Altar Prayer Quotes

Everywhere, wherever you may find yourself, you can set up an altar to God in your mind by means of prayer.

May our effort, confidence and concern for others be the altar from which we pray for personal abundance.

In My Soul In my soul there is a temple, a shrine, a mosque, a church where I kneel. Prayer should bring us to an altar where no walls or names exist. Is there not a region of love where the sovereignty is illumined nothing, where ecstasy gets poured into itself and becomes lost, where the wing is fully alive but has no mind or body? In my soul there is a temple, a shrine, a mosque, a church that dissolve, that dissolve in God.

At the altar of the tree, I make a thousand soundless prayers and offerings, beg whoever’s listening to align our stars and let him be who I thought he was. If he can’t be that, I pray, may I be free of him and not have it kill me.

Nothing tamed or broke her, nothing touched her, neither kindness, nor scorn, nor hatred, nor love. She had never thought of prayer. It was unimaginable that she would ever bend her knees and come crawling along a dusty floor to anybody’s altar, weeping for forgiveness. Perhaps her sin was so extreme that it could not be forgiven; perhaps her pride was so great that she did not need forgiveness. She had fallen from that high estate which God had intended for men and women, and she made her fall glorious because it was so complete.

The best way to get quiet, other than the combination of extensive therapy, Prozac, and a lobotomy, is first to notice that the station is on. KFKD [K-Fucked] is on every single morning when I sit down at my desk. So I sit for a moment and then say a small prayer--please help me get out of the way so I can write what wants to be written. Sometimes ritual quiets the racket. Try it. Any number of things may work for you--an altar, for instance, or votive candles, sage smudges, small-animal sacrifices, especially now that the Supreme Court has legalized them.

My heart an altar, and Thy love the flame.

Every morning I was renewed, though. Air and light healed me, over and over. I got to where I depended on it. When I was feeling my worst, I would step out into the yard and put my hands on the branches of the little redbud. It made me feel like I was saying a prayer, to do this. I know that sounds like foolishness, but that little tree was like an altar for me. I stood there in the cold of early winter, wishing for the redbud to bear leaves so that I might put my face against them.

But simple as the Sign of the Cross is, it carries a brave weight: it names the Trinity, celebrates the Creator, and brings home all the power of faith to the brush of fingers on skin and bone and belly. So do we, sometimes well and sometimes ill, labor to bring home our belief in God's love to the stuff of our daily lives, the skin and bone of this world — and the Sign of the Cross helps us to remember that we have a Companion on the road.

Some would call it tolerance, I said. Yes he replied, the same tolerance that overtook ancient Israel..a tolerance for everything opposed to God, a growing tolerance for immorality and a growing intolerance for the pure-a tolerance that mocked, marginalized and condemned those who ramined faithful to the values now being discarded. Innocence was ridiculed and virtue was vilified. Children were taught of sexual immorality in public schools while the Word of God was banned. It was a tolerance that put the profane on public display and removed nativity scenes from public sight..contraband, as if somehow they had become a threat-a strangely intolerant tolerance. "But still, I countered, how does all that compare to what happened in ancient Israel? America does'nt offer its children on altars of sacrifice? "Does it not? he said. Ten years after removing prayer and Scripture from its public schools, the nation legalized the illing of its unborn.

To be a Christian without prayer is no more possible than to be alive without breathing. — Martin Luther King Jr.

Did they know that he stood on the bow every morning, noon, and night for an hour...this prayer of thanks to a God more a God than any to be found in book-bound, altar-bound Religion?

Isabel took a drive alone that afternoon; she wished to be far away, under the sky, where she could descend from her carriage and tread upon the daisies. She had long before this taken old Rome into her confidence, for in a world of ruins the ruin of her happiness seemed a less unnatural catastrophe. She rested her weariness upon things that had crumbled for centuries and yet still were upright; she dropped her secret sadness into the silence of lonely places, where its very modern quality detached itself and grew objective, so that as she sat in a sun-warmed angle on a winter's day, or stood in a mouldy church to which no one came, she could almost smile at it and think of its smallness. Small it was, in the large Roman record, and her haunting sense of the continuity of the human lot easily carried her from the less to the greater. She had become deeply, tenderly acquainted with Rome; it interfused and moderated her passion. But she had grown to think of it chiefly as the place where people had suffered. This was what came to her in the starved churches, where the marble columns, transferred from pagan ruins, seemed to offer her a companionship in endurance and the musty incense to be a compound of long-unanswered prayers. There was no gentler nor less consistent heretic than Isabel; the firmest of worshippers, gazing at dark altar-pictures or clustered candles, could not have felt more intimately the suggestiveness of these objects nor have been more liable at such moments to a spiritual visitation.

Standing looking out to sea can be like standing at an altar. You wait in silence for some kind of benediction. If prayer could have a physical destination, this would be it

Paul said, "Continue in prayer and, "Pray without ceasing." He did not mean that people should be always on their knees, but he did mean that our prayers should be like the continual burned-offering steadily preserved in every day; that it should be like seed-time and harvest, and summer and winter, unceasingly coming round at regular seasons; that it should be like the fire on the altar, not always consuming sacrifices, but never completely going out.

But all habitude is produced through imitation and similitude; and hence temples imitate the heavens, but altars the earth; statues resemble life, and on this account they are similar to animals; and prayers imitate that which is intellectual; but characters, superior ineffable powers; herbs and stones resemble matter; and animals which are sacrificed, the irrational life of our souls.

We have already compared the benefits of theology and science. When the theologian governed the world, it was covered with huts and hovels for the many, palaces and cathedrals for the few. To nearly all the children of men, reading and writing were unknown arts. The poor were clad in rags and skins -- they devoured crusts, and gnawed bones. The day of Science dawned, and the luxuries of a century ago are the necessities of to-day. Men in the middle ranks of life have more of the conveniences and elegancies than the princes and kings of the theological times. But above and over all this, is the development of mind. There is more of value in the brain of an average man of to-day -- of a master-mechanic, of a chemist, of a naturalist, of an inventor, than there was in the brain of the world four hundred years ago. These blessings did not fall from the skies. These benefits did not drop from the outstretched hands of priests. They were not found in cathedrals or behind altars -- neither were they searched for with holy candles. They were not discovered by the closed eyes of prayer, nor did they come in answer to superstitious supplication. They are the children of freedom, the gifts of reason, observation and experience -- and for them all, man is indebted to man.

But I do want to take my life's work right now, today—whether it's a book I'm writing or a phone call I'm making or a meal I'm cooking—and I want to hold it all in my open hand with a Spirit-breathed prayer and intention. I want to be filled with the knowing that we are all a fragile universe needing love in this moment before I lay my gift on the altar and ask for holy fire to descend.

The ugly fact is that altar fires are either out or burning very low. The prayer meeting is dead or dying. By our attitude to prayer we tell God that what was begun in the Spirit we can finish in the flesh. What church ever asks its candidating ministers what time they spend in prayer? Yet ministers who do not spend two hours a day in prayer are not worth a dime a dozen, degrees or no degrees.

A body like hers deserves to be worshiped, and I’m more than happy to say my prayers at her altar.

The sage does not separate the sacred from the ordinary. They rinse the bowl as if it mattered. They fold the towel as if it were prayer. The ceremony isn’t over because the altar is gone. It continues in how you touch the day. Wash the dishes slowly. Feel the heat in the water. Notice the sound of soap against porcelain. This is presence. This is integration.

What the gods liked was ferocity, savagery, the snarl and the bite and the fear. Always, always the fear, the naked edge of it behind the smoke rising from the altars, the high note of it in the muttered prayers and praise we sent heavenward, the deep, primal taste of it when we raised the knife above the sacrificial offering. Our fear. That was how the gods grew great.

This was definitely a former cellar. One the far end was a shoddy, rickety altar that cavemen might have erected to worship a fire god. Two wooden columns flanked a large stone block cut into a perfect cube on a raised platform. On the left wall was a table that looked like cheap plastic lawn furniture covered with incense and prayer beads and other generic-looking knickknacks that someone could buy at a yoga studio. "Oh my God, my cult is so low-rent," moaned Magnus. "I am deeply shamed. I am disowning my followers for being evil and having no panache." "But it's not your cult," Alec said distractedly. He walked over to the side table and ran his finger along its surface. "There's a lot of dust. This place hadn't been used in a while." "I'm joking." said Magnus.

Your country? How came it yours? Before the Pilgrims landed we were here. Here we have brought our three gifts and mingled them with yours: a gift of story and song—soft, stirring melody in an ill-harmonized and unmelodious land; the gift of sweat and brawn to beat back the wilderness, conquer the soil, and lay the foundations of this vast economic empire two hundred years earlier than your weak hands could have done it; the third, a gift of the Spirit. Around us the history of the land has centred for thrice a hundred years; out of the nation's heart we have called all that was best to throttle and subdue all that was worst; fire and blood, prayer and sacrifice, have billowed over this people, and they have found peace only in the altars of the God of Right. Nor has our gift of the Spirit been merely passive. Actively we have woven ourselves with the very warp and woof of this nation,—we fought their battles, shared their sorrow, mingled our blood with theirs, and generation after generation have pleaded with a headstrong, careless people to despise not Justice, Mercy, and Truth, lest the nation be smitten with a curse. Our song, our toil, our cheer, and warning have been given to this nation in blood-brotherhood. Are not these gifts worth the giving? Is not this work and striving? Would America have been America without her Negro people?

each and every sunrise you will hear my voice As I prepare my sacrifice of prayer to you. Every morning I lay out the pieces of my life on the altar And wait for your fire to fall upon my heart.b

Nan had always known, even as a child, that God did not answer prayers for worldly things like candy or new shoes. God answered prayers that helped her help others. God did not change the circumstances of your life; God changed you. She had seen it happen too many times to doubt it. She had seen so many people walk nervously down the aisle of her father’s church to accept God at the altar, then had seen them find friends, drink less, hug their children more. She had seen the transformative power of the church, and she knew there was a God, even if no one could be sure in what form God

The wind smelled like the moon. I went up there so many times in the weeks that followed that I no longer remember which night it was that God finally answered my prayer. I do not think it was right at the beginning, when I was still saying my prayers in words. I think it came later, when I had graduated to inchoate sounds. Up on that fire escape, I learned to pray the way a wolf howls. I learned to pray the way that Ella Fitzgerald sang scat.

But he knew that her sorrow at that moment was not for him or for herself, or even for the boy whom idiot chance had thrust in the way of pestilence, but that, with a sudden inner flaming of her clairvoyant Scotch soul, she had looked cleanly, without pretense for the first time, upon the inexorable tides of Necessity, and that she was sorry for all who had lived, were living, or would live, fanning with their prayers the useless altar flames, suppliant with their hopes to an unwitting spirit, casting the tiny rockets of their belief against remote eternity, and hoping for grace, guidance, and delivery upon the spinning and forgotten cinder of this earth. O lost.

I came to view the world as a word puzzle and, with no special aptitude I can name, fixed on the whys and wherefores of language from my earliest days. Song lyrics. Signs. The stories read in first and second grades. My parents almost always read to us at bedtime. Poems by Whittier. Scenes from Oliver Twist. Kidnapped. Treasure Island. The names alone intrigued me. Dr. Livesey, Squire Trelawney. The name Balfour sounded the knell of the romantic. Robinson Crusoe. I loved to hear read the exploits of Natty Bumppo. Authors had an aura of the godlike to me. The Latin prayers fascinated me as an altar boy. I can still recall carved names on buildings I saw from the MTA train when I was a youngster. Who can explain why? Words were magic to me. I once inadvisably glued my finger and thumb together at the Magoun Library in fourth grade trying to amuse a pretty little girl on whom I had a crush, and when the librarian came over angrily to inquire what the problem was and I pointed with a shrug and replied, “Mucilage”—a word that always made me laugh—she very coldly stated, “You are more to be pitied than censured.

Inside the silken tent, we knelt before a simple altar heaped with flowers. Ava prayed. I, knowing no prayers, spoke without sound to someone who seemed at times within me and at times, as the angel had said, infinitely remote.

There is a wonderful simple human reality to Christ's hunger. The man is famished. He's missed meals for three days, He has a lot on his mind, He's on His way back to heaven, but before He goes He is itching for a nice piece of broiled fish and a little bread on the side with the men and women He loves. Do we not like Him the more for His prandial persistance? And think for a moment about the holiness of our own food, and the ways that cooking and sharing a meal can be forms of love and prayer. And realize again that the Eucharist at the heart of stubborn Catholicism is the breakfast that Christ prepares for Catholics, every morning, as we return from fishing in vast dreamy seas?

Prayer, according to Brother David, is waking up to the presence of God no matter where I am or what I am doing. When I am fully alert to whatever or whoever is right in front of me; when I am electrically aware of the tremendous gift of being alive; when I am able to give myself wholly to the moment I am in, then I am in prayer. Prayer is happening, and it is not necessarily something that I am doing. God is happening, and I am lucky enough to know that I am in The Midst.

What the god's liked was ferocity, savagery, the snarl and the bite and the fear. Always, always the fear, the naked edge of it behind the smoke rising from the altars, the high note of it in the muttered prayers and praise we sent heavenward.

I am not, anymore, a Christian, but I am lifted and opened by any space with prayer inside it. I didn’t know why I was going, today, to stand in the long cool darkness of St. John of the Divine, but my body knew, as bodies do, what it wanted. I entered the oddly small door of the huge space, and walked without hesitating to the altar I hadn’t consciously remembered, a national memorial for those who died of AIDS, marked by banners and placards. My heart melted, all at once, and I understood why I was there. Because the black current the masseuse had touched wanted, needed, to keep flowing. I’d needed to know I could go on, but I’d also been needing to collapse. Which is what I did, some timeless tear span of minutes sitting on the naked gray stone. A woman gave me the kind of paper napkins you get with an ice cream cone. It seemed to me the most genuine of gifts, made to a stranger: the recognition of how grief moves in the body, leaving us unable to breathe, helpless, except for each other.

They are blind guides,' He says, 'of the blind. But if a blind man guide a blind man, both shall fall into a pit.' 4 Such a one is to be turned away from, and whoever has separated himself from the Church is to be shunned. Such a man is perverted and sins and is condemned by his very self. Does he seem to himself to be with Christ, who acts contrary to the priests of Christ, who separates himself from association with His clergy and His people? That man bears arms against the Church; he fights against God's plan. An enemy of the altar, a rebel against the sacrifice of Christ, for the faith faithless, for religion sacrilegious, a disobedient servant, an impious son, a hostile brother, despising the bishops and abandoning the priests of God, he dares to set up another altar, to compose another prayer with unauthorized words, to profane the truth of the Lord's offering by false sacrifices, and not to know that he who struggles against God's plan on account of his rash daring is punished by divine censure.

We often fail to realize the depth of evil, terrifying as it is. I am not speaking only of the selfishness of the wealthy, heaping up riches for themselves, or of those who sacrifice to achieve their self-selected goals. Or of the dictator who breathes in the incense due only to God. I am speaking of the selfishness of good people, devout people, those who have succeeded through spiritual exercises and self-denial in being able to make the proud profession before the altar of the Most High, “Lord, I am not like the rest of men.” Yes, we have had the audacity at certain times of our lives to believe we are different from other men. And here is the deepest form of self-deception, dictated by self-centeredness at its worst: spiritual egotism. This most insidious form of egotism even uses piety and prayer for its own gain.

Half an hour ago, at the appointed hour, Camerlengo Carlo Ventresca had entered the chapel. He walked to the front altar and gave opening prayer. Then, he unfolded his hands and spoke to them in a tone as direct as anything Mortati had ever heard from the altar of the Sistine.

Jesus Christ graced earth’s guilty sod to offer Himself as the perfect sacrifice and fulfill every requirement of the Law. He shed His blood on an altar constructed of two pieces of wood and fashioned into a cross. Because the fire of holy judgment met with the blood of the spotless Lamb, we need no other act of atonement. But we are desperate for the continuing work of sanctification. Too much power is at stake to continue cultivating an inconsistent and unconsecrated mouth. The challenge of a tamed tongue is so great that we’d be wise to give it daily attention in prayer.

His mother worried for him, his father, angry and disappointed, left more often, it seemed, to attend to matters away from Assisi, and Francis felt worse by the day—until one day when he was praying, as he often did, in the rundown roadside chapel of San Damiano below Assisi’s walls. Yes, he had begun to pray! More accurately, he had begun to listen prayerfully. He was kneeling before the crucifix that hung above the small altar when suddenly it seemed that Christ’s eyes looked upon him…and he heard the voice. “Francis, go and repair my house which, as you see, is falling into ruin.

Lord of all life, below, above, Whose light is truth, whose warmth is love, Before Thy ever blazing throne We ask no luster of our own. Grant us Thy truth to make us free, And kindling hearts that burn for Thee, Till all Thy living altars claim One holy light, one heavenly flame. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES, 1809-

We have already compared the benefits of theology and science. When the theologian governed the world, it was covered with huts and hovels for the many, palaces and cathedrals for the few. To nearly all the children of men, reading and writing were unknown arts. The poor were clad in rags and skins—they devoured crusts, and gnawed bones. The day of Science dawned, and the luxuries of a century ago are the necessities of to-day. Men in the middle ranks of life have more of the conveniences and elegancies than the princes and kings of the theological times. But above and over all this, is the development of mind. There is more of value in the brain of an average man of to-day—of a master-mechanic, of a chemist, of a naturalist, of an inventor, than there was in the brain of the world four hundred years ago. These blessings did not fall from the skies. These benefits did not drop from the outstretched hands of priests. They were not found in cathedrals or behind altars—neither were they searched for with holy candles. They were not discovered by the closed eyes of prayer, nor did they come in answer to superstitious supplication. They are the children of freedom, the gifts of reason, observation and experience—and for them all, man is indebted to man. —Robert Green Ingersoll

The months passed away. Slowly a great fear came over Viola, a fear that would hardly ever leave her. For every month at the full moon, whether she would or no, she found herself driven to the maze, through its mysterious walks into that strange dancing-room. And when she was there the music began once more, and once more she danced most deliciously for the moon to see. The second time that this happened she had merely thought that it was a recurrence of her own whim, and that the music was but a trick that the imagination had chosen to repeat. The third time frightened her, and she knew that the force that sways the tides had strange power over her. The fear grew as the year fell, for each month the music went on for a longer time - each month some of the pleasure had gone from the dance. On bitter nights in winter the moon called her and she came, when the breath was vapor, and the trees that circled her dancing-room were black, bare skeletons, and the frost was cruel. She dared not tell anyone, and yet it was with difficulty that she kept her secret. Somehow chance seemed to favor her, and she always found a way to return from her midnight dance to her own room without being observed. Each month the summons seemed to be more imperious and urgent. Once when she was alone on her knees before the lighted altar in the private chapel of the palace she suddenly felt that the words of the familiar Latin prayer had gone from her memory. She rose to her feet, she sobbed bitterly, but the call had come and she could not resist it. She passed out of the chapel and down the palace gardens. How madly she danced that night! ("The Moon Slave")

When she (Marjorie) was at her prayers (which was pretty often just now), and at other times, when the air lightened suddenly about her and the burdens of earth were lifted as if another hand were put to them, why, then, all was glory, and she saw Robin as transfigured and herself beneath him all but adoring. Little visions came and went before her imagination. Robin riding, like some knight on an adventure, to do Christ's work; Robin at the altar, in his vestments; Robin absolving penitents- all in a rosy light of faith and romance. She saw him even on the scaffold, undaunted and resolute, with God's light on his face, and the crowd awed beneath him; she saw his soul entering heaven, with all the harps ringing to meet him, and eternity begun...and then, at other times, when the heaviness came down on her, as clouds upon the Derbyshire hills, she understood nothing but that she had lost him; that she was not to be hers, but Another's; that a loveless and empty life lay before her, and a womanhood that was without its fruition. And it was this latter mood that fell on her, swift and entire, when, looking out from her window a little before dinnertime, she saw suddenly his hat, and his horse's head, jerking up the steep path to the house. She fell on her knees by her bedside. 'Jesu!' She cried. 'Jesu! Give me strength to meet him.

Fellow-citizens, pardon me, allow me to ask, why am I called upon to speak here to-day? What have I, or those I represent, to do with your national independence? Are the great principles of political freedom and of natural justice, embodied in that Declaration of Independence, extended to us? And am I, therefore, called upon to bring our humble offering to the national altar, and to confess the benefits and express devout gratitude for the blessings resulting from your independence to us? I am not included within the pale of this glorious anniversary! Your high independence only reveals the immeasurable distance between us. The blessings in which you this day rejoice are not enjoyed in common. The rich inheritance of justice, liberty, prosperity, and independence bequeathed by your fathers is shared by you, not by me. The sunlight that brought life and healing to you has brought stripes and death to me. This Fourth of July is yours, not mine. You may rejoice, I must mourn. To drag a man in fetters into the grand illuminated temple of liberty, and call upon him to join you in joyous anthems, were inhuman mockery and sacrilegious irony. Do you mean, citizens, to mock me, by asking me to speak today? What, to the American slave, is your Fourth of July? I answer: a day that reveals to him, more than all other days of the year, the gross injustice and cruelty to which he is a constant victim. To him, your celebration is a sham; your boasted liberty, an unholy license; your national greatness, swelling vanity; your sounds of rejoicing are empty and heartless; your denunciation of tyrants, brass fronted impudence; your shouts of liberty and equality, hollow mockery; your prayers and hymns, your sermons and thanksgivings, with all your religious parade and solemnity, are, to Him, mere bombast, fraud, deception, impiety, and hypocrisy—a thin veil to cover up crimes that would disgrace a nation of savages. There is not a nation of the earth guilty of practices more shocking and bloody than are the people of these United States at this very hour. At a time like this, scorching irony, not convincing argument, is needed. O! had I the ability, and could reach the nation’s ear, I would, to-day, pour forth a stream, a fiery stream of biting ridicule, blasting reproach, withering sarcasm, and stern rebuke. For it is not light that is needed, but fire; it is not the gentle shower, but thunder. We need the storm, the whirlwind, the earthquake. The feeling of the nation must be quickened; the conscience of the nation must be roused; the propriety of the nation must be startled; the hypocrisy of the nation must be exposed; and the crimes against God and man must be proclaimed and denounced.

she was sorry for all who had lived, were living, or would live, fanning with their prayers the useless altar flames, suppliant with their hopes to an unwitting spirit, casting the tiny rockets of their belief against remote eternity, and hoping for grace, guidance, and delivery upon the spinning and forgotten cinder of this earth. O lost.

Alison was relieved: she would have hated to see Mary lose her dignity as well as her life. “Follow me,” said the sheriff. Mary turned back momentarily and took an ivory crucifix from its hook on the wall over the altar. With the cross pressed to her heavy bosom and the prayer book in her other hand she walked behind the sheriff, and Alison followed.

When one is immersed in a Christian subculture that puts a great deal of stress on making decisions, responding to altar calls, and praying the sinner’s prayer, it is easy to miss this important point—making a decision to follow Jesus has never converted anyone. This is because it is not a decision that converts a person; it is the power of the Holy Spirit that does so.

I want you to speak to the faithful of the Holy Mass as a true sacrifice. They have forgotten this. No one thinks any more to tell them that the action of the Eucharist renews My sacrifice upon the Cross, and that I am present upon the altar as upon the Cross, as both Priest and Victim. It is the whole of My sacrifice of love that unfolds before their eyes. You must tell them this.

Let them talk more munitions and airplanes and battleships and tanks and gases why of course we’ve got to have them we can’t get along without them how in the world could we protect the peace if we didn’t have them? Let them form blocs and alliances and mutual assistance pacts and guarantees of neutrality. Let them draft notes and ultimatums and protests and accusations. But before they vote on them before they give the order for all the little guys to start killing each other let the main guy rap his gavel on my case and point down at me and say here gentlemen is the only issue before this house and that is are you for this thing here or are you against it. And if they are against it why goddam them let them stand up like men and vote. And if they are for it let them be hanged and drawn and quartered and paraded through the streets in small chopped up little bits and thrown out into the fields where no clean animal will touch them and let their chunks rot there and may no green thing ever grow where they rot. Take me into your churches your great towering cathedrals that have to be rebuilt every fifty years because they are destroyed by war. Carry me in my glass box down the aisles where kings and priests and brides and children at their confirmation have gone so many times before to kiss a splinter of wood from a true cross on which was nailed the body of a man who was lucky enough to die. Set me high on your altars and call on god to look down upon his murderous little children his dearly beloved little children. Wave over me the incense I can’t smell. Swill down the sacramental wine I can’t taste. Drone out the prayers I can’t hear. Go through the old holy gestures for which I have no legs and no arms. Chorus out the hallelujas I can’t sing. Bring them out loud and strong for me your hallelujas all of them for me because I know the truth and you don’t you fools. You fools you fools you fools…

Inside my heart there is A temple, a synagogue, a church, a mosque, A monastery, a fish market A serene lake, a tempestuous sea Agreements and disagreements Glory and failure A big bang at dawn and a little bang at dusk All the cries, aspirations and silent prayers Yearning and seeking Everything disintegrates and dissolves In a tempestuous ocean Finally unifies Collapses on one altar In one Breath In God

Lana started to make sounds, like the imprecations of a priestess, over the bills that the boy had given her. Whispered numerals and words floated upward from her coral lips, and, closing her eyes, she copied some figures onto a pad of paper. Her fine body, itself a profitable investment through the years, bent reverently over the Formica-top altar. Smoke, like incense, rose from the cigarette in the ashtray at her elbow, curling upward with her prayers, up above the host which she was elevating in order to study the date of its minting, the single silver dollar that lay among the offerings. Her bracelet tinkled, calling communicants to the altar, but the only one in the temple had been excommunicated from the Faith because of his parentage and continued mopping. An offering fell to the floor, the host, and Lana knelt to venerate and retrieve it.

The Virgin Mary is a girl gang leader in Heaven. She is a Hell’s Angel and she rides a Harley. This I know for I come from people who think axle grease is holy water. They hold Mass out in the driveway under the hood on Saturdays. The engine is their altar. They genuflect and say prayers all day, and baptize themselves in crankcase oil. The soles of their shoes always smell like gasoline. I come from people who think Confession a necessity only the moment before a head-on collision.

The voodoo worshipers go there to their idols sincerely and are healed. they ask for children and they get it. GOD PERMITS IT. it is a miracle and they rejoice. i have seen it. The idol didn't heal them. God did,. He permitted it. Thank you Jesus !!!! The imagine the 3 Hebrew children refuse to bow to was not voodoo it was Daniel (A holy man of God) Holy Mary Images Pillar of fire images Prophet images Altar Prayer cloths God wants me to believe Him without having to see anything.

There are so many priests who enter triumphantly and walk up toward the altar, greeting people left and right, so as to appear sympathetic. Just look at the sad spectacle of some Eucharistic celebrations. ... Why so much frivolousness and worldliness at the moment of the Holy Sacrifice? Why so much profanation and superficiality, given the extraordinary priestly grace that renders us able to make the Body and Blood of Christ substantially present by the invocation of the Spirit? Why do some think that they are obliged to improvise or invent Eucharistic Prayers that conceal the sacred prayers in a wash of petty, human fervor? Are Christ's words insufficient, making it necessary to multiply merely human words? In such a unique and essential sacrifice, is there any need for such a display of imagination and subjective creativity? "In praying do not heap up empty phrases as the Gentiles do; for they think that they will be heard for their many words", Jesus warns us (Mt 6:7).

There was one part of the house I had not yet visited, and I went there now. The chapel showed no ill effects of its long neglect. The paint was as fresh and bright as ever. And the lamp burned once more before the altar. I said a prayer — an ancient, newly-learned form of words, and left, turning towards the camp; and as I walked back, and the cook-house bugle sounded ahead of me,I thought:— The builders did not know the uses to which their work would descend; they made a new house with the stones of the old castle. Year by year the great harvest of timber in the park grew to ripeness; until, in sudden frost, came the Age of Hooper; the place was desolate and the work all brought to nothing; Quomodo sedet sola civitas. Vanity of vanities, all is vanity. And yet, I thought, stepping out more briskly towards the camp, where the bugles after a pause had taken up the second call and were sounding Pick-em-up, Pick-em-up , hot potatoes — and yet that is not the last word; it is not even an apt word; it is a dead word from ten years back. Something quite remote from anything the builders intended had come out of their work and out of the fierce little human tragedy in which I played; something none of us thought about at the time: a small red flame, a beaten copper lamp of deplorable design, relit before the beaten copper doors of a tabernacle; the flame, which the old knights saw from their tombs, which they saw put out; that flame burns again for other soldiers, far from home, farther, in heart, than Acre or Jerusalem. It could not have been lit but for the builders and the tragedians. And there I found it this morning, burning anew among the old stones.

I charge you with a phrase from the gospel of John, Updike that is: Your only duty is to give the mundane its beautiful due. You step from this moment with scripture and stole ordained to the ordinary. Ours is an existence in something more than the husk it once was but not yet the bloom it shall be; in other words, you are charged to the in-between, middle-earth, us. Yes, our lives are sewn on occasion with a texture of joy unmistakable, the foretastes. But many days, if not most hours, reek of repetition, a mundane rising and falling punctuated with what the old hymn writer penned as “seasons of distress and grief.” The relief you are charged to bring to our souls in times like these is beauty – nothing more, nothing less. It is your only duty. Give up all other ambitions for the dross they are. Give the mundane its beautiful due. Bear witness to the truth we so often bury, that our lives are shot through with drama, interest, relevance, importance, and poetry. Live among us, story by story, with both precision and surprisingness. Help us to believe in God by startling us with the kicker – God believes in us. Know this, that yours is not so much a high calling as it is a careful attention; you are to be a person of prayer, not big britches. Once you begin a gesture it's often fatal not to go through with it, so please, for the love of God and us and you, go through with this. The world for you may be even harder from here on in, but most things worth doing are hard. So break and bless and preach and teach and laugh and sing and weep and rage and whisper at the altar of this astonishingly splendid fallen world. Give the mundane its beautiful due. Amen and amen.

Orate, fratres,’ resumed the priest aloud as he faced the empty benches, extending and reclasping his hands in a gesture of appeal to all men of good-will. And turning again towards the altar, he continued his prayer in a lower tone, while Vincent began to mutter a long Latin sentence in which he eventually got lost. Now it was that the yellow sunbeams began to dart through the windows; called, as it were, by the priest, the sun itself had come to mass, throwing golden sheets of light upon the left-hand wall, the confessional, the Virgin’s altar, and the big clock.

I once thought that would be the consummation of all joy—to be united by a bond of love—to be lost in His presence there as if nothing else mattered. "And now—there is much more. Instead of myself and my Christ and my love and my prayer, there is the might of a prayer stronger than thunder and milder than the flight of doves rising up from the Priest who is the Center of every priest, shaking the foundations of the universe and lifting up—me, Host, altar, sanctuary, people, church, abbey, forest, cities, continents, seas and worlds to God and plunging everything into Him.

6“And the foreigners who join themselves to the LORD,    to minister to him, to love the name of the LORD,    and to be his servants, everyone who keeps the Sabbath and does not profane it,    and holds fast my covenant— 7these I will bring to my holy mountain,    and make them joyful in my house of prayer; their burnt offerings and their sacrifices    will be accepted on my altar; for my house shall be called a house of prayer    for all peoples.” 8The Lord GOD,    who gathers the outcasts of Israel, declares, “I will gather yet others to him    besides those already gathered.

The day we stop dreaming is the day we start dying. When imagination is sacrificed on the altar of logic, God is robbed of the glory that rightfully belongs to Him. In fact, the death of a dream is often a subtle form of idolatry. We lose faith in the God who gave us the big dream and settle for a small dream that we can accomplish without His help. We go after dreams that don’t require divine intervention. We go after dreams that don’t require prayer. And the God who is able to do immeasurably more than all our right brain can imagine is supplanted by a god — lowercase g—who fits within the logical constraints of our left brain.

But she did not reveal the tragic fact that her fear had suddenly lain upon her at the moment of approaching the altar rails, so that she had scuttled back to her seat, terrified of receiving the Christmas Communion. Even a painfully detailed confession of intemperance, of the lusts of the eyes and the mind, of the very occasional sins of the body; even the absolution accorded by a white-haired old priest who had spoken gently and pitifully to his penitent, directing her prayers to the Sacred Heart from which his own heart had derived its compassion--even these things had failed to give Wanda courage when it came to the Christmas Communion.

Bing had arranged her chapel at Kilmarth in one of the mysterious stone basement rooms, where one rarely penetrated. The way down to it was by a twisting stair, opening out of the front hall. On the altar she had placed a crucifix, and all her holy relics, and each week she arranged a little vase of fresh flowers for it. She loved this little chapel, and was proud of it; she often went down there to say a private prayer. In our last conversation on the day before she died, she surprised me by saying that she had gone down there, and said a prayer for me; this might have warned me of what was to happen, but it did not. Perhaps I did not even want to know.

The island itself was once the site of a temple dedicated to Asclepius, the god of medicine. Ancient Romans who were ill spent the night here and left little statues of their healed body parts (feet, livers, hearts...) as thank-you notes. This tradition survives: Today, throughout Italy, Catholic altars are often encrusted with votive offerings, symbolizing gratitude for answered prayers. During plagues and epidemics, the sick were isolated on the island. These days, the island’s largest building is the Fatebenefratelli, the public hospital favored by Roman women for childbirth. The island’s reputation for medical care lives on. The high point of the bridge (upon which you’re

I had never been there before and was a little overawed by the grandeur of the place. The altar was laid for the following day’s Masses and candles were lit in rows of a dozen or more on brass stands. It cost a penny to light one and I threw two ha’pennies into the box before selecting one and placing it in the front row centre, watching as the flame flickered for a few moments before settling. Kneeling on the hard floor, I said a prayer, a thing I had never done with any solemnity before. Please don’t let Julian die, I asked God. And please stop me from being a homosexual. Only when I stood up and walked away did I realize that that had been two prayers, so I went back and lit a second candle, which cost me another penny

Ursula, in a garden, found A bed of radishes. She kneeled upon the ground And gathered them, With flowers around, Blue, gold, pink, and green. She dressed in red and gold brocade And in the grass an offering made Of radishes and flowers. She said, "My dear, Upon your altars, I have placed The marguerite and coquelicot, And roses Frail as April snow; But here," she said, "Where none can see, I make an offering, in the grass, Of radishes and flowers." And then she wept For fear the Lord would not accept. The good Lord in His garden sought New leaf and shadowy tinct, And they were all His thought. He heard her low accord, Half prayer and half ditty, And He felt a subtle quiver, That was not heavenly love, Or pity. This is not writ

AFTER THE DELUGE AS SOON as the idea of the Deluge had subsided, A hare stopped in the clover and swaying flower-bells, and said a prayer to the rainbow, through the spider’s web. Oh! the precious stones that began to hide,—and the flowers that already looked around. In the dirty main street, stalls were set up and boats were hauled toward the sea, high tiered as in old prints. Blood flowed at Blue Beard’s,—through slaughterhouses, in circuses, where the windows were blanched by God’s seal. Blood and milk flowed. Beavers built. “Mazagrans” smoked in the little bars. In the big glass house, still dripping, children in mourning looked at the marvelous pictures. A door banged; and in the village square the little boy waved his arms, understood by weather vanes and cocks on steeples everywhere, in the bursting shower. Madame *** installed a piano in the Alps. Mass and first communions were celebrated at the hundred thousand altars of the cathedral. Caravans set out. And Hotel Splendid was built in the chaos of ice and of the polar night. Ever after the moon heard jackals howling across the deserts of thyme, and eclogues in wooden shoes growling in the orchard. Then in the violet and budding forest, Eucharis told me it was spring. Gush, pond,—Foam, roll on the bridge and over the woods;—black palls and organs, lightning and thunder, rise and roll;—waters and sorrows rise and launch the Floods again. For since they have been dissipated—oh! the precious stones being buried and the opened flowers!—it’s unbearable! and the Queen, the Witch who lights her fire in the earthen pot will never tell us what she knows, and what we do not know.

Worry To worry is to fret or torment yourself with disturbing thoughts. A wise person once said, “Most of the problems I’ve had in life never happened.” Is the emotion of anxiety consuming you? Is it attacking someone in your family? Do you dwell on “what will happen if” more than you abide in God’s Word and promises of divine provision? “Worry is a thin stream of fear trickling through the mind. If encouraged, it cuts a channel into which all other thoughts are drained.”3 Ultimately, worry is faith in fear and not in God! We all experience various trials in this life. It’s normal to be concerned about the crisis you or a member of your family may be facing. But excessively worrying about a situation will not change it; only by taking your concerns to the Lord in prayer and leaving them at the altar can your outcome be different.

Darkness: I had a dream, which was not all a dream. The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars Did wander darkling in the eternal space, Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air; Morn came and went—and came, and brought no day, And men forgot their passions in the dread Of this their desolation; and all hearts Were chill'd into a selfish prayer for light: And they did live by watchfires—and the thrones, The palaces of crowned kings—the huts, The habitations of all things which dwell, Were burnt for beacons; cities were consum'd, And men were gather'd round their blazing homes To look once more into each other's face; Happy were those who dwelt within the eye Of the volcanos, and their mountain-torch: A fearful hope was all the world contain'd; Forests were set on fire—but hour by hour They fell and faded—and the crackling trunks Extinguish'd with a crash—and all was black. The brows of men by the despairing light Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits The flashes fell upon them; some lay down And hid their eyes and wept; and some did rest Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smil'd; And others hurried to and fro, and fed Their funeral piles with fuel, and look'd up With mad disquietude on the dull sky, The pall of a past world; and then again With curses cast them down upon the dust, And gnash'd their teeth and howl'd: the wild birds shriek'd And, terrified, did flutter on the ground, And flap their useless wings; the wildest brutes Came tame and tremulous; and vipers crawl'd And twin'd themselves among the multitude, Hissing, but stingless—they were slain for food. And War, which for a moment was no more, Did glut himself again: a meal was bought With blood, and each sate sullenly apart Gorging himself in gloom: no love was left; All earth was but one thought—and that was death Immediate and inglorious; and the pang Of famine fed upon all entrails—men Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh; The meagre by the meagre were devour'd, Even dogs assail'd their masters, all save one, And he was faithful to a corse, and kept The birds and beasts and famish'd men at bay, Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead Lur'd their lank jaws; himself sought out no food, But with a piteous and perpetual moan, And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand Which answer'd not with a caress—he died. The crowd was famish'd by degrees; but two Of an enormous city did survive, And they were enemies: they met beside The dying embers of an altar-place Where had been heap'd a mass of holy things For an unholy usage; they rak'd up, And shivering scrap'd with their cold skeleton hands The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath Blew for a little life, and made a flame Which was a mockery; then they lifted up Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld Each other's aspects—saw, and shriek'd, and died— Even of their mutual hideousness they died, Unknowing who he was upon whose brow Famine had written Fiend. The world was void, The populous and the powerful was a lump, Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless— A lump of death—a chaos of hard clay. The rivers, lakes and ocean all stood still, And nothing stirr'd within their silent depths; Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea, And their masts fell down piecemeal: as they dropp'd They slept on the abyss without a surge— The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave, The moon, their mistress, had expir'd before; The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air, And the clouds perish'd; Darkness had no need Of aid from them—She was the Universe.

FEBRUARY 3 MY FIRE WILL CONSUME THE WORKS OF WITCHCRAFT AND OCCULTISM DO NOT TURN away from Me to serve other gods, for if you turn your children away from Me to serve other gods, My anger will burn against you and will quickly destroy you. Break down the altars of witchcraft and burn any occultic idols in the fire. For you are a people holy to Me. I have chosen you out of all the peoples on the face of the earth to be My people, My treasured possession. Do not test My promises to you and turn to witchcraft and idols, for I will cause a fire to consume your wickedness just as I did with the children of Israel. ACTS 19:18–20; DEUTERONOMY 7:3–6; PSALM 106:16–23 Prayer Declaration Lord, release Your fire and burn up the idols of this land. Let the works of witchcraft and occultism be burned in Your fire. Let Your flame be kindled against wicked spirits, and let demons be exposed and cast out with Your fire.

It's sacred work, love. It's an altar." Dune hesitated to own that. "I've been seeing it as a research project. I mean Kama used to make altars. But we never had some clear lineage. I don't want to be..." Dune paused, then made a gesture of grabbing things all around her. "You can't, Don't worry." "Yes, I can. I don't belong to anything, it doesn't belong to me." "Well that's just the thing," Elouise turned to Dune with soft eyes. "When everything has been taken, filling that emptiness ain't appropriation. It's something else. It ain't pure, none of it. I think of these practices, my Orisha, my altars, my prayers and chants, and all this accumulation of spiritual armor, as something to comfort me when my ancestral ghost limbs hurt. Because I need Spirit so much! I answer what calls me ­­­­­- Spirit is bigger than any lineage! It comes through all these channels. It's complicated, beautifully complicated. But it ain't appropriation, not amongst displaced and denied peoples. It's different.

They are the most orthodox people, and yet their whole heart is outside the matter, and the facts of their lives are hidden, alas! from themselves, so subtle and awful in the influence of getting away from direct and close dealing with God. I say these facts are hidden from their own eyes. They are not conscious of it, but God is changed to their conception. The God of their fathers is not their God. The God of spiritual communion with His people, who walked and talked with the patriarchs, is not their God. The god of Israel in the days of Malachi, the god whom they had invented, and were trying to appease and worship, was the god of trivialities, of mechanical observances, the god who asks for a temple with a set number of stones and corners, the altar of such a shape, and so many sacrifices and prayers, without any reference to character. When the prophet came to these people, he came to a people who were feeling thoroughly satisfied with their religious observances, and were prepared to say, "Wherein have we done this, or failed to do that?

APRIL 17 BIND THE POWERS OF DARKNESS THAT CONTROL THE AIRWAVES MY CHILD, IT is My desire that you will do what is right in My sight and that you will walk in the ways of righteousness. Seek My face, and like My servant Josiah, purge your life and your home of the powers of darkness that arise as altars of wickedness in this present generation. Break down the wickedness of the media, which has corrupted the eyes of this present generation. Take authority over the powers of the enemy that are permeating the airwaves and releasing filth and violence upon this land. Seek My righteousness, and fill the eyes and the ears of this generation with the wonders and miracles of My great love and power. 2 CHRONICLES 34; EPHESIANS 2:2, LEVITICUS 26:30 Prayer Declaration Lord, I take authority over the princes of media in the name of Jesus. Let the high places of witchcraft be destroyed, and let the eyes and ears of this present generation be turned to Your righteousness. Make me a beacon of light in this evil world, and raise up a standard of righteousness in this land.

In a deserted stretch of the Karadj highway Munis had come face-to-face with unbridled lust, although she knew what lust was before being touched by it. The problem was that she had an unbounded awareness of things, an awareness that instilled undue caution in her, making her fearful that action would lead to ignominy, humiliation. This created in her a desire to be ordinary, average. Yet she did not truly know what it meant to be ordinary. She did not know that it meant not loving an earthworm, not genuflecting at the altar of withered leaves, not standing in prayer at the call of a lark, not climbing a mountain to see the sunrise, not staying awake all night to gaze at the Ursa Major. She did not differentiate between earth and gravel, but she distinguished the earth from the sky. She had not seen the skies of the earth, but she knew there were earths of the sky. She saw herself in an inevitable process of stagnation. She was already partially rotten within. "What can I do with this mass of trivial knowledge?" she wondered aloud. "How can I cut through it?

One sees more and more that folk either have head religion or dead religion, or a very shallow view of the real thing. It seems these days the average evangelist offers too much for too little. A shallow repentance, if that is what it can be called, is accepted and then the person is guaranteed immunity from divine justice, eternal security, escape from hell, and the title deed to a first class mansion in heaven. What a travesty of the real thing. May God pity us. Newsweek has reported that six prominent Americans have been converted to Christianity recently. But none mentioned conviction of sin or of receiving Christ as Lord. So I see more than ever the weakness of modern evangelism. We get folks to walk an aisle and say a sinner’s prayer to ask forgiveness. But when do sinners, who are rebels against God, ever cry for mercy? Mercy, like repentance, is a dirty word with most evangelists. The old school view of evangelism is that people did not come to an altar for five minutes and leave, but would stay seeking the face of God until they had a real breakthrough.

Honorable, happy, and successful marriage is surely the principal goal of every normal person. Marriage is perhaps the most vital of all the decisions and has the most far-reaching effects, for it has to do not only with immediate happiness, but also with eternal joys. It affects not only the two people involved, but also their families and particularly their children and their children’s children down through the many generations. In selecting a companion for life and for eternity, certainly the most careful planning and thinking and praying and fasting should be done to be sure that of all the decisions, this one must not be wrong. In true marriage there must be a union of minds as well as of hearts. Emotions must not wholly determine decisions, but the mind and the heart, strengthened by fasting and prayer and serious consideration, will give one a maximum chance of marital happiness. It brings with it sacrifice, sharing, and a demand for great selflessness. . . . Some think of happiness as a glamorous life of ease, luxury, and constant thrills; but true marriage is based on a happiness which is more than that, one which comes from giving, serving, sharing, sacrificing, and selflessness. . . . One comes to realize very soon after marriage that the spouse has weaknesses not previously revealed or discovered. The virtues which were constantly magnified during courtship now grow relatively smaller, and the weaknesses which seemed so small and insignificant during courtship now grow to sizable proportions. The hour has come for understanding hearts, for self-appraisal, and for good common sense, reasoning, and planning. . . . “Soul mates” are fiction and an illusion; and while every young man and young woman will seek with all diligence and prayerfulness to find a mate with whom life can be most compatible and beautiful, yet it is certain that almost any good man and any good woman can have happiness and a successful marriage if both are willing to pay the price. There is a never-failing formula which will guarantee to every couple a happy and eternal marriage; but like all formulas, the principal ingredients must not be left out, reduced, or limited. The selection before courting and then the continued courting after the marriage process are equally important, but not more important than the marriage itself, the success of which depends upon the two individuals—not upon one, but upon two. . . . The formula is simple; the ingredients are few, though there are many amplifications of each. First, there must be the proper approach toward marriage, which contemplates the selection of a spouse who reaches as nearly as possible the pinnacle of perfection in all the matters which are of importance to the individuals. And then those two parties must come to the altar in the temple realizing that they must work hard toward this successful joint living. Second, there must be a great unselfishness, forgetting self and directing all of the family life and all pertaining thereunto to the good of the family, subjugating self. Third, there must be continued courting and expressions of affection, kindness, and consideration to keep love alive and growing. Fourth, there must be a complete living of the commandments of the Lord as defined in the gospel of Jesus Christ. . . . Two individuals approaching the marriage altar must realize that to attain the happy marriage which they hope for they must know that marriage is not a legal coverall, but it means sacrifice, sharing, and even a reduction of some personal liberties. It means long, hard economizing. It means children who bring with them financial burdens, service burdens, care and worry burdens; but also it means the deepest and sweetest emotions of all. . . . To be really happy in marriage, one must have a continued faithful observance of the commandments of the Lord. No one, single or married, was ever sublimely happy unless he was righteous.

If you have been in the street in Paris or Rouen, and seen a mother pull her child by the hand, and say, “Stop that squalling, or I’ll fetch an Englishman,” you are inclined to believe that any accord between the countries is formal and transient. The English will never be forgiven for the talent for destruction they have always displayed when they get off their own island. English armies laid waste to the land they moved through. As if systematically, they performed every action proscribed by the codes of chivalry, and broke every one of the laws of war. The battles were nothing; it was what they did between the battles that left its mark. They robbed and raped for forty miles around the line of their march. They burned the crops in the fields, and the houses with the people inside them. They took bribes in coin and in kind and when they were encamped in a district they made the people pay for every day on which they were left unmolested. They killed priests and hung them up naked in the marketplaces. As if they were infidels, they ransacked the churches, packed the chalices in their baggage, fueled their cooking fires with precious books; they scattered relics and stripped altars. They found out the families of the dead and demanded that the living ransom them; if the living could not pay, they torched the corpses before their eyes, without ceremony, without a single prayer, disposing of the dead as one might the carcasses of diseased cattle.

The artillery and mortars had been silent for at least the past few hours. After awhile the rabbi stopped initiating new songs. He took a few more sips of wine and sat for a time, almost shining in obvious pleasure, and yet reflective and silent. All watched him, and after a few minutes he spoke again in his odd Moroccan/Brooklyn accent. "The weapons of a Jew are prayer and mitzvot. Tonight we are arming ourselves with mitzvot like the finest suit of armor ever made. Better than a ceramica," he said, referring to the bullet-proof flak vests worn by many Israeli soldiers by their street name. "By the mere act of sitting and eating and drinking, because we are doing so in a sukkah at the time that our Creator told us to do so, we acquire for ourselves a heavenly shield more powerful than any missile or tank." He let those words settle in as he beamed at all present at the table and standing in the sukkah. "A mitzvah—carrying out HaShem's commandment or doing a good deed, such as an act of kindness towards your fellow human being—creates a heavenly smell, a wonderful odor that is both spiritual and physical. When the Creator of the whole universe commanded the Jewish people to bring sacrifices upon His holy altar, and they did so exactly as he had instructed them, the Torah says that it created a Re-ach Tov, a good and wonderful scent, that pleased the Ribbono Shel-Olam. And in those moments when the Jewish people acted on the instructions of their Creator, there was a kesher and a devekus, a tie and a drawing closer, between the Jewish people and their Creator.

Women are reclaiming the divine feminine today. Surrounded by women from every age and inspired by their courage, we are committing the forbidden acts of naming and imagining the gods of our understanding as Goddess, Woman God, and God the Mother. Although we are not all devotees of the goddess, it was essential for us to extend our historical and theological vision to include the divine feminine. Some find “her” within traditional religion in the images and stories of Eve and Mary, Sophia and Shekinah, Miriam and Esther, Naomi and Ruth, Tamar and Susanna, and of countless unnamed women. They are incorporating these women's stories into their liturgies and prayers. Others find her on the margins of patriarchal history in the images and stories of the Goddess. They’re incorporating her images into their paintings and songs, altars and prayers, and they’re weaving her ancient festivals and beliefs into their unfolding spirituality. Inspired by a view of history that reaches beyond the beginning defined by men, women are assuming theological equality with religious traditions and reclaiming the richness of their own imaginations. We have come to believe that the theological tasks performed by men throughout the ages were not inspired by a god out there somewhere. Rather they were prompted by a very human inclination to answer existential questions and order disparate experiences into a coherent whole through religious imagination. Humankind's religious imagination has always given birth to goddesses and gods, and to stories that attempt to make sense of our beginnings and endings. No longer held hostage by a truncated view of history or by the dominance of the Genesis account of creation, our imaginations are once again free.

Who May Enter? Who may worship in your sanctuary, Lord? Who may enter your presence on your holy hill? Those who lead blameless lives and do what is right, speaking the truth from sincere hearts. Psalm 15:1-2 When we kneel at the altar, we present our hearts in reverent worship to God. It is our inward sacrifice of praise. In these verses the psalmist presents another side of worship—the worship that praises God with our lives. We offer this type of worship when we live in integrity and honesty in everyday situations. We offer it when we treat others with fairness in business deals and speak highly of others no matter who is listening. When we avoid the bitter tongue of gossip, tell the truth instead of resorting to a lie, or keep a promise we have made even at great cost, we are showing that our lives are a living sacrifice of worship to God. I’m thankful that we don’t have to be perfect to worship God. No one is without fault. However, when we endeavor to worship God through the way we live our lives, we offer him more than a show of worship. We present him with a heartbeat that sincerely desires to please him. Ask God today to help you live in such a way that your life is an offering of praise to his name. GOD, I am far from perfect, but I desire to serve you in integrity and honesty. I realize that others watch my life and that my daily decisions influence others. I pray that they will see you in both my words and my actions. Lord, I sincerely desire to worship you not only with my heart but with my character. Help me to live a blameless life. Only you can do this. May I speak your truth from a sincere heart so that you will receive the glory and honor you deserve.   THE HEART THAT IS NOT ENTRUSTED TO GOD FOR HIS SEARCHING, WILL NOT BE UNDERTAKEN BY HIM FOR CLEANSING. Frances Ridley Havergal (1836-1879)

Psalm 5 Song of the Clouded Dawn For the Pure and Shining One, for her who receives the inheritance.11 By King David. 1Listen to my passionate prayer! Can’t You hear my groaning? 2Don’t You hear how I’m crying out to You? My King and my God, consider my every word, For I am calling out to You. 3At each and every sunrise You will hear my voice As I prepare my sacrifice of prayer to You. Every morning I lay out the pieces of my life on the altar And wait for Your fire to fall upon my heart.12 4I know that You, God, Are never pleased with lawlessness, And evil ones will never be invited As guests in Your house. 5Boasters collapse, unable to survive Your scrutiny, For Your hatred of evildoers is clear. 6You will make an end of all those who lie. How You hate their hypocrisy And despise all who love violence! 7But I know the way back home, And I know that You will welcome me Into Your house, For I am covered by Your covenant of mercy and love. So I come to Your sanctuary with deepest awe, To bow in worship and adore You. 8Lord, lead me in the pathways of Your pleasure, Just like You promised me You would, Or else my enemies will conquer me. Smooth out Your road in front of me, Straight and level so that I will know where to walk. 9For you can’t trust anything they say. Their hearts are nothing but deep pits of destruction, Drawing people into their darkness with their speeches. They are smooth-tongued deceivers Who flatter with their words! 10Declare them guilty, O God! Let their own schemes be their downfall! Let the guilt of their sins collapse on top of them, For they rebel against You. 11But let them all be glad, Those who turn aside to hide themselves in You, May they keep shouting for joy forever! Overshadow them in Your presence As they sing and rejoice, Then every lover of Your name Will burst forth with endless joy. 12Lord, how wonderfully You bless the righteous. Your favor wraps around each one and Covers them Under Your canopy of kindness and joy. 11. 5:Title The Hebrew word used here is Neliloth, or “flutes.” It can also be translated “inheritances.” The early church father, Augustine, translated this: “For her who receives the inheritance,” meaning the church of Jesus Christ. God the Father told the Son in Psalm 2 to ask for His inheritance; here we see it is the church that receives what Jesus asks for. We receive our inheritance of eternal life through the cross and resurrection of the Son of God. The Septuagint reads “For the end,” also found in numerous inscriptions of the Psalms. 12. 5:3 Implied in the concept of preparing the morning sacrifice. The Aramaic text states, “At dawn I shall be ready and shall appear before You.

DANCING ANGELS During October 2001, the Lord began to speak to me about traveling to Newfoundland, Canada. I had no desire to go there, especially in the middle of the winter! At this time I was still concerned about my inability to “feel the Lord” and began to press into God all the more. At times I locked myself into the little house and fasted and prayed for up to seven days, or until the presence of God fell. After many confirmations in the spirit, I pooled all of my earthly wealth and made the trip to the great white North. The night before I was to depart, the Lord instructed me to “pray in tongues all the way to Newfoundland.” Somehow through the grace of God I succeeded in praying in the Spirit for about 18 hours until I touched down in Canada. In Springdale, Newfoundland, Canada, the Lord began instructing me to complete a series of prophetic actions. I attended an intercessory prayer meeting on Wednesday, November 21. We were interceding for an upcoming series of healing meetings. During this meeting, I began to “see” into the spirit. As the Lord opened my spiritual eyes, I incrementally saw the heavens open over Living Waters Ministries Church. In addition to this, I also began to hear angelic voices singing along with the worship team. At one point during the meeting, I saw a stream of golden oil pour out from Heaven and land on a certain spot in the sanctuary. At the leading of the Lord, I knelt upon that spot. The glory and anointing began to flow into and over my body. The sensation and anointing was very similar to what I experienced when the angel put his hands upon me the night of August 22, 2001. As I knelt under the spot where the golden oil was beginning to pour onto the altar, I was praying earnestly. I could feel the liquid oil raining down on my body. I could sense and smell this heavenly oil as it rolled off my head. The Holy Spirit began to talk to me in a very clear and direct way that I had never experienced before. I collapsed onto the carpet in a pool of golden oil and laid there in the anointing of the Holy Spirit. Then I sensed angels dancing all around the pool and me. I felt an angel as it brushed its wings across my face. I had a “knowing” that the angel was asking me to raise my hands into the air. When I raised my hands up to about two feet, the angel would push my hands back down with its strong, warm hands. I tried again, and when my hands were almost totally up, the angel tickled my nose with the feathers of its wings. I laughed, and my hands fell. The angel and I continued to interact in this fashion for nearly an hour. I did not actually see this angel, but the force and reality of its touch was very tangible. There was no doubt that I was interacting with a heavenly being. This experience was both refreshing and real. SEEING IS BELIEVING On Thursday, November 22, the healing meetings started; they would last through Sunday, the 25th. In these meetings God began to open my spiritual eyes beyond anything I could have ever imagined. On the first night of these meetings, I began to see an “open heaven” forming in the sanctuary. I could also hear and sense the activity of angels as the heavens continued to open up to a greater degree. On Friday, I began to see “bolts of light” shoot through the church, and again the stream of golden oil was flowing from the open heaven in a greater volume. On Saturday night during the worship service, I began to see feathers falling around the church and

Personally, I have a passion to turn people away from the externals of religion and help them experience the marvelous internals of our Christianity that God has established for us. I know the difficulty of this task. My prayer is that God will raise up men and women who will be so aflame with the fire from the altar that nobody can put out the flame. Today’s church needs once again to see the glory of God.

And another Angel came and stood before the altar, having a golden censer: and there was given to him much incense, that he should offer of the prayers of all saints upon the golden altar, which is before the throne of God" (Apoc. viii. 3).

His imitations of the parsons were finely observed, and he was very good as the Reverend Andrew Bowyer: “O Lord, take Thou a live coal from off Thine altar and touch our lips,” he would shout, in a caricature of our minister’s fine Edinburgh accent; then, with a howl of laughter, “Wouldn’t he be surprised if his prayer was answered!” If he hoped to make an atheist of me, this was where he went wrong; I knew a metaphor when I heard one, and I liked metaphor better than reason. I have known many atheists since Sam, and they all fall down on metaphor.

Once a day, whether morning or evening, bring a small offering of food to the altar, then put your hands together in quiet prayer.

The challenge before us is not to “Make America Great Again” but to “Make Evangelicalism Born Again.” And that’s not a strategy. That’s a prayer. Maybe when we’re lost enough, we can re-find the Way. Maybe all the dangers, toils, and snares are worth it. Maybe only when we lose our religion will we be, once again, amazed by grace.

men of Fish were beyond all religion—the barest and most savage tenets of even Christianity could gain no foothold on that barren rock—so there was no altar, no priest, no sacrifice; only each night at seven the silent concourse by the shanty depot, a congregation who lifted up a prayer of dim, anaemic wonder.

I would become altar-builder, too, that I would place photos of ancestors and goblets of water at my windowsill. But my daily candle-lighting and batá prayers were warm-ups. My main practice was the plays. I was building the throne.

Your country? How came it yours? Before the Pilgrims landed we were here. Here we have brought our three gifts and mingled them with yours: a gift of story and song—soft, stirring melody in an ill-harmonized and unmelodious land; the gift of sweat and brawn to beat back the wilderness, conquer the soil, and lay the foundations of this vast economic empire two hundred years earlier than your weak hands could have done it; the third, a gift of the Spirit. Around us the history of the land has centred for thrice a hundred years; out of the nation’s heart we have called all that was best to throttle and subdue all that was worst; fire and blood, prayer and sacrifice, have billowed over this people, and they have found peace only in the altars of the God of Right. Nor has our gift of the Spirit been merely passive. Actively we have woven ourselves with the very warp and woof of this nation,—we fought their battles, shared their sorrow, mingled our blood with theirs, and generation after generation have pleaded with a headstrong, careless people to despise not Justice, Mercy, and Truth, lest the nation be smitten with a curse. Our song, our toil, our cheer, and warning have been given to this nation in blood-brotherhood. Are not these gifts worth the giving? Is not this work and striving? Would America have been America without her Negro people?

In Genesis, as later interpreted by Jewish and Christian writers, Eve is said to be “formed out of man,” the mother of all things yet sinner and seductress. In Hinduism, according to the second-century B.C. Laws of Manu, no woman is independent, but each lives under the control of her father or her husband. Ancient Confucianism similarly advocated a hierarchical societal order based on gender differences. The three major Western religions—Judaism, Christianity, and Islam—traditionally segregated women during worship, giving them a place removed from the high altar or the central point of prayer.

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Church services often include ritualized group processes that can induce trance states. Music, prayers, and a mesmerizing preaching style can create a state of relaxation and suggestibility. When a congregation proceeds to sing and pray aloud together with enthusiasm and speaking in tongues, an individual can easily conform. The aroused emotions and the group consensus about reality are convincing enough to inspire a response to get saved, “rededicated,” or “filled with the Spirit.” In the typical evangelical service, after a rousing sermon comes the “altar call.” This routine is strikingly similar to hypnotic induction methods in other contexts: The key is to get people to focus attention inward rather than outward, so that they see, hear, and feel internally rather than externally, through the five senses. At such times, you are much more susceptible to suggestions and less able to use your critical abilities. After an emotional sermon, which has likely already employed manipulative techniques such as fear and guilt, you are asked to bow your head and close your eyes. Soft music plays while everyone focuses inward. Quiet hymns repeat “Jesus is calling” or “Just as I am.” The minister then speaks softly into the microphone, suggesting that the Holy Spirit is present and moving in the congregation.

Although the move from Calvinism to Arminianism began in the seminary classroom, it came to have a profound influence on American culture through the events of the Second Great Awakening. The revivals of the first Great Awakening were supernatural events, wrought by the power of God’s Spirit. The same could be said of the new wave of revivals that began in the 1790s and continued well into the nineteenth century. Like its predecessor, the Second Great Awakening began and flourished in Calvinist churches, where it was believed that because revival is a work of God alone, it is “peculiarly illustrative of the glorious doctrines of grace.”29 However, since it was only natural to want the awakening to continue, some Christian leaders—especially Methodists—sought to devise methods for promoting revival. Their concern for personal salvation was commendable. However, rather than relying on God to bless the ordinary means of grace (prayer, the ministry of the Word, and the sacraments), they adopted the “New Measures” associated with the invitation system: the protracted camp meeting, the “anxious bench,” the altar call. These pragmatic techniques were susceptible to manipulation, especially where it was considered important to count the number of converts. Preachers stressed the necessity of “coming forward to receive Christ,” with the unintended consequence of con-fusing a human decision (to come forward) with a divine transformation (spiritual conversion). In short, there was a shift from revival to revivalism.30 This transition was rooted in an Arminian theology of conversion, which maintained that sinners were neutral—free to choose their own spiritual destiny. Whereas the Puritans had insisted that depravity prevented anyone from choosing for Christ apart from the prior work of the Holy Spirit, the new revivalists called on people to exercise their own ability to receive the gospel. Gardiner Spring described this as the difference between a revival that is “got up by man’s device” and one that is “brought down by the Spirit of God.”31 The difference can be illustrated by comparing Jonathan Edwards, who described revival as “a very extraordinary dispensation of Providence,”32 with Charles Finney, who insisted that a revival is not supernatural but the natural “result of the right use of the constituted means.” Like most revivalists, Finney explicitly rejected the doctrines of grace. Early in his ministry he left the Presbyterian church and repudiated Calvin’s views “on the subject of atonement, regeneration, faith, repentance, the slavery of the will, or any of the kindred doctrines.”33 The view he eventually adopted was not merely Arminian but actually Pelagian. Finney believed that sinners could initiate their own conversion: “Instead of telling sinners to use the means of grace and pray for a new heart, we called on them to make themselves a new heart and a new spirit and pressed the duty of instant surrender to God.

my people used to sit outside their temples for a long time meditating and preparing themselves before entering. Then they would virtually creep to the altar to offer their petitions and afterwards would again sit a long time outside, this time to “breathe life” into their prayers. The Christians, when they came, just got up, uttered a few sentences, said AMEN and were done. For that reason my people called them haoles, ‘without breath,’ or those who failed to breathe life into their prayers.

He may not believe in a Christian God, but Hector found divinity in other places, Isaias could tell. And how could Isaias begrudge a man his prayer, even if it was at an altar of flowers?

We have seen that the Holy of Holies signified the new covenant. What was in the Holy of Holies? Hebrews 9:4 [437] speaks of the Holy of Holies as “having a golden altar.” The golden altar, which was the incense altar, was not in the Holy of Holies, but it belonged to the Holy of Holies. Notice that it does not say that the incense altar was in the Holy of Holies, but that the Holy of Holies had the incense altar. What is the function of the incense altar? It provides the way to come into God’s presence. The incense altar signifies the proper prayer with Christ in resurrection as the incense for our acceptance. Hence, it is the entrance into God’s presence. When I was in religion as a youth, I was taught to pray, “Our Father in heaven, hallowed be Thy name.” Although we prayed a great deal in that way, we never entered into the Holy of Holies. Actually, the more we prayed in that way, the more we remained in the outer court, or even outside the outer court. That is not the experience of the incense altar. When we pray in the Lord’s name with Him as the fragrant resurrection frankincense, we immediately enter into the Holy of Holies.

Lord, make me less like Jonah and more like Jesus. Save me from being the kind of person who cares more about my comfort, my reputation, and my success than I do about the people You are calling me to serve. Help me to keep all of my dreams on Your altar and be ready at all times to respond with faith and obedience to Your call.

I have a complicated spiritual history. Here's the short version: I was born into a Mass-going Roman Catholic family, but my parents left the church when I was in the fifth grade and joined a Southern Baptist church—yes, in Connecticut. I am an alumnus of Wheaton College—Billy Graham's alma mater in Illinois, not the Seven Sisters school in Massachusetts—and the summer between my junior and senior year of (Christian) high school, I spent a couple of months on a missions trip performing in whiteface as a mime-for-the-Lord on the streets of London's West End. Once I left home for Wheaton, I ended up worshiping variously (and when I could haul my lazy tuckus out of bed) at the nondenominational Bible church next to the college, a Christian hippie commune in inner-city Chicago left over from the Jesus Freak movement of the 1960s, and an artsy-fartsy suburban Episcopal parish that ended up splitting over same-sex issues. My husband of more than a decade likes to describe himself as a “collapsed Catholic,” and for more than twenty-five years, I have been a born-again Christian. Groan, I know. But there's really no better term in the current popular lexicon to describe my seminal spiritual experience. It happened in the summer of 1980 when I was about to turn ten years old. My parents had both had born-again experiences themselves about six months earlier, shortly before our family left the Catholic church—much to the shock and dismay of the rest of our extended Irish and/or Italian Catholic family—and started worshiping in a rented public grade school gymnasium with the Southern Baptists. My mother had told me all about what she'd experienced with God and how I needed to give my heart to Jesus so I could spend eternity with him in heaven and not frying in hell. I was an intellectually stubborn and precocious child, so I didn't just kneel down with her and pray the first time she told me about what was going on with her and Daddy and Jesus. If something similar was going to happen to me, it was going to happen in my own sweet time. A few months into our family's new spiritual adventure, after hearing many lectures from Mom and sitting through any number of sermons at the Baptist church—each ending with an altar call and an invitation to make Jesus the Lord of my life—I got up from bed late one Sunday night and went downstairs to the den where my mother was watching television. I couldn't sleep, which was unusual for me as a child. I was a champion snoozer. In hindsight I realize something must have been troubling my spirit. Mom went into the kitchen for a cup of tea and left me alone with the television, which she had tuned to a church service. I don't remember exactly what the preacher said in his impassioned, sweaty sermon, but I do recall three things crystal clearly: The preacher was Jimmy Swaggart; he gave an altar call, inviting the folks in the congregation in front of him and at home in TV land to pray a simple prayer asking Jesus to come into their hearts; and that I prayed that prayer then and there, alone in the den in front of the idiot box. Seriously. That is precisely how I got “saved.” Alone. Watching Jimmy Swaggart on late-night TV. I also spent a painful vacation with my family one summer at Jim and Tammy Faye Bakker's Heritage USA Christian theme park in South Carolina. But that's a whole other book…

Do not be led away by diverse and strange teachings, for it is good for the heart to be strengthened by grace, not by foods, which have not benefited those devoted to them. We have an altar from which those who serve the tent have no right to eat. (Heb. 13:9–10)

She lit a candle and set it down at the altar amid a sea of tiny flames. Each of them the same, as if all the dreams and desires of people were indistinguishable from one another. The prayer of a female poet, perhaps the only one in Eivar, no different from a mother’s prayer for her sickening infant or a farmer’s prayer for a good harvest.

Once the doors of the temple were open, the priest’s day would begin, and the first task of the day was to feed YHWH breakfast in a three-part daily morning ritual (de Vaux, 1997, 449-50).  There was a whole burnt offering (translated as a “holocaust offering” in older translations) that the priest performed, most likely on the bronze altar in the hêkal.  The priest would cut the throat of a one-year old lamb without any blemishes and pour its blood around the altar.  The priest would then skin the lamb and cut it into four parts, which the priest then placed into the fire on top of the altar.  While one priest was doing this, another priest pulled bread, made with a particular recipe, from the oven and placed it on the table in the hêkal along with a jug of wine (de Vaux, 1997, 415-16).  A third priest took a shovel, scooped some charcoal out of the golden altar, sprinkled perfume onto the glowing embers and returned the scented coals to the altar (de Vaux, 1997, 423).  The priests then said their morning prayers, and one example of such a morning prayer appears in Psalm 5 (de Vaux, 1997, 458). After

Keep the altar of private prayer burning. This is the very life of all piety. The altars of church and family borrow their fires from here, so let this one burn well. Secret devotion is the very essence, evidence, and barometer of vital, experiential religion.

After many weeks together, we knew it wasn’t enough to confess our sins; we had to turn from them from that time forward. Deeply humbled, we penned prayers of absolute surrender to God and offered ourselves as living sacrifices to him, to live crucified lives, dead to sin and alive to Christ. We yielded our full selves at any price to obedience to his will for our lives. It was a fearsome step to be sure, but it was like pouring pure fuel on the heart-fires God had ignited. Fully surrendered hearts, lying unrestricted on the altar of personal sacrifice, are finally able to burn freely. A few months passed, and when I met again with my friend Jillian, my heart was bursting to invite her to receive the same gift I had received. So I invited Jillian to pick up her own pen, cry out to God, make her confessions, and plead with him to help her write her way back to spiritual health, true fellowship, and passionate intimacy. I had no doubt that, if she were willing, God would revive and ignite her spirit just as he had mine.

When trials come upon you do not fear. Satan is tempting you to fret, and discouraging you. Do not give in to the enemy, but stand strong in the faith. God is testing you to see if you will deny yourself, and lay down your desires to seek Him and obey Him. He wants an obedient servant not a sacrificial one. If we are trying to do something to please Him of our own accord without being led by the Spirit, we are acting like Saul who sought to sacrifice to the Lord. God also commanded Saul to destroy the Amalekites, but he only half-heartedly obeyed. He left the animals alive to sacrifice them to the Lord later. But God counted the animals as an abomination, along with the people, which is why He wanted them killed in their own land. If then they are an abomination why would He respect such an offering on His altar?

A young Tibetan child touches his head to the floor before the altar and recites a prayer, and I am led to a moment of contentment. This too is part of our struggle as Tibetans: to remind our children and ourselves that we are Tibetan.

Caravaggio to another. I’m sure that’s crossed Ariosto’s mind, Coffin considered. Wonder if he’s more focused on retrieving this one, or if he thinks it’s gone forever, like the Palermo Adoration. Coffin scanned the interior as he took his first step inside. Three officers, one detective, one frantic priest, one missing altarpiece. Three flanking chapels on either side of the nave, each with a piece of art or relic as the focal point, chairs aligned in each, and empty prayer candles, one confessional booth, made of dark, oiled wood, much younger than the church itself, curtain in the front right corner must lead to offices, no holy water in the font, telephone beside the entrance, alarm keypad, motion sensors two feet off the ground along the periphery and across the altar, no locks on the ground-floor windows, not good,

Paradoxically this life of kenotic prayer becomes a life of healing and integration as one includes in the gifts placed on the altar, one’s brokenness, grief, failures, sins, and mistakes. These too, are made holy by Jesus, to become a source of life and good news for others. As Richard Rohr explains so beautifully, in this life of consecration we come to understand that in the mystery of God’s redemption, everything about our lives “belongs.”9

Let us set apart special seasons for extraordinary prayer. For if this fire should be smothered beneath the ashes of a worldly conformity, it will dim the fire on the family altar, and lessen our influence both in the Church and in the world.

When the organ peals out its melodious tones, but the heart is not in the singing, do you think that God has ears like a man, which can be tickled with sweet sounds? Why have you brought Him down to your level? He is spiritual! The music that delights Him is the love of a true heart, the prayer of an anxious spirit! He has better music than all your organs and drums can ever bring to Him! If He wanted music, He would not have asked you, for winds and wave make melodies transcendently superior to all your chief musicians can compose! Does He want candles when His torch makes the mountains to be great altars smoking with the incense of praise to the God of Creation? Oh, Brothers and Sisters, I fear that it has been true of many who externally appeared to be devout, [that] ‘when they knew God, they glorified Him not as God!’ Weep over your sins; then have you glorified Him as God! Fall on your face and be nothing before the Most High; then you have glorified Him as God! Accept His righteousness. Adore His bleeding Son. Trust in His infinite compassion. Then you have glorified Him as God, for ‘God is a Spirit and they that worship Him must worship Him in spirit and in truth.’ How far, my dear hearers, have you complied with that requisition?”–1892, Sermon 2257

Before the holy of holies, the most holy place, is the altar of incense, a gold-laden structure whose rising smoke represents the perpetual need of intercessory prayer on behalf of the people.” This was yet another need for the people that no human high priest could attain to. Eleazer brought his censer from the sacrifice, whose smoke mixed with the altar of incense to protect him from what he was about to do next: enter the holy of holies, the very presence of Yahweh. This was the only time each year that this could be done. If approached on any other day by the high priest or anyone else, Yahweh would strike them dead.

Oblation "Your prayers are your light; Your devotion is your strength; Sleep is the enemy of both. Your life is the only opportunity that life can give you. If you ignore it, if you waste it, You will only turn to dust." - Rabi'a The terror that brings me to these words, The horror and sickness I feel that words Are not enough, the sin I make in speaking, How can I rail against the pain without Pain itself balling in the gut and forcing itself through my throat? I’d fly in the wind And merge with its velocity, drive my car At the edge of the cliff and go over its rim, If I thought I’d come closer to the pain That they felt. The suffering of the child In the suburban home, the tear in the eye Of women and infants gathering food from ruins, Can I sharpen the edge of my knife On the rocks that smoke on the horizon, Rasp its teeth on the steel girders And console the sting of death? Let me bring these sparks of confusion to the altar, Set them on the pyre and merge into the light. Then, then, will I find what I am looking for? Find reality beyond time, the oneness that animates All life, pulls together these fragments and ties The knots in my muscles? I have nothing to offer On the altar but this flesh, this desire of desire, The lie and the fear that the flesh bears. Then, then, will I find what I am looking for? Find reality beyond time, the oneness that animates All life, pulls together these fragments and ties The knots in my muscles? I have nothing to offer On the altar but this flesh, this desire of desire, The lie and the fear that the flesh bears.

April 24 MORNING “And because of all this we make a sure covenant.” — Nehemiah 9:38 THERE are many occasions in our experience when we may very rightly, and with benefit, renew our covenant with God. After recovery from sickness when, like Hezekiah, we have had a new term of years added to our life, we may fitly do it. After any deliverance from trouble, when our joys bud forth anew, let us again visit the foot of the cross, and renew our consecration. Especially, let us do this after any sin which has grieved the Holy Spirit, or brought dishonour upon the cause of God; let us then look to that blood which can make us whiter than snow, and again offer ourselves unto the Lord. We should not only let our troubles confirm our dedication to God, but our prosperity should do the same. If we ever meet with occasions which deserve to be called “crowning mercies” then, surely, if He hath crowned us, we ought also to crown our God; let us bring forth anew all the jewels of the divine regalia which have been stored in the jewel-closet of our heart, and let our God sit upon the throne of our love, arrayed in royal apparel. If we would learn to profit by our prosperity, we should not need so much adversity. If we would gather from a kiss all the good it might confer upon us, we should not so often smart under the rod. Have we lately received some blessing which we little expected? Has the Lord put our feet in a large room? Can we sing of mercies multiplied? Then this is the day to put our hand upon the horns of the altar, and say, “Bind me here, my God; bind me here with cords, even for ever.” Inasmuch as we need the fulfillment of new promises from God, let us offer renewed prayers that our old vows may not be dishonoured. Let us this morning make with Him a sure covenant, because of the pains of Jesus which for the last month we have been considering with gratitude.

Midnight Mass was required, and at Saint Aloysius, it lasted ninety minutes. Because the church was crowded with what Mother called “one timers” who attended Mass only on Christmas Eve, we arrived at 11:00 p.m. to get a seat near the front. The church was splendidly decorated. Poinsettias bloomed everywhere, huge wreaths and sprigs of holly tied with red bows hung on every pillar, potent incense enveloped us, and six tall candles burning on the main altar lighted our way out of the long, cold darkness. Carols sung from the choir loft filled the church and evoked the sensuous beauty and mystery of this holy night. While other children chatted with friends and showed off their holiday apparel, My PareNTs, gail aNd i, Mara aNd NiCho- las; ChrisTMas, 1974; CaNToN, ohio I sat quietly, awaiting the chimes that announced the first minutes of Christmas and heralded the solemn service: the priest’s white and gold vestments, his ritualized gestures, the Latin prayers, the incense, the communion service with the transfigured bread and wine, and the priest’s blessings from the high altar that together

The value of prayers and affirmations are rooted not in the lyrical content of said language, but rather in the vibratory and numerical value of the words spoken.

Gracious and beloved Lord, at the beginning of this time of prayer, I lift up to you my heart overflowing with gratitude for the many gifts and blessings that you have given me. I dedicate this time of worship and prayer, and the graceful energy that shall flow outward from the altar of my heart as an offering for the welfare of all your children. May your Holy Spirit take me by the hand and lead me deep into the center of my heart, into your Holy of Holies. Amen.

The Puritans didn’t have anything in their worship service that wasn’t mentioned in the Bible. So there weren’t any prayer books or hymns. There wasn’t an altar with candles. There wasn’t any heat, either, so some people brought little foot warmers filled with burning coals. We kids sat with the women and were expected to keep quiet. The only time we got to open our mouths was to sing psalms and say “Amen.” “This doesn’t look like a church--it looks more like a storeroom.” “It is a storeroom. But the building isn’t important. It is the people who are the church.” “Children--hush!

The interior journey of the soul from the wilds of sin into the enjoyed Presence of God is beautifully illustrated in the Old Testament tabernacle. The returning sinner first entered the outer court where he offered a blood sacrifice on the brazen altar and washed himself in the laver that stood near it. Then through a veil he passed into the holy place where no natural light could come, but the golden candlestick which spoke of Jesus the Light of the World threw its soft glow over all. There also was the shewbread to tell of Jesus, the Bread of Life, and the altar of incense, a figure of unceasing prayer.

More to the point, there are times when dancing on tables is the most authentic prayer in reach, even if it pocks the table and clears the room.

Have you ever wondered why some people at your new job displayed a passionate animosity toward you even though you were meeting them for the very first time? It’s not personal. The answer lies in understanding the dynamics of spiritual altars. Whenever two individuals carrying two opposing altars come into contact with each other, the spirit of animosity between them is proof that their two altars are now engaged in a spiritual battle.

It mattered nothing to me that someone was Christian or whatever else. It wasn't important what name a man gave Heaven, for the names were many, and many too the altars and shrines, rituals and prayers.

A prayerful woman knows how to stay on the Altar. She finds her strength from the Almighty.

Prayer knows no boundaries; it transcends any forces of darkness. If you want to overcome the forces of darkness, present yourself at the altar of prayer.

Keep your prayer altar active until the end. There is so much going on in this world. You need prayer to help you stand.

When God says, ‘weapons down’, do not pick them up, because He knows why. He has fought many battles since the beginning of time. Go on your knees and learn better ways to fight. The Mighty One will give you great triumph on the prayer Altar.

in a so-called Christian Church, a brilliant plate of silver, "in the form of a SUN," is so placed on the altar, that every one who adores at that altar must bow down in lowly reverence before that image of the "Sun." Whence, I ask, could that have come, but from the ancient sunworship, or the worship of Baal? And when the wafer is so placed that the silver "SUN" is fronting the "round" wafer, whose "roundness" is so important an element in the Romish Mystery, what can be the meaning of it, but just to show to those who have eyes to see, that the "Wafer" itself is only another symbol of Baal, or the Sun. If the sun-divinity was worshipped in Egypt as "the Seed," or in Babylon as the "Corn," precisely so is the wafer adored in Rome. "Bread-corn of the elect, have mercy upon us," is one of the appointed prayers of the Roman Litany, addressed to the wafer, in the celebration of the mass.

This witness that we give, this invitation to become co-citizens of the heavenly Jerusalem with us, is fostered within the culture of the church. Here is a key truth: the only way we are able to “participate in everything as citizens” is by ongoing participation in the life of God’s people. I don’t mean following a celebrity preacher on Twitter and Instagram. I don’t mean listening to our favorite theologian’s podcast or the local Christian radio station on our morning commute. I mean butts in the pews, eyes on the altar, ears attuned to the pulpit, mouths chewing the bread of the Supper, tongues red with Communion wine, hands clasping the hands of fellow believers, vocal cords singing hymns, knees bent in prayer. The only way we can be fully present in our modern Babylons is by simultaneously being fully present, bodily present, in a congregation we call home.

Every morning, after prayers, the pirate leader removed his black loincloth which was his only garb and bent over the poop in front of the altar while each of his men filed past him in devout silence, kissed his exposed arse and emitted a sharp bark of adulation while slapping his buttocks briefly with the flat of their blades.

One of my favorite prayers in Gates of Prayer, the New Union Prayer Book, is called “Welcoming Sabbath” and it goes like this: Our noisy day has now descended with the sun beyond our sight. In the silence of our praying place we close the door upon the hectic joys and fears, the accomplishments and anguish of the week we have left behind. What was but moments ago the substance of our life has become memory; what we did must now be woven into what we are. On this day we shall not do, but be. We are to walk the path of our humanity, no longer ride un-seeing through a world we do not touch and only vaguely sense. No longer can we tear the world apart to make our fire. On this day heat and warmth and light must come from deep within ourselves.6

The Holy Mass is a prayer itself, even the highest prayer that exists. It is the sacrifice, dedicated by our Redeemer at the Cross, and repeated every day on the alter. If you wish to hear Mass as it should be heard, you must follow with eye, heart, and mouth all that happens at the altar. Further, you must pray with the Priest the holy words said by him in the Name of Christ and which Christ says by him. You have to associate your heart with the holy feelings which are contained in these words and in this manner you ought to follow all that happens at the altar. When acting in this way you have prayed Holy Mass.

Real men pray. Abraham built an altar, then pitched his tent. His altar had priority.

But such distancing will still involve deliberate performance of the works of mercy that define the Catholic faith: feeding the hungry, caring for the poor, visiting the sick, striving for justice—finding Jesus “in the least of these.”2 Such chosen forms of faith may involve, for many, unauthorized expressions of prayer and worship—egalitarian, authentic, ecumenical—having nothing to do with diocesan borders, parish boundaries, or the sacrament of Holy Orders. That may be especially true in so-called intentional communities that lift up the leadership of women. These already exist, everywhere. In this connection, I think of my old partner Sister Gloria and what I belatedly learned from her. No matter who presides at whatever form the altar takes, such adaptations of Eucharistic observance return to the theological essence of the sacrament. Christ is experienced not through the officiant, but through the faith of the whole community. “For where two or three are gathered in my name,” Jesus said, “there am I in the midst of them.”3

While in Washington State I saw a tremendous deliverance of an Indian girl. She was terribly immoral, a harlot. She drifted in that night full of the devil and tried to tear up the meeting. She cursed me violently. I prayed for her one time, and God knocked her on the floor. Then I sat down on the altar and began to sing choruses, praising God and thanking Him for the victory. She lay there cursing, blaspheming, and saying, “I’m not coming out. I’m not coming out.” We kept singing. In a few moments the power of God swept over her and swept that mess out of her. She became clean and pure. The next day she was in our morning service as changed as dark to day. It came about through one prayer and then the singing and praising of God. Since faith is a praise unto God, that makes faith lighthearted. If you are struggling with faith with a long face and a sad heart, saying, “I’m trying,” that’s not faith. You’re trying something, but it’s not faith. Faith never tries. Faith commands. Faith expects. Faith receives. And faith praises.

The spreading out of garments likewise belongs to the tradition of Israelite kingship (cf. 2 Kings 9:13). What the disciples do is a gesture of enthronement in the tradition of the Davidic kingship, and it points to the Messianic hope that grew out of the Davidic tradition. The pilgrims who came to Jerusalem with Jesus are caught up in the disciples’ enthusiasm. They now spread their garments on the street along which Jesus passes. They pluck branches from the trees and cry out verses from Psalm 118, words of blessing from Israel’s pilgrim liturgy, which on their lips become a Messianic proclamation: “Hosanna! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord! Blessed is the kingdom of our father David that is coming! Hosanna in the highest!” (Mk 11:9-10; cf. Ps 118:26). This acclamation is recounted by all four evangelists, albeit with some variation in detail. There is no need here to go into the differences, important though they are for “tradition criticism” and for the theological vision of the individual evangelists. Let us try merely to understand the essential outlines, especially since the Christian liturgy has adopted this greeting, interpreting it in the light of the Church’s Easter faith. First comes the exclamation “Hosanna!” Originally this was a word of urgent supplication, meaning something like: Come to our aid! The priests would repeat it in a monotone on the seventh day of the Feast of Tabernacles, while processing seven times around the altar of sacrifice, as an urgent prayer for rain. But as the Feast of Tabernacles gradually changed from a feast of petition into one of praise, so too the cry for help turned more and more into a shout of jubilation (cf. Lohse, TDNT IX, p. 682). By the time of Jesus, the word had also acquired Messianic overtones.

Without question, Isabella was fervently religious and spent many hours in prayer at her private altar seeking to divine God’s purpose for her life, obsessively attending mass, even living inside a suite of rooms positioned above the chair at the Cathedral in Toledo when she was visiting Castile’s spiritual center.

Frederick Douglass condemned the measure and said the “shame of slavery was not just the South’s, that the whole nation was complicit in it.”8 In his 1852 Independence Day address, Douglass thundered at the hypocrisy of the new laws that bol stered the spread of slavery, condemning them in the words of the Declaration of Independence: Fellow citizens: Pardon me, and allow me to ask, why I am called upon to speak here today? What have I or those I represent to do with your national independence? Are the great principles of political freedom and natural justice, embodied in that Declaration of Independence, extended to us? And am I, therefore, called upon to bring our humble offering to the national altar, and to confess the benefits, and express devout gratitude for the blessing resulting from independence to us? . . . What to the American slave is your Fourth of July? I answer, a day that reveals him to be more than all the days of the year, the gross injustice and cruelty to which he is the constant victim. To him your celebration is a sham; your boasted liberty an unholy license; your national greatness, swelling vanity; your sounds of rejoicing are empty and heartless; your denunciation of tyrants, brass- fronted impudence; your shouts of liberty and equality, hollow mockery; your prayers and hymns, your sermons and thanksgivings, with all your religious parade and solemnity, are to him mere bombast, fraud, deception, impiety, and hypocrisy— a thin veil to cover up the crimes which would disgrace a nation of savages. There is not a nation on earth guilty of practices more shocking and bloodier than the people of these United States at this very hour. Go where you may, search out where you will . . . and you will say with me that, for revolting barbarity and shameless hypocrisy, America reigns without a rival.

WHEN HE OPENED the seventh seal, there was silence in heaven for about half an hour. And I saw the seven angels who stand before God, and to them were given seven trumpets. Then another angel, having a golden censer, came and stood at the altar. He was given much incense, that he should offer it with the prayers of all the saints upon the golden altar which was before the throne. And the smoke of the incense, with the prayers of the saints, ascended before God from the angel’s hand. Then the angel took the censer, filled it with fire from the altar, and threw it to the earth. And there were noises, thunderings, lightnings, and an earthquake. So the seven angels who had the seven trumpets prepared themselves to sound.” - Revelation 8:1-

WHEN HE OPENED the seventh seal, there was silence in heaven for about half an hour. And I saw the seven angels who stand before God, and to them were given seven trumpets. Then another angel, having a golden censer, came and stood at the altar. He was given much incense, that he should offer it with the prayers of all the saints upon the golden altar which was before the throne. And the smoke of the incense, with the prayers of the saints, ascended before God from the angel’s hand. Then the angel took the censer, filled it with fire from the altar, and threw it to the earth. And there were noises, thunderings, lightnings, and an earthquake. So the seven angels who had the seven trumpets prepared themselves to sound.” - Revelation 8:1-6

By the way, did you know that you were my confirmation present (there's also a kind of Jewish confirmation)? I was born in '83, so when you were born I was 13 years old; the 13th birthday is a special celebration. In the temple I had to recite a prayer---up by the altar---I had learned with difficulty, then give a small speech (also memorized) at home as well. I also received many presents. But I imagine I wasn't completely satisfied, since one present was still missing; I demanded it from heaven, but heaven waited until the 10th of August.

Like the patriarchs of old, those who profess to love God should erect an altar to the Lord wherever they pitch their tent. If ever there was a time when every house should be a house of prayer, it is now. Fathers and mothers should often lift up their hearts to God in humble supplication for themselves and their children. Let the father, as priest of the household, lay upon the altar of God the morning and evening sacrifice, while the wife and children unite in prayer and praise. In such a household Jesus will love to tarry.

Choose to accept—truly accept—that you are a child of God, that He loves you, and that He has the power to help you. Choose to put everything—literally everything—on the altar before Him. Believing that you are His child, decide that your life belongs to Him and that you will use your agency to do His will. You may do this multiple times in your life, but never, never give up. Choose to put yourself in a position to have experiences with the Spirit of God through prayer, in scripture study, at Church meetings, in your home, and through wholesome interactions with others. When you feel the influence of the Spirit, you are beginning to be cleansed and strengthened. The light is being turned on, and where that light shines, the darkness of evil cannot be.

The ceremonial law was given by Christ. Even after it was no longer to be observed, Paul presented it before the Jews in its true position and value, showing its place in the plan of redemption and its relation to the work of Christ; and the great apostle pronounces this law glorious, worthy of its divine Originator. The solemn service of the sanctuary typified the grand truths that were to be revealed through successive generations. The cloud of incense ascending with the prayers of Israel represents his righteousness that alone can make the sinner’s prayer acceptable to God; the bleeding victim on the altar of sacrifice testified of a Redeemer to come; and from the holy of holies the visible token of the divine Presence shone forth. Thus through age after age of darkness and apostasy faith was kept alive in the hearts of men until the time came for the advent of the promised Messiah.

Private Prayers for the Priest Before Celebrating the Eucharist Purify our consciences, we beseech thee, Almighty God, that we may worthily hear and receive thy Holy Word, magnify thy Holy Name, and offer unto thee the spotless sacrifice of thy Son, even Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen. or Cleanse our consciences, we beseech thee, O God, by thy visitation, that thy Son our Lord Jesus Christ, when he cometh, may find in us a dwelling place made ready for himself; who liveth and reigneth with thee and the Holy Spirit, ever one God, world without end. Amen. or Be present, be present, O Jesus, our great High Priest, as you were present with your disciples, and be known to us in the breaking of bread; who lives and reigns with the Father and the Holy Spirit, now and for ever. Amen. After Celebrating the Eucharist Blessed, praised, worshipped, hallowed and adored be Jesus Christ on his throne of glory in heaven, in the most holy Sacrament of the altar, and in the hearts of his faithful people (and may the souls of the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace). Amen. or By the power of the Holy Spirit may I be a reasonable, holy, and living sacrifice to you all the days of my life, O Lord. Amen. or O Lord Jesus Christ, who in a wonderful Sacrament hast left unto us a memorial of thy passion: Grant us, we beseech thee, so to venerate the sacred mysteries of thy Body and Blood, that we may ever perceive within ourselves the fruit of thy redemption; who livest and reignest with the Father and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen. Prayers for use at the Offertory Offering of the Bread Blessed are you. Lord God of all creation; through your of the Bread goodness we have this bread to offer, which earth has given and human hands have made. It will become for us the Bread of Heaven.       Response:   Blessed be God forever. Preparation of the Cup By the Mystery of this water and wine may we come to of the Cup share in the divinity of Christ, who humbled himself to share in our humanity. Offering of the Cup Blessed are you, Lord God of all creation; through your goodness we have this wine to offer, fruit of the vine and work of human hands. It will become for us the Cup of Salvation.       Response:   Blessed be God forever. Of the Alms: Receive, O Lord, these gifts presented by your people for the work of your Church. At the Lavabo: Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me. or Lord, wash away my iniquity and cleanse me from my sin. or I will wash my hands among the innocent, Lord, and walk around your altar, that I may tell of your wondrous deeds.

Footsteps in the Sand I’m journeying the path of Truth Not knowing where it leads Walking with my head bowed And counting prayers with beads . On a course, well worn by time From the first man to the last, I’m wearied by the distance And wearied by the fast . I paid the toll of charity To walk down wisdom’s way But will I have the discipline To stay the course today . Fleeing a field of falsehood Holding Proverbs for my flight I sacrificed illusion On an altar made of Light . Will I find the Philosopher’s Stone, The Ark or the Holy Grail, Or stumble upon a desolate place, Of brimstone, fire and hail . Are Ancient Mysteries up ahead To heal the blind, the sick, the lame A Phoenix in the ashes Or a tempest I must tame . Maybe i’ll walk on water, Turn base metal into gold Maybe i’ll write the future And watch it all unfold . I drink the waters of Elijah Pool On the Father’s reality Hoping to ascend like Enoch, The bonds of mortality . I’m walking towards the Light of Truth With God holding my right hand Following the path of Prophets Who left Footsteps in the Sand

When evil altars are invoked, great destinies are altered

¡Zape! (Shoo!) Go away, go away, espíritu maligno (bad spirit)!” they sang. “Go back to where you came from!” The festive musical celebration combined the prayers and songs with expressive dancing to the rhythm of percussion and string instruments, which accompanied the child’s ascent into heaven, where she would become an angel. Women, men and children ate, drank, prayed, sang and danced. They also played games like la gallina ciega (the blind chicken) where children tried to escape the touch of a blindfolded child who would walk around trying to feel for them. Whoever she touched was disqualified from the game. The baquiné lasted throughout the night. In a time when so many children perished to disease, this was a way for the child’s loved ones to say good-bye and endure the painful loss. But when all were gone, the crude reality set in. Manuel will never forget the image of those poor parents, devastated, sitting alone right next to the altar where their child lay dead, weeping desperately at her loss. He prayed for Ana’s soul. He prayed for those parents. And he prayed that he would never have to suffer the agony of losing a child.

An example of this activism was rendered by one of America’s newest and most controversial sects, the Mormons. Joseph Smith, the movement’s founder, was a committed restorationist, and in October 1841 he sent his personal Apostle, Orson Hyde, on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. Climbing the Mount of Olives, Hyde erected an altar and beseeched God to “restore the kingdom unto Israel—raise up Jerusalem as its capital, and continue her people [as] a distinct nation and government.” Mormons would later integrate that prayer into their liturgy and, on the site of Hyde’s altar, build a branch of Brigham Young University.

The incense, ascending with the prayers of Israel, represents the merits and intercession of Christ, his perfect righteousness, which through faith is imputed to his people, and which can alone make the worship of sinful beings acceptable to God. Before the veil of the most holy place was an altar of perpetual intercession, before the holy, an altar of continual atonement. By blood and by incense God was to be approached—symbols pointing to the great Mediator, through whom sinners may approach Jehovah, and through whom alone mercy and salvation can be granted to the repentant, believing soul.

As the priests morning and evening entered the holy place at the time of incense, the daily sacrifice was ready to be offered upon the altar in the court without. This was a time of intense interest to the worshipers who assembled at the tabernacle. Before entering into the presence of God through the ministration of the priest, they were to engage in earnest searching of heart and confession of sin. They united in silent prayer, with their faces toward the holy place. Thus their petitions ascended with the cloud of incense, while faith laid hold upon the merits of the promised Saviour prefigured by the atoning sacrifice. The hours appointed for the morning and the evening sacrifice [354] were regarded as sacred, and they came to be observed as the set time for worship throughout the Jewish nation. And when in later times the Jews were scattered as captives in distant lands, they still at the appointed hour turned their faces toward Jerusalem and offered up their petitions to the God of Israel. In this custom Christians have an example for morning and evening prayer. While God condemns a mere round of ceremonies, without the spirit of worship, he looks with great pleasure upon those who love him, bowing morning and evening to seek pardon for sins committed and to present their requests for needed blessings.

In so many multifarious ways, John Henry Newman has been a blessing to the Church. How appropriate, therefore, that the Church has now conferred a great blessing upon Newman by raising him to the altar. The beatified Newman is in the Presence of the Beatific Vision. He has achieved the only goal for which life is worth living. As such, praise should make way for prayers. Blessed John Henry Newman, historian, theologian, philosopher, and poet, pray for us.

I had a strong sense of the mystery: I'd seen Donald physically shudder at the altar as the familiar words he was chanting suddenly gripped him. I'd heard my spiritual director say his breath was still taken away every time he celebrated the Eucharist. “The Table's a threshold, a paper-thin place, luminous, where heaven and humans meet,” Jeff told me. “It could be anywhere—a room, a jail cell; I could be ego-focused or doing a shitty job remembering the prayers; but I still cross that threshold.

How the Twelve Steps Relate to Soulmaking 1. We admitted we were powerless over alcohol—that our lives had become unmanageable. This prompts the ego to yield its ego centrism. 2. Came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity. This introduces the idea of a higher unconscious/nous being present as a resource for change. 3. Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood Him. Here is further letting go by the ego. This links the higher unconscious to God, but it allows those not yet theistic to participate. If one cannot believe in God yet, at least they can still activate the higher unconscious. 4. Made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves. In these next steps, we see that purgation is necessary for deeper illumination: 5. Admitted to God, to ourselves, and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs. 6. Were entirely ready to have God remove all these defects of character. 7. Humbly asked Him to remove our shortcomings. 8. Made a list of all persons we had harmed, and became willing to make amends to them all. 9. Made direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others. This follows Jesus’ instruction: “So if you are offering your gift at the altar, and there remember that your brother has something against you, leave your gift there before the altar and go; first be reconciled to your brother, and then come and offer your gift (Matthew 5:23, 24, RSV).” 10. Continued to take personal inventory and when we were wrong promptly admitted it. 11. Sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with God, as we understood Him, praying only for knowledge of His will for us and the power to carry that out. Here we see the main point I am making at this time—acknowledgement that meditation is an important, necessary step. Taking the issues raised in the above steps to the still point and offering them to God for healing, aids transformation. 12. Having had a spiritual awakening as the result of these Steps, we tried to carry this message to alcoholics, and to practice these principles in all our affairs.

Before I ever made it “official” by saying a prayer or walking down the aisle or kneeling at an altar, I was on fire for the Lord.

But, in special, we detest and refuse the usurped authority of that Roman Antichrist upon the Scriptures of God, upon the Kirk, the civil magistrate, and consciences of men; all his tyrannous laws made upon indifferent things against our Christian liberty; his erroneous doctrine against the sufficiency of the written Word, the perfection of the law, the office of Christ, and His blessed evangel; his corrupted doctrine concerning original sin, our natural inability and rebellion to God's law, our justification by faith only, our imperfect sanctification and obedience to the law; the nature, number, and use of the holy sacraments; his five bastard sacraments, with all his rites, ceremonies, and false doctrine, added to the ministration of the true sacraments without the word of God; his cruel judgment against infants departing without the sacrament; his absolute necessity of baptism; his blasphemous opinion of transubstantiation, or real presence of Christ's body in the elements, and receiving of the same by the wicked, or bodies of men; his dispensations with solemn oaths, perjuries, and degrees of marriage forbidden in the Word; his cruelty against the innocent divorced; his devilish mass; his blasphemous priesthood; his profane sacrifice for sins of the dead and the quick; his canonization of men; calling upon angels or saints departed, worshipping of imagery, relics, and crosses; dedicating of kirks, altars, days; vows to creatures; his purgatory, prayers for the dead; praying or speaking in a strange language, with his processions, and blasphemous litany, and multitude of advocates or mediators; his manifold orders, auricular confession; his desperate and uncertain repentance; his general and doubtsome faith; his satisfactions of men for their sins; his justification by works, opus operatum, works of supererogation, merits, pardons, peregrinations, and stations; his holy water, baptizing of bells, conjuring of spirits, crossing, sayning, anointing, conjuring, hallowing of God's good creatures, with the superstitious opinion joined therewith; his worldly monarchy, and wicked hierarchy; his three solemn vows, with all his shavellings of sundry sorts; his erroneous and bloody decrees made at Trent, with all the subscribers or approvers of that cruel and bloody band, conjured against the Kirk of God. And finally, we detest all his vain allegories, rites, signs, and traditions brought in the Kirk, without or against the word of God, and doctrine of this true reformed Kirk; to the which we join ourselves willingly, in doctrine, faith, religion, discipline, and use of the holy sacraments, as lively members of the same in Christ our head: promising and swearing, by the great name of the LORD our GOD, that we shall continue in the obedience of the doctrine and discipline of this Kirk, and shall defend the same, according to our vocation and power, all the days of our lives; under the pains contained in the law, and danger both of body and soul in the day of God's fearful judgment.

certain man being in anxiety of mind, continually tossed about between hope and fear, and being on a certain day overwhelmed with grief, cast himself down in prayer before the altar in a church, and meditated within himself, saying, "Oh! if I but knew that I should still persevere," and presently heard within him a voice from God, "And if thou didst know it, what wouldst thou do? Do now what thou wouldst do then, and thou shalt be very secure.

…Who through faith…whose weakness was turned to strength…. —Hebrews 11:33–34 (NIV) I probably shouldn’t have checked my computer one last time after a very tiring day. One click and I was staring in disbelief at an e-mail from our church prayer planning committee leader with more than one hundred prayer requests attached! The petitions had been gathered at our Ash Wednesday service, and no one thought about who was going to pray for them once they were placed on the altar. Although we weren’t an intercessory prayer group (we plan prayer events), our committee was elected! I was even more overwhelmed when I glanced at the list: chemotherapy, job losses, marriages falling apart, the death of young adults, anger issues, serious child behavior problems… I felt absolutely unable—and unwilling—to tackle the job. So instead of praying, I escaped to the laundry room to take the clothes out of the dryer. As I vigorously shook out a shirt, this thought came to mind: Here you are thinking it’s impossible to pray for one hundred requests. God not only hears billions of requests an hour, He also follows through and acts on them. I printed out the requests and put them by the chair where I do my morning prayers, and each morning I prayed for ten of them until I finally finished all of them. Dear Creator of the universe, help me to say yes to the spiritual tasks You assign me even when I feel unequal to the task. Amen. —Karen Barber Digging Deeper: Mk 10:45; 1 Pt 4:10–11

Even now when I say your name it leaves my mouth in slow motion like a winged prayer; A hymn before the altar of love.

On December 8, Feast of the Immaculate Conception, she again returned, but so brilliant that her friend could not look at her. She visibly approached the term of her expiation. Finally, on December 10, during Holy Mass, she appeared in a still more wonderful state. After making a profound genuflexion before the altar, she thanked the pious girl for her prayers, and rose to Heaven in company with her guardian angel. Some time previous, this holy soul had made known that she suffered nothing more than the pain of loss, or the privation of God; but she added that that privation caused her intolerable torture. This revelation justifies the words of St. Chrysostom in his 47th Homily :” Imagine” he says, “all the torments of the world, you will not find one equal to the privation of the beatific vision of God” In fact, the torture of the pain of loss, of which we now treat, is, according to all the saints and all the doctors, much more acute than the pain of sense.

Herein lies another dimension of the glory of virginity before marriage. If it is our vocation to be married, rather than to enter monastic life or to remain single in the world, then our time of singleness is our time of catechesis [religious preparation]. It is our time to prepare and to learn about the glorious intimacy of marriage. We must learn how to be a devoted individual, to shed our own wants and desires and focus upon another. We must become diligent in our prayer and devotion to God. Finally, we must ready ourselves for the intimacy of coming to the “altar” of the marriage bed.

While not a religious man, I say my prayers more than I ever have, and not just at night. Since I never learned many of the prayers I was supposed to when I was an altar boy, I make up my own as I go. They are more like conversations with God, who plays the role of a friend who is a good listener. In my most common prayer, I list what I'm grateful for, and starting out each day like this reminds me what I have instead of what I don't. Sometimes my gratitude is for grand things like my life or health or friendships. At other times, it can be for something as silly or ordinary as a new toothbrush, or being thankful that I don't use an alarm clock. P6

How lovely is Your dwelling place, O LORD of Hosts. 2My soul longs, even faints, for the courts of the LORD; my heart and my flesh cry out for the living God. 3Even the sparrow has found a home, and the swallow a nest for herself where she places her young by Your altars, O LORD of Hosts, my King and my God. 4How blessed are those who dwell in Your house; they are ever praising You. Selah 5Blessed are those whose strength is in You, whose hearts are set on pilgrimage. 6As they pass through the Valley of Baca,a they make it a place of springs; even the autumn rain covers it with pools.b 7They go from strength to strength, until each appears before God in Zion. 8O LORD God of Hosts, hear my prayer; give ear, O God of Jacob. Selah 9Behold our shield, O God, and look with favor on the face of Your anointed. 10For better is one day in Your courts than a thousand elsewhere. I would rather be a doorkeeper in the house of my God than to dwell in the tents of the wicked. 11For the LORD God is a sun and a shield; the LORD gives grace and glory; He withholds no good thing from those who walk with integrity. 12O LORD of Hosts, how blessed is the man who trusts in You!

Your country? How came it yours? Before the Pilgrims landed we were here. Here we have brought our three gifts and mingled them with yours: a gift of story and song--soft, stirring melody in an ill-harmonized and unmelodious land; the gift of sweat and brawn to beat back the wilderness, conquer the soil, and lay the foundations of this vast economic empire two hundred years earlier than your weak hands could have done it; the third, a gift of the Spirit. Around us the history of the land has centred for thrice a hundred years; out of the nation's heart we have called all that was best to throttle and subdue all that was worst; fire and blood, prayer and sacri- fice, have billowed over this people, and they have found peace only in the altars of the God of Right. Nor has our gift of the Spirit been merely passive. Actively we have woven ourselves with the very warp and woof of this nation,--we fought their battles, shared their sorrow, mingled our blood with theirs, and generation after generation have pleaded with a headstrong, careless people to despise not Justice, Mercy, and Truth, lest the nation be smitten with a curse. Our song, our toil, our cheer, and warning have been given to this nation in blood-brotherhood. Are not these gifts worth the giving? Is not this work and striving? Would America have been America without her Negro people?

how to set up an altar, give offerings and prayers, and what to place on altars. Choosing deities is one thing, connecting and putting in work is another. Combine the two, selecting and connecting, and you have a powerful kinship.

HETTA’S BIRTHDAY. In accordance with my custom, I went to All Souls Church to give thanks for the daughter they told me would never come. I say I am giving thanks. But deep down, I wonder. Am I praising God or serving a penance? For each time I step into the church there is a nagging guilt at the core of me. When I pray, there are two voices inside my head, gabbling over one another. One cries thank you; the other forgive me. Today I felt, more powerful than ever, the weight of God’s disapproval pressing down on me as I slipped into the deserted church and took a pew. A force loving but sad, intolerably heavy. Saints gazed upon me from the old stained-glass windows left from Queen Mary’s reign. They seemed to shake their heads. I clasped my hands tighter. And as I closed my eyes, the words came to me in a torrent: How dare you? My eyelids snapped open. I felt suddenly very small. But even as I dropped to my knees, the voice came again. How dare you? My gaze flew to the front of the church, to the cross, soaring up before the altar. Who are you to create a life where I have refused it? I knew then that it was an answer to my prayers, to the nights I have spent on my knees asking why our family has suffered such humiliation: it was my fault. And I see it now. God has a plan for each and every one of us He creates. His plan for Josiah was a brilliant one, set at the centre of court. But that plan did not account for one factor: Hetta. Hetta befriended the gypsy and I, weak again, gave in to her demands. My sin looms so large that it has changed the path of my life. This idea haunted me all the way home. As I walked through the swirling leaves, as I tasted the musk of late October on the air, I kept asking myself why I had done it. I had three boys. Three! My mother would have given her right arm for only one. But I had wanted a girl. Another Mary to sit with me and walk with me, a mirror of my own childhood springing up at my feet. And wrong as it may be, I want her still.

I am speaking of the selfishness of good people, devout people, those who have succeeded through spiritual exercises and self-denial in being able to make the proud profession before the altar of the Most High, “Lord, I am not like the rest of men.” Yes, we have had the audacity at certain times of our lives to believe we are different from other men. And here is the deepest form of self-deception, dictated by self-centeredness at its worst: spiritual egotism. This most insidious form of egotism even uses piety and prayer for its own gain. … There is no limit to such self-deception. And the path, once entered upon, is so slippery that God has to treat us harshly to bring us back to our senses. But there is no other way of opening our eyes. It has to be painful. But often it isn't enough. Disaster, illness, disappointment hover like birds of prey over the poor carcass that had the temerity to say, “Lord, I am not like the rest of men.” How can we possibly entertain the idea that we are different from other men, when we shout, cry, feel afraid, lack determination, and behave atrociously just like everybody else?

I am speaking of the selfishness of good people, devout people, those who have succeeded through spiritual exercises and self-denial in being able to make the proud profession before the altar of the Most High, “Lord, I am not like the rest of men.” Yes, we have had the audacity at certain times of our lives to believe we are different from other men. And here is the deepest form of self-deception, dictated by self-centeredness at its worst: spiritual egotism. This most insidious form of egotism even uses piety and prayer for its own gain.

Only then were the doors of the basilica opened, and the assembled company proceeded in state for prayers at the high altar before going on to Mass in the Sistine Chapel—all except the pope, who, as one of the Venetians explained in his report, “never attended these long services.

The Lamb then broke the seventh seal, and there was silence in heaven for about half an hour.   The prayers of the saints bring the coming of the Great Day nearer 2 Next I saw seven trumpets being given to the seven angels who stand in the presence of God. 3 Another angel, who had a golden censer, came and stood at the altar.

Christian parents should each mentally lay their babies on the altar, offering them to God, and promising to do all in their power to win each child to a true following of God that is not superficial, but goes all the way down into the center of their personhood. Then each couple should follow that up with regular prayer for their kids, that they believe, what to say to them, how to influence them, and for help in not turning them off to God.

Johnston asserts that nearly every family is struggling with “invisible diseases” (i.e., anxiety and depression), but that others cannot see the struggle from the outside. As counselors, it is our job to remove the stigma and work to remove the shame. Johnston (2015) is quick to point out that those hurting with mental health issues cannot be “fixed at the altar” with passionate prayers and anointing oil. As counselors you will be working with clients who are where they are due to a myriad of reasons. It is unreasonable to think that our clients would be able to resolve this problem quickly when these issues may have been accumulating for some time. Just as your clients need good social support, Johnston encourages us to be present and to look at mental illness “as a physical dysfunction of the brain that causes a person the inability to think, feel or act in their person’s normal manner” (2015, p. 107). Counselors must also encourage their clients who use their spiritual beliefs to gain strength during difficult times that their hurting is not a result of a lack of faith. Their problems are not a result of failure as Christians; however, they do have control over their actions to better their situation. Counselors need to hear their clients, be present, and help them to utilize resources as they work through difficult times.

When the Lamb opened the seventh seal, there was silence in heaven for about half an hour. Then I saw the seven angels who stand before God, and seven trumpets were given to them. And another angel came and stood at the altar with a golden censer, and he was given much incense to offer with the prayers of all the saints on the golden altar before the throne, and the smoke of the incense, with the prayers of the saints, rose before God from the hand of the angel. Then the angel took the censer and filled it with fire from the altar and threw it on the earth, and there were peals of thunder, rumblings, flashes of lightning, and an earthquake. (Revelation 8:1-5)

The incense altar is related to prayer (Luke 1:10-11), and in Hebrews we are shown that to pray is to enter the Holy of Holies (10:19) and to come to the throne of grace, which is signified by the propitiation-cover over the ark of testimony in the Holy of Holies. Our prayer often begins with our mind, which is a part of our soul, signified by the Holy Place. But our prayer always ushers us into our spirit, signified by the Holy of Holies. Due to all these points, the writer of this book had to reckon that the incense altar belongs to the Holy of Holies. Verse 4 does not say that a golden altar is in the Holy of Holies, as the lampstand and the table are in the Holy Place, but that the Holy of Holies has a golden altar, since it [453] belongs to the Holy of Holies. This concept fits the whole emphasis of the book of Hebrews which is that we should press on from the soul (signified by the Holy Place) to the spirit (signified by the Holy of Holies).

A prayerful man draws favour from Above. His passion burns brighter than a thousand suns. It ignites altars where miracles reside.

A prayerful man may not stand behind the pulpit or speak in tongues all the time, but his heart yearns for the will of the Father. His knees understand the power of the altar. He allows God's Word to transform him into a sign and wonder.

It wasn’t just a pattern of movement; it was a ritual. A ceremony in three parts. An offering in prayer at the altar of her body.

He was consul, dictator for life and censor of the Senate. He was called imperator and father of the country. He had golden statues built and placed among the statues of ancient kings and among the gods. He had altars and temples in his name. A college of priests was founded to dedicate their whole lives to looking after his temples and praying for him. When he revised the calendar, he changed the name of the fifth month to his own name. He had a golden throne that he could sit in whenever he liked. He was allowed to wear special knee-high red boots which were seen as the stereotypical clothing of the ancient kings and he was allowed to wear the big purple Triumphal robe all the time. He got special lictors and the right to ride his horse in places where horses weren’t allowed. Official prayers were given every year for his safety and wellbeing, and on and on and on. These things were all granted to him separately and over a long period, but by the time he died in 44 BCE, he had all of them and he was basically Louis the Sun King in all but name. He was so far above every other member of the aristocracy in every visible and invisible way that the optimates found it terrifying. He was ruining everything.

large quantity of incense was given to him to offer with the prayers of all the saints on the golden altar that stood in front of the throne; 4 and so from the angel's hand the smoke of the incense went up in the presence of God and with it the prayers of the saints.

Guy hadn’t known their agnostic, desperate, broken-hearted queer prayers could be answered. They would have to tithe after this. They would have to build an altar. Even if this was the last kiss Michael ever gave them, it was worth an entire temple.

Only a miracle can save me now, Scobie told himself, watching Father Rank at the altar opening the tabernacle, but God would never work a miracle to save Himself. I am the Cross, he thought, He will never speak the word to save Himself from the Cross, but if only wood were made so that it didn't feel, if only the nails were senseless as people believe. Father Rank came down the steps from the altar bearing God. The saliva had dried in Scobie's mouth: it was as though his veins had dried. He couldn't look up: he saw only the priest's skirt like the skirt of the mediaeval war-horse bearing down upon him: the flapping of feet: the charge of God. If only the archers would let fly from ambush: and for a moment he dreamed that the priest's steps had indeed faltered: perhaps after all something may yet happen before he reaches me: some incredible interposition. ... But with open mouth (the time had come) he made one last attempt at prayer, "O God, I offer up my damnation to you. Take it. Use it for them," and was aware of the pale papery taste of his eternal sentence on his tongue.

Tears battled my will as I watched her pray. I craved her affection, her attention, her acknowledgment, but she offered none. I was an object to her, and it carved a jagged hole in my chest. I didn’t even need her to hug me. I simply hoped she would meet my gaze and ask me how I was, but she left with a prayer and a bow. Both aimed at the altar and not her daughter.

Reliquary of the Soul is a poetic sanctuary — a place where pain kneels, silence speaks, and the soul remembers who it is. Each line is a prayer without religion, a mirror for those who feel too deeply, a gentle embrace for souls that don’t fit anywhere. This is not a book to be read; it is a reliquary to be felt. Every page was born from real pain, whispered hope, and light that rose from darkness. Here, you will find pages that cry, pray, whisper, and scream — all written with the tender blood of a feeling soul. It is mirror, shoulder, refuge — and a whisper that says: “I understand you, even without knowing you.” The book unfolds like constellations — intimate maps to guide you back home: *Nature as the soul’s mirror: inner seasons (winter to withdraw, spring to bloom), mountains that teach patience, and rivers that win without hurting. *Emotions as inner constellations: each feeling a star lit in the chest, named with tenderness and courage. *Invisible illnesses as soul wounds: depression, anxiety, panic, dysphoria, burnout — pains that don’t bleed outside but scream within, now given voice, poetry, and a sacred space of belonging. *The rare light of the different ones: an embrace to neurodivergent, highly sensitive, and intense souls. *Between sky and skin: sensory and philosophical spirituality — the invisible touch of the universe, the breath of wind, the silence that teaches. This reliquary is your refuge and secret mirror — an intimate altar that reminds you, every day, that feeling deeply was never a flaw: it is gift, awakening, and God pulsing where the world has fallen asleep. If you made it here, it’s because a part of you is tired of pretending not to feel. Feel. Feel everything. Without fear. Pain has a place in this book — and so does rebirth. When the fog returns or the rush of the world makes you lose yourself, come back to this reliquary. Rest your forehead on the page — it will remember you.

At the altar of the tree, I make a thousand soundless prayers and offerings, beg whoever’s listening to align our stars and let him be who I thought he was. If he can’t be that, I pray, may I be free of him and not have it kill me. But he is worth dying over and that’s the part that gets me, I guess.

Review — “Emotional Roller Coaster” There are books you read. And there are books that read you. Emotional Roller Coaster is not a book to be flipped through. It is a passage, a crossing. Each page is a mirror, a scream, a whisper between pain and rebirth. Phoenix Moon does not write with ink. She writes with blood, with tears, with faith that shattered and rose again. Her text is an altar built in the middle of collapse, where God and the soul meet on their knees, tired but still beating. In this book there are no filters, no formulas, no manufactured happy endings. There are truths that burn and heal. Confessions that smell like midnight, prayers born from despair, and a faith that keeps standing even when the body has already fallen. It is poetry without makeup. Existential philosophy in raw flesh. A spiritual diary of someone who saw hell and came back carrying light in her eyes. Here, the author speaks to the weary, the sensitive, to those who no longer fit the mold. To those tired of ready-made answers, who now search for themselves in the middle of the chaos. She turns breakdown into art, trauma into awareness, solitude into connection. When you read it, you feel God breathing between the lines. You feel the weight of the world and, at the same time, the grace of still being alive. You realize you are not alone, because every word was written by a soul that descended into the abyss and returned to show you the way home. Do not expect entertainment. Expect truth. Expect the impact of being seen from within. Expect to shed your masks, to feel your heart tremble, and in the end, to be reborn. This book does not ask for applause. It asks for presence. It asks for surrender. It asks for courage to feel it all, and keep going. Because Emotional Roller Coaster is not about the end. It is about surviving the fall and discovering that there are still wings inside the fire.

(Plataeans:) These things, O Lacedaemonians, would not be for your honour. They would be an offence against the common feeling of Hellas and against your ancestors.You should be ashamed to put us to death, who are your benefactors and have never done you any wrong, in order that you may gratify the enmity of another.Spare us, and let your heart be softened towards us; be wise, and have mercy upon us, considering not only how terrible will be our fate, but who the sufferers are; think too of the uncertainty of fortune, which may strike any one however innocent. We implore you, as is becoming and natural in our hour of need, by the Gods whom the Hellenes worship at common altars, to listen to our prayers.We appeal to the oaths which your fathers swore, and entreat you not to forget them.We kneel at your fathers' tombs, and we call upon the dead not to let us be betrayed into the hands of the Thebans, their dearest friends to their bitterest enemies.We remind you of the day on which we shared in their glorious deeds— we who on this day are in danger of meeting a fearful doom. (Book 3 Chapter 59.1-2)

So, you see, Bill, I do not know the end of our story. Not yet. I know Thiyya has defeated the djinn, Lunja has tricked the sultan, Shahrazad and Dinarzade are safe. The girl and the boy have crossed the sea. The adventure is over. But us? I do not know if I will ever see you again. I do not know what is waiting for me along the road of bones. I know the powers that make our worlds are strong like djinns. These same djinns also build the walls that keep us apart. But remember when we were together, on the sea. Think of me sometimes, when you are home, in England, safe. And this I know. We lived in a country with no borders. We slept in a house with no walls. We said our prayers, at an altar that was not built with hands. And I know, too, that I love you. Aya

Back at the temple, Timmer made it just in time for the evening worship program. He felt that he had done the right thing and could now start a new life with a clean slate. Perhaps one day he would find love among Krishnaites. But for now, his heart was filled only with love for God and immense gratitude. The happy faces and shining eyes of those around him reflected the same feelings. Gathered together in the altar room, Krishna's servants folded their hands in prayerful gestures and began to repeat the Maha Mantra in chorus.

3At each and every sunrise you will hear my voice As I prepare my sacrifice of prayer to you. Every morning I lay out the pieces of my life on the altar And wait for your fire to fall upon my heart.

Beatrice Send out the singers—let the room be still; They have not eased my pain nor brought me sleep. Close out the sun, for I would have it dark That I may feel how black the grave will be. The sun is setting, for the light is red, And you are outlined in a golden fire, Like Ursula upon an altar-screen. Come, leave the light and sit beside my bed, For I have had enough of saints and prayers. Strange broken thoughts are beating in my brain, They come and vanish and again they come. It is the fever driving out my soul, And Death stands waiting by the arras there. Ornella, I will speak, for soon my lips Shall keep a silence till the end of time. You have a mouth for loving—listen then: Keep tryst with Love before Death comes to tryst; For I, who die, could wish that I had lived A little closer to the world of men, Not watching always thro’ the blazoned panes That show the world in chilly greens and blues And grudge the sunshine that would enter in. I was no part of all the troubled crowd That moved beneath the palace windows here, And yet sometimes a knight in shining steel Would pass and catch the gleaming of my hair, And wave a mailèd hand and smile at me, Whereat I made no sign and turned away, Affrighted and yet glad and full of dreams. Ah, dreams and dreams that asked no answering! I should have wrought to make my dreams come true, But all my life was like an autumn day, Full of gray quiet and a hazy peace. What was I saying?    All is gone again. It seemed but now I was the little child Who played within a garden long ago. Beyond the walls the festal trumpets blared. Perhaps they carried some Madonna by With tossing ensigns in a sea of flowers, A painted Virgin with a painted Child, Who saw for once the sweetness of the sun Before they shut her in an altar-niche Where tapers smoke against the windy gloom. I gathered roses redder than my gown And played that I was Saint Elizabeth, Whose wine had turned to roses in her hands. And as I played, a child came thro’ the gate, A boy who looked at me without a word, As tho’ he saw stretch far behind my head Long lines of radiant angels, row on row. That day we spoke a little, timidly, And after that I never heard the voice That sang so many songs for love of me. He was content to stand and watch me pass, To seek for me at matins every day, Where I could feel his eyes the while I prayed. I think if he had stretched his hands to me, Or moved his lips to say a single word, I might have loved him… Ornella, are you there?    I cannot see— Is every one so lonely when he dies? The room is filled with lights—with waving lights— Who are the men and women ’round the bed? What have I said, Ornella?    Have they heard? There was no evil hidden in my life, And yet, and yet, I would not have them know— Am I not floating in a mist of light? O lift me up and I shall reach the sun!