The only way out of this illusory world is through the Mercy of a living, enlightened Master.
The only way out of this illusory world is through the Mercy of a living, enlightened Master.
Prayer for the Souls in Purgatory !✝️🙏
#jesus #god #holyspirit #king #savior #france #europe #usa #america #russia #africa #asia #world #photography #church #religion #soul #marie #mercy #heaven #grace #purgatory
Father, I offer You the Most Precious Blood of Your Divine Son Jesus, in union with all the Masses celebrated today throughout the world,
for all the souls in Purgatory, for sinners everywhere,
for sinners in the universal Church,
for those in my home and among my loved ones.
Amen
William Burkitt, #Anglican vicar, says Colossians tells us to put on mercy like clothing—visible compassion you feel right in your “bowels,” which thankfully meant kindness back then, not digestive trouble. Awkward, because people can see it. Today we act as if holiness and mercy clash, choosing irritation instead. Burkitt says mercy isn’t optional—it’s the outfit.
Impermanence
I realised not long ago that I have tended for most of my life – albeit unconsciously – to reckon the worth of things by how long they are likely to last; and this despite the fact that so many things I love and whose presence gives meaning to my own life – small plants, lively insects, the changing skies, the seasons of the year – are ephemeral by their very nature, and they last only moments, days or weeks or months, before reaching an end implicit in their merely being what they are. I love humans, too, I realised, for who they are not for what they might achieve; and humans don’t last long compared with trees, or with the rock formations that are such striking and ancient companions of ours in this part of the country.
The worth of something, as I had unthinkingly valued it, is its essence: the thing that exists, persists, being the thing itself. It is an illusion: phenomena, any phenomena, are empty, surely, of any such essence. They are merely what they are, and that in relation to all else that is, to the shifting patterns on the bright skin of the stream, “the ever-transforming patterns of the cosmos as a whole.” (Reninger) It’s clinging to this idea of essence that gives rise to our constant craving, our helpless longing for permanence that is the growth-point for the whole tragic enterprise of human pride – the error of Ozymandias.
We are frail, and temporary, and lovely; we are precious as all life is precious, and our loveliness, like the loveliness of all that lives, is in our fleetingness. The points of light on the sparkling water last an instant – their beauty is in that. Death is implicit in being born; life would not be possible without it, and it is a loyal friend to the living. All we need is to sit still, and watch the emptiness of separate things; the delicious freshness of impermanence itself will come by like the scent of flowers through an open window in summer. Death will come and sit on the end of our bed, and fill his pipe, and talk to us of life; and all will be well, and all manner of things will be well.
#aging #awareness #contemplative #death #ElizabethReninger #JulianOfNorwich #love #mercy #TerryPratchett
Knight in Flying Armor
Robert Bolton, English Puritan, sounds almost disappointed with himself: he hasn’t scolded hard enough. He thinks he’s living in flinty times—cruel, grasping, and merciless—and wishes he could strike hearts until some spring of compassion finally cracked through. Greed, he warns, isn’t a minor flaw but a soul-level danger. One wonders, reading this, whether such an age has really passed—or whether self-examination is still painfully relevant.