There Is No Accident In

The Man Who Partakes In The Breaking Of The Bread Dares To Build His House On The Very Core Of Love. He Becomes, As It Were, Godlike, But Regardless Of The Strength He Derives From It, His Free Will Remains. We Are Always Free To Disown This Immense Grace, To Abuse It. The Greatest Love May Be Betrayed. Fed On The Living Bread, We Nevertheless Conceal A Part Of Ourselves Which Longs For Swine's Food.

It Seems That, After Nineteen Centuries Of Extraordinary Glorification, The Small Host For Which So Many Cathedrals Have Sprung Up, The Small Host That Has Rested In Millions Of Breasts And That Has Found A Tabernacle And Worshippers Even In The Desert - It Seems That The Triumphant Host Of Lourdes And The Eucharistic Congresses Of Chicago And Carthage Remains As Unknown, As Secret As When It Appeared For The First Time In A Room In Jerusalem. Light Is In The World As In The Days Of St. John The Baptist, And The World Does Not Know It

If You Would Tell Me The Heart Of A Man, Tell Me Not What He Reads, But What He Rereads.

Let Us Be Wary Of Ready-made Ideas About Cowardice And Courage: The Same Burden Weighs Infinitely More Heavily On Some Shoulders Than On Others.

Tell Me What You Read And I'll Tell You Who You Are Is True Enough, But I'd Know You Better If You Told Me What You Reread.