In an earlier issue of The Life Of The Spirit I said: ‘The kingdom of God is here, these are the last days and, therefore, this is the time of heaven; we await the completion of the kingdom of God only in the sense that for a little while the effects of this situation are suspended'. I think that the idea of the kingdom of God is neglected in popular Catholic instruction and thinking, and that if we are to understand the community of God properly then we must try to understand what is meant by the idea of the presence in the world of the kingdom of God. The difficulty facing most people when they approach this question seems to be engendered by a mistaken understanding of that ambiguous term ‘the four last things'. The phrase has too great a history in Catholic thinking to be abandoned, but we must see what is meant by it, or rather, we must see how it is applied.

I want to turn, in the second part of this article, to the eucharist, which is prayer par excellence. And I first want to draw attention to the scholastic distinction between ex opere operato and ex opere operantis. Certainly this distinction has led to a very mechanical attitude to the sacraments; so long as one goes through the motions then God produces the results. The distinction has probably been responsible for a good number of abuses, but it is valuable as long as it is not misapplied. I mention this because I am going to deal with the eucharist as a sacrament and as the sacrament of prayer. In this context it is most important to remember what the distinction means. Because, putting it very briefly, the first part of the mass is really all done ex opere operantis and the second part of the mass is increasingly done ex opere operato; that is to say the effect of the eucharist and our participation will depend largely on the way we prepare ourselves.

The infancy narrative of the third gospel, Luke I. 5—2. 52, is very different in character from that of the first gospel, longer, richer in allusions, written from a somewhat different angle, and using a different series of events. It goes without saying that the main explicit purpose of both is the same, to introduce the gospel narrative with an account of the origin of the Messiah: Jesus is the heir to the messianic kingdom, born miraculously of a virgin, and either by blood or by legal adoption a member of the royal line. But the divergences soon begin. In Matthew the principal actor is Joseph, in Luke, Mary. In Matthew, the story is one largely of danger and conflict, the infant Messiah is taken for refuge to a foreign land, gentiles acknowledge and protect him. In Luke the narrative is almost wholly joyous and he is acclaimed by representatives of his own people.

It is a curious fact that in the Codex Juris Canonici, the new canon law for the Latin Church promulgated in 1917, there is no mention whatever of hermits and recluses. In the official legislation for the ‘religious’ life today such persons are simply not considered or provided for. It is no reflection on the genius of the compiler of the Codex, Cardinal Gasparri, to consider this a regrettable omission. It merely reflects the existing state of affairs. Whereas in the Middle Ages hermits, anchorites, and anchoresses were a familiar part of the religious and social scenes, by the twentieth century (and much earner) they were barely a memory, best known perhaps from the romantic pages of the Gothic novelists, from Mrs Radcliffe to Sir Walter Scott.