By Henry Aloysius Barry
A difficult one, indeed, to cultivate, but, ah, so Christlike! It enlarges one's sphere of usefulness. It opens up to us hearts now shut, opportunities now closed against us and subdues the hatred of enemies whilst it realizes, in so far as it depends upon us, the work of the Holy Ghost in the Church.—"One heart and one mind." I am selfish, petty, congested even after having studied the wonders of the immense ideal, Jesus Christ, for so many years. I see no merit but that which is identified with myself, have no eye but for my own interests or those of my immediate spiritual family or friends. This, indeed, is to be small-circled. I persuade myself, however, that I love God. I affect to believe that I really do. I tell this to God, but yet I am not speaking the objective truth.
Who is selfish and indifferent to his neighbour cannot be fervid toward God. So far we have been speaking of organic charity. Raise, my friend, your luxurious lamp-shade, let the light of the Holy Ghost be diffused around you and pierce the gloom that lowers over a vast, indifferent world; let it illumine the dark underground ways, the misery and shame where so many outcasts, waifs, inebriates, paupers and murderers lie submerged. The Son of Man came for such; He bled for such; He died for such. These are members of His family.
Their heritage is our love. If we have disinherited them, Christ has not. We have pondered the sad condition, the dire extremity of need in the individual sinner. One has enough to do to look after one's self. This is your answer to God when He questions you upon the affairs of your brother. The world has overcome you and has dragged you down to its own shocking, atrocious level. Tucked away in our blankets, in cozy quarters with steam heat— let the night-wind whistle and moan, what have we to do with the pale, starving orphan, with the shivering foundling or the dying, homeless wretch, who perishes on our steps? What have we to do with the widow in the cold, damp cellar,—nothing short of a germ-incubator, with the meagre butt of a tallow candle to heat the cold heart of December and scorch the remnant of beef or mutton begged at the butcher's, and kept on one side by the butcher for his customers' dogs and cast to the mendicant with a scowl, aye, flung to her as to a human dog. Oh, we have no pity for such cases as we never think of such things. God does. No blackness of the night veils it from Him. The personnel of these tragedies are His children, begotten in blood and tears. They are our brothers, . but we disown them. Lamb of God I hear Thy bleatings.
The poor and sinful stretch out their hands for the softness of Thy fleece, for the warmth of Thy mouth. Alas, how often the world answers the cry with frost and stones. The Master knows it well; "He came to His own and His own received Him not." What did the well-housed guests care for His Mother, when the young Jewish woman and her humble carpenter-spouse could find no shelter and had to turn toward the mountains to find a birthplace for the Son of God? They themselves were provided for, their concerns ended there. Selfish minds want no bother, they want ease. The sufferings of others make no impression on them. They sleep like tops and eat like buzzards and will have none of that which mars the sublime brutality of their lives.
A difficult one, indeed, to cultivate, but, ah, so Christlike! It enlarges one's sphere of usefulness. It opens up to us hearts now shut, opportunities now closed against us and subdues the hatred of enemies whilst it realizes, in so far as it depends upon us, the work of the Holy Ghost in the Church.—"One heart and one mind." I am selfish, petty, congested even after having studied the wonders of the immense ideal, Jesus Christ, for so many years. I see no merit but that which is identified with myself, have no eye but for my own interests or those of my immediate spiritual family or friends. This, indeed, is to be small-circled. I persuade myself, however, that I love God. I affect to believe that I really do. I tell this to God, but yet I am not speaking the objective truth.
Who is selfish and indifferent to his neighbour cannot be fervid toward God. So far we have been speaking of organic charity. Raise, my friend, your luxurious lamp-shade, let the light of the Holy Ghost be diffused around you and pierce the gloom that lowers over a vast, indifferent world; let it illumine the dark underground ways, the misery and shame where so many outcasts, waifs, inebriates, paupers and murderers lie submerged. The Son of Man came for such; He bled for such; He died for such. These are members of His family.
Their heritage is our love. If we have disinherited them, Christ has not. We have pondered the sad condition, the dire extremity of need in the individual sinner. One has enough to do to look after one's self. This is your answer to God when He questions you upon the affairs of your brother. The world has overcome you and has dragged you down to its own shocking, atrocious level. Tucked away in our blankets, in cozy quarters with steam heat— let the night-wind whistle and moan, what have we to do with the pale, starving orphan, with the shivering foundling or the dying, homeless wretch, who perishes on our steps? What have we to do with the widow in the cold, damp cellar,—nothing short of a germ-incubator, with the meagre butt of a tallow candle to heat the cold heart of December and scorch the remnant of beef or mutton begged at the butcher's, and kept on one side by the butcher for his customers' dogs and cast to the mendicant with a scowl, aye, flung to her as to a human dog. Oh, we have no pity for such cases as we never think of such things. God does. No blackness of the night veils it from Him. The personnel of these tragedies are His children, begotten in blood and tears. They are our brothers, . but we disown them. Lamb of God I hear Thy bleatings.
The poor and sinful stretch out their hands for the softness of Thy fleece, for the warmth of Thy mouth. Alas, how often the world answers the cry with frost and stones. The Master knows it well; "He came to His own and His own received Him not." What did the well-housed guests care for His Mother, when the young Jewish woman and her humble carpenter-spouse could find no shelter and had to turn toward the mountains to find a birthplace for the Son of God? They themselves were provided for, their concerns ended there. Selfish minds want no bother, they want ease. The sufferings of others make no impression on them. They sleep like tops and eat like buzzards and will have none of that which mars the sublime brutality of their lives.
