By Henry Aloysius Barry
It has been said that the Father has not the relative perfection of the Son. This of course would imply that the Holy Ghost has not the relative perfection of the Father and Son. St. Bonaventure furnishes the answer to this,—"there is unity of nature and plurality of persons, and there is as much in unity as in plurality, only not in so many ways. (Dis. 19, Part 2nd, 2. 1. Ad. 3). The Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost are the—the essence of Godhead, each in his own way or relationship. The Holy Ghost is not, properly speaking, dependent—He is God. His dependence involves no imperfection. The Holy Ghost is necessary from the necessary perfection of the divine nature and His dependence is not that of the indigent and imperfect, but only such a one as arises from the exigencies of perfection.
Let us pause again to feed the heart, to assimilate the fruits of such knowledge as we have plucked from the vine and flower-clad slopes of Sion. Is my religious character, is my relationship with God solid and substantial? Is my religion rather an emotion? Is it of the weathervane order of things, fluctuating, fickle, moody, inconstant, blithe and merry to-day, smiling with the sun, and, tomorrow, under the black, bleak sky, sullen, grumpy, miserable and even bitter, helpless as a detached leaf, the dupe of every current—naturalistic? Do I go late to my exercises, fulfilling them in a halfhearted, pouting, scuffling manner, as it were, simply because I am not in the mood? Are incense, vestments, lighted candles and the exterior paraphernalia or outward trappings of religion the ground where I drop anchor? This is religious epicurism, sometimes found in neophytes—a system which may tend to one's withdrawing from the religious food when the taste—subjectively, of course—loses its flavor. Do I mistake the thurifer's fragrant breath for dogma— symbolism for the symbolized? Alas! does not sense but too often affect the current of my religious life, whereas "truth" and '-principle" should unalterably govern my life and reason, illumined by faith, should be the sheet-anchor of my soul, its constant guide, its unwavering master. Do I correct, discipline, watch and temper my imagination with the emotional nature and so restrain and direct it as to make it the handmaid of reason and faith and not the insolent, giddy and fickle mistress of my soul, the tyrannical directress of my life? Do I lose the message of the song in the beauty of the singer's art? Am I feeding my soul on the sensuous vibrations and losing the melody of virtue or the inspiration of the soul? Does the "idea" appeal to me, impress me and captivate my mind—ah, it is the human in me and that alone that is touched; or has the music of the church choir, for example, fastened on my soul, more tightly, the sweetness, the beauties of paradise, the tenderness of God? Has it touched me in its tremolo with the melancholy of the human struggle, the vanity of human things? Has it made the martial spirit in me tingle with the strength to win? Has the thunder of sounds when the stops are out portrayed God's majesty so as to excite my soul with the message of creation? has it, I say, illumined the mind and made the will more determined? What a beautiful christian lesson is pictured for us in the huge ocean greyhound! It keeps its prow steadily pointed to its destination— onward, ever onward, to the destined port, through calm, blue waters, through mountainous billows, through dense blinding mists and the inky darkness of the moonless, starless night. She heeds not the waters nor the howling winds that challenge her course, she minds not their caresses nor their rage, she does not fear them because she does not trust them, obedient to the compass the pilot directs her steadily onward. Obsequious, in turn, she cuts through avalanche after avalanche of billow, through storm, sleet and black night combined.
The sailing ship has also her compass, but she has to compromise with the wind and, as it were, humor her caprice; often the wind and wave demand more of her, aye, all of her. The great power of steam and electricity has conquered Neptune, subdued nature — symbols of the new force in our life, of the new, the christian life of blood, sorrow and tears, a trying life, admitted to be so by Our Lord, by implication, when He promised us the Paraclete — the Comforter! The power of the Holy Ghost is within us. Faith, the Sacraments of the Church, prayer and good works will keep the furnace at work and put steam in the boiler; they will keep the dynamo in operation to supply the spiritual voltage by which we will prosecute a steadfast, dogged course in our spiritual life and pass triumphantly through the storm and the night and the hail. This inward steam and electric power, the idea of ship and compass, of wind and wave and sweet recompense of a speedy, safe voyage may be found delineated in the homily of St. Augustine: "All the glory of the King's daughter is within " — here is the all-conquering force, divine grace. "For from without mishap, persecution and distractions await us." Here we discern the stormy sea of the christian life, "out of which, however, a high reward in heaven emanates, one that bestirs the heart of the daring, that is to say, of such as may exclaim, we exult in our tribulations 'knowing '— not feeling merely, not surmising, not fancying, nor opining with doubt's vacillating, weak, reluctant purpose, nay, 'knowing' — here is the compass —' knowing' that tribulation worketh patience, and patience worketh proof; in other words, as wave hurls the ship upon other wave ever forward," proof however worketh hope and hope doth not deceive, because the charity of God is poured abroad in our hearts by the Holy Ghost Who is given unto us (Ex. lib. 1. de sen. Dom. in. mont. Cap. v.) "Hope does not deceive," when it springs from the charity of God, when our spiritual compass is lodged in the heart and mind, and not merely stayed upon sensuous emotionality.
