‘Draw me.’ After being impelled almost irresistibly to beg for the divine embrace, after reflecting on the incomparable worth of God's love and realising that without the assistance of the Beloved she cannot attain to it, the soul calls upon him to draw her to himself. Is it then necessary that the Spouse should be drawn to follow him, as if she came unwillingly and not of her own free choice? Is she so weak that she cannot walk alone? Or is she so reluctant that pressure must be brought to bear upon her? Her request is due to none of these causes. Abundant evidence exists in the physical universe of the law of attraction. The rain in the clouds is attracted towards the earth: the moisture from the warm earth is sucked up as vapour towards the sun.

Inuk is from several different points of view a work of remarkable interest. It is in the first place the story of the fifteen years spent by a French priest as a missionary among the Eskimos; it is in addition a commentary of considerable value on the habits and way of life of a remote and little-known people, and it is also a study in the propagation of the Faith under exceptionally unfavourable conditions.

Father Buliard, an Oblate of Mary Immaculate, went to work among the ‘copper’ Eskimos (the least developed section of this very primitive race) in 1934 only twenty years after the murder of two of his predecessors in the same territory. In the intervening years the work of evangelising the copper Eskimos had been carried on by seven Oblate Fathers working two or three at a time under conditions of physical hardship which are probably unique even in the annals of the Church's foreign missions.

The Golden Age of Spanish Spiritual Theology flowered suddenly, almost as though a summer were to burst upon us without a springtide. Not that Spaniards were ignorant of the subject, either in theory or in practice, but previous to the middle of the fifteenth century they produced scarcely any native writers. The medieval period proper was one of importation and imitation. Works of foreign authorship were translated, and Spain was long content to draw upon the common heritage of Western Christendom, for her mystical as for her dogmatic theology. Then, roughly half-way through the century, there begins a long line of Spanish writers who have assimilated the masterpieces of other lands, whether in the original or in translation, and are becoming increasingly original until we reach peak point with St Teresa and St John of the Cross.

This is no learned dissertation, in spite of the appearance in the title of the word ‘exegesis’ which is so often associated with the minutiae of textual and historical criticism. The word in question, however, seems properly to bear no less restricted a meaning than that of interpretation, and in that wide sense it is here employed. The paragraphs which follow reflect merely the attitude of a life-long reader of the inspired volume who has never been unconscious of ‘Scripture difficulties’ or of the main results and findings of modern research, but in the light of papal admonitions and with the aid of such theological authors as he was able to consult, has arrived at certain conclusions which he thought might be worth passing on to others, at least for their consideration. Here one point only is dealt with.

In the course of twenty centuries the simple message of Christ has developed in many directions, like the mustard-seed of the Gospel. Dogma, moral theology; canon law, administration and organization have branched out, together, into a gigantic system which gives the impression of providing all the answers the world needs become heaven on earth.

The only answer the system does not contain is the personal answer of each soul to its Maker. That is the soul's own and exclusive preserve. It also happens to be to be the only answer that really matters. St Paul made that abundantly clear in his statement on the nature of true love (I Cor. 13). The worth of the whole system, its vitality, its measure and stature in terms of final redemption, all this depends ultimately on the individual soul's response to Christ and his Church. Tiaras, honours, demonstrations, movements, vestments or medals will not be restored at the Last Judgment to cover our personal nakedness.

One of the tragedies of our time is that practically the whole world has the idea that it is not called to prayer. Yet the paths of prayer form the map of life. It seems odd that, at a time when men are not ony off the road but have forgotten there is one, the need for direction is still questioned. For it is spiritual direction which helps men both to find and follow the ways of God. But there are still those who deny its neccesity completely, even in the pursuit of the highest sanctity. More commonly it is simply stated that it is not so necessary these days. This applies, presumably, even to the youth of today. It is argued that the young show no liking for direction. They are more independent of mind and better educated than in the past, and so less in need of direction, and sooner able to read spiritual authors for themselves.

When the Holy Father gave to the Christian world both the Apostolic Constitution Provida Mater Ecclesia and the Motu Proprio Primo Feliciter, it was not to present the Church with something novel in the search for Christian perfection but rather to set the seal of his approval on a form of life, wholly given to God, already being lived by many who, for various reasons, were unable to enter a religious Order or who perhaps felt that a consecrated life in the world gave them greater scope for the exercise of their apostolate. It was natural—and indeed eminently desirable—that some of the attempts at the dedicated life in the world should be grouped around the contemplative Orders—Benedictines, Carmelites, Dominicans— for the fact that such a life is lived in the world makes whatever contact with a centre of contemplative life is possible all the more valuable and indeed essential.

Tonight I am so tired that I don't know whether I'll be able to write anything about the vow of chastity at all. However, if His Majesty wills it, something will be written. The joy and peace of these past days since May 4th have been wonderful. I wake up every morning with happiness at the thought of it—of this precious promise between Jesus and me. And then I go to Mass and I am tired and almost fall asleep, and I am sorry that he has a bride who can pay so little attention to him. But he has willed it to be so. He has chosen me… .

To write about this vow is difficult because my appreciation of it is limited; it is difficult, too, because I cannot write of it without writing about everything else—about my whole relationship with God, about the marvel of his love for me. I cannot think of chastity without thinking of charity.

Every word of Christ is good it has its missions and its purpose, and does not fall to the ground. It cannot be said that He should ever speak transitory words, who is Himself the very word of God, uttering, at His good pleasure, the deep counsels and the holy will of Him who is invisible…. All His sacred speeches, though clothed in a temporary garb, and serving an immediate end, … yet all have their force in every age, …

These words are Newman's, quoted in Dr Seynaeve's recent Newman's Doctrine on Holy Scripture, an important monument of scholarship in a province hitherto neglected.

On the Continent last year, I was told about someone who, hearing Newman's name mentioned, remarked: ‘Isn't he the man that held the theory of the obiter dicta?’ I was also told by a Roman student of some years back that, in his time at Rome, Newman would be mentioned among the Adversarii, when the question of the plenary inspiration of Scripture was under discussion.

The next clause in the ‘Our Father’ that presents itself is ‘Lead us not into temptation'. The beginning of the ‘Our Father’ is a prayer, not so much that his will might be done directly as that we may really and truly wish it to be done. I ask to be enlightened, that my will may be strengthened, that I may always want to do Your will’, I want it as perfectly as I know I shall want it in heaven.

From ‘Give us this day our daily bread’ onwards, we pray for protection from sin, from the danger of falling away from God. We are so liable to be drawn away by the fascination of trivialities. I ought to want even to deprive myself of perfectly innocent pleasures in this world if thereby God's Will be better done. And I want, too, to be protected from falling into sin. Why is it that we ask, ‘Forgive us our trespasses'? Why is it that we make that petition? Because we are aware that since sin came into the world it has spread itself all over the world.