and a sense of failure! That demands huge faith, but you have it!”

By the “huge faith” required of us she meant the faith that we can throw ourselves totally on Christ. But even He needed to pray to His Father in a desert place apart; to commune with His special friends, His Apostles; to leave the crowd that thronged and pressed around Him for their healing—and from curiosity.

As members of Christ’s Mystical Body we owe to our fellows what help we can give them, but we do not owe to them neglect of our work, or our prayer, of others who may need us more. We do not owe our time to those who want merely to waste it. If Caryll had attempted to help everybody who came, she would have ended by helping nobody."

Monday, April 25, 2016



None of us can claim to have mastered perfectly the virtue of patience. We think we have made a major victory in acquiring patience, and then, out of the blue and taken by surprise, we explode! Our illusion of being the most patient person in the world went up in smoke!

Patience is so important that Jesus Christ, our model in all virtues, said: “By your patience you will save your souls.” One pious soul prayed in desperation: “Lord, give me patience and right now!” Maybe this has been your prayer for the last few years!

Our patience can be tested by various times and circumstances, in season and out of season. The failure of health, economic set-backs, family members that could put the holy Job to the test, weather extremes, failed and broken relationships, and even God. Sometimes it seems as if God is extremely distant, does not seem to hear my prayers, or at least seems to be uninterested or indifferent to my pleadings. All of the above can try my patience.

What then are ways that we can acquire the all-important virtue of patience, that as Jesus reminds us, is necessary for the salvation of our immortal souls? We will offer five concrete ways that we can attain patience.


St. Ignatius insists that we must beg for grace. St. Augustine humbly reminds us that we are all beggars before God. God is willing to give if we simply persevere in asking Him. Remember the persistent widow who gained the favor of the callous and cold-hearted judge for the simple reason that she kept begging for his help. “Ask and you will receive; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you.” (Mt. 7:7)


Jesus said, “I am the Way, the Truth, and the Life. No one comes to the Father except through me.” There is a saying: “Tell me with whom you associate and I will tell you who you are.” If we spend time meditating on the Gospels and the words, gestures, and actions of Jesus, then it will rub off on us. We will start to imitate Jesus more and more and specifically in the virtue of patience.


Many saints had a magnetic drawing of their hearts to read and meditate upon the greatest love story in the world. “No greater love than to die for the loved ones.” A constant meditation on the Passion, suffering, crucifixion, and death of Jesus can prove to be an infinite source of blessings and key to open up the door of patience to the most hardened of hearts.


Then when the trials descend upon us like a torrential deluge, call to mind some element of the Passion of Christ, either from the Gospels, or the works of writers such as Anne Catherine Emmerick. The trial will be viewed in a more universal and supernatural perspective.

The trial that has visited me indeed is very painful, but, in comparison to what Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ has gone through, it is a mere trifle. Also I suffer trials partially as a result of my own sinfulness and sinful past, but Jesus suffered the most excruciating pains being the epitome and essence of Innocence.

We can all choose one element or detail of the Passion of Christ that seems to have struck us most and elicit this scene when my patience is put to the bitter test! The love of Jesus can move me to carry patiently the most burdensome crosses! As St. Paul states: “The love of Christ compels us.”


One essential element in Mel Gibson’s The Passion of the Christ was the presence of the Blessed Virgin Mary throughout the entire course of the film. Only second to Jesus was Mary in the intensity of suffering.

The film portrays Our Lady of Sorrows along the way of Calvary accompanying Jesus in His most bitter trial. Mary stood at the foot of the cross, patience to a heroic degree.

Mary practiced patience her whole life: travelling to Bethlehem, fleeing to Egypt, seeking out her lost Son for three long days, losing her beloved husband Saint Joseph, and accompanying her beloved Son Jesus, seeing Him crucified, and staying with Him until He drew His last, dying breath.

When our patience is put to the test, then we should lift up our eyes, mind, heart and soul to Our Lady, and she will acquire for us heroic patience.

All of us struggle on a daily basis to be patient with others, with ourselves, with circumstances and, at times, even with God. Patience is so essential to our lives that Jesus even said: “By your patience you will save your souls.” Let us use the arms we have in our arsenal to attain the all-important virtue of patience.

Let us pray as beggars to the most generous giver, God. Let us draw close to Jesus the “Holy of Holies”. Let us meditate on the Passion of Christ and when opportunities to practice patience surface, to call to mind all that Jesus suffered for the world and for me. Finally, may Our Lady of Sorrows attain for me a meek, humble and patient heart!

Saturday, April 16, 2016


The Danish philosopher Soren Kierkegaard said that “just as important as the truth, and of the two the even more important one, is the mode in which the truth is accepted, and it is of slight help if one gets millions to accept the truth if by the very mode of their acceptance they are transposed into untruth.”

God hides himself so we will come to him in the right mode. He is not an object. He is not an old man in the sky, available to our observation, nor a slight grease on the surface of all things, available to our scientific probing. God is love. What merit is it to know of God’s existence as a man knows the existence of his right foot?

God doesn’t want our observation, nor our pitiful attempts to “prove” his existence — he wants our love. He wants to be known in truth, as he is, as love, which is only known in the act of loving.

If we’re going to speak of “knowing” God at all, we must mean to know him in such a way that we infinitely strive for him, in which our knowledge and our panting after him are one in the same, for love is not known disinterestedly, rather, love is interest. We cannot know God cooly, as an object is known.

The knowledge of this tree or that apple sets myself and the object apart. I and the tree are divided into the categories of observer and object, because all knowledge is knowledge of something — some thing we refer to — apart from ourselves. But God is not a thing.

God is love, and love will tolerate no separation. Observation brings certainty. We see the tree and are certain of it. Our relationship is simple, call it I-thing. But with God, what’s needed is precisely uncertainty.

Uncertainties are known — not by knowledge, for knowledge attains certainty and thus eradicates uncertainty — but by belief, and belief always has the quality of hurling us upon another person.

For instance, my father calls, and before he hangs up, he says “I love you.” I do not know this to be an objective fact. I do not observe it with the certainty I observe the tree, because the words “I love you,” are an outward expression of my father’s subjective, interior life — a life I cannot know.

From my perspective, his kindness to me may have been born out of no more than duty, the pressures of his surrounding moral society, or the desire to raise a child in such a manner that he does not become an embarrassment.

In short, the words “I love you” may not be true, and no objective knowledge can eradicate their uncertainty. Even if I were to add up all the constituent parts — his expression, his tone, our history, etc. — I could not arrive — with objective certainty — at the conclusion, “Yes, it all adds up to love,” and this is apparent in the fact that no one bothers to engage in such arithmetic.

I cannot know love as an objective fact, existing outside of myself and available to my objective verification. I can only believe in it.

But this is the point! My believing in the love of my father and my entering into that love are one in the same, for in believing — which embraces the uncertainty precisely as an uncertainty — I fling myself entirely on him. I trust in his word. I trust him as I would myself.

This blurring of he and the I in the moment of love’s expression; this taking on of the other’s hidden, subjective, interior life as if it were my own; this taking for myself as true what only he can know is true — this is love.

In believing I participate in the life of the one I trust to believe. What a pitiful, boring world which elevates objective knowledge over belief! By belief I attain a greater certainty of what cannot be known than the certainty I have of those things that can.

Now we approach, with trembling hearts, the infinite uncertainty of God himself. God is invisible, and this terrible absence, this awful gap in our ability to attain certainty, and this necessary possibility of atheism is also the way in which we come to know God as he is, in truth and in right relation to him.

By being objectively uncertain, yet communicating himself to us in beauty, in truth, in the goodness that inexplicably guides our lives, and ultimately in the fullness of revelation, through his only begotten Son, he offers us a qualitatively different type of certainty that would not be possible were he visible in the way a tree is visible.

He gives us he opportunity to believe, to know him in such a manner that our knowledge of him is simultaneously a total reliance on him, indeed that our “knowledge” — which we should refer to as faith, for it maintains the objective uncertainty by never rendering Eternity objectively visible — is a participation in the life of God himself.

“If God had taken the for, for example, of a rare, enormously large green bird, with a red beak, that perched in a tree on the embankment and perhaps even whistled in an unprecedented manner–then [the modern man] surely would have had his eyes opened,” says Kierkegaard, but then we would not have related to him in truth, but in untruth. But since God is hidden, we must believe, and in belief we approach God in truth, as we approach love.

That this is truly the proper mode for “knowing God” seem evident in that difference between belief and simply knowing a visible something is that the former requires eternity while the latter requires a moment. Once the green bird is seen, it is known. No further effort is required. We may walk away from the embankment, close our eyes, and still know that the green bird exists.

All that was required was the singular moment of perception. But when it is precisely an objective uncertainty that is being offered, an invisible reality expressed to us, the effort to know this uncertainty must be an eternal effort. At no point do we master God. At no point can we walk away.

At no point do we attain a certainty by which we are “finished” with the project of belief. Belief is knowledge that comes from a participation in the life of another, and thus our belief in God only remains insofar as we, in every moment of our life, actively participate in the life of God. “I must continually see to it that I hold fast to the objective uncertainty, see to it that in the objective uncertainty I am “out on 70,000 fathoms of water” and still have faith.”

This is precisely why the Christian says he is saved through faith. To be saved means to become the self who you are, the self you are for all eternity, and only by faith do eternal selves act eternally. Only by faith do we participate in the self-offering of God, do we freely and eternally participate in the life of Love himself, do we attain that reality which, in religious tradition, is referred to as Salvation, or Heaven.
But this is hardly a distant mystery: As goes life so goes love, for there are few distinctions between the two. The words “I love you” — spoken in truth and by their very nature — tend towards relationships that last forever. Man and woman marry to express with a lifetime what cannot be expressed in a moment.

The one requirement of erotic love is faithfulness, not simply in reaction to the evil of its opposite, which we call adultery, but because the very essence of love is belief in the other, a participation that renders adultery unthinkable.

Theirs the eternal, theirs the ritual, theirs the belief in the other’s love that is simultaneously a participation in that love.

And what lovers would prefer objective knowledge over the infinite strive of faith? What lovers would demand the singular moment that forever establishes certainty over a lifetime of active love, over the ecstatic comedy of forever proving the unprovable and rendering visible the ever-invisible?

God wants us to relate to him in love, for only by relating to God in love do we relate to him as he is — love himself — and only in this relation are our finite frames expanded and exploded with the infinite. God does not want our validation of his existence any more than the lover wants the beloved to simply say “You exist.” He wants us all swept up in love, forever and ever, amen.