a storm of leaves

rustled by the wind

fell noiseless upon the ground

like the sound of crackling

 shifting in its bag

*Reflections of Jean Sulivan:

  -It's here, now, that glory exists, in this tiny fragment, each instant of life, death, and resurrection.

  -From the start I feel close to all those whom society has marginalized - tramps, addicts, freaks, even "establishment" types, empty of spiritual substance and beginning to realize it.  They live in the midst of steel, glass high-rises, highways that have become cemeteries, sex shops, and the rubble of human failure.  But at the same time I notice with amazement that a song of freedom flows through everything, a paradoxical joy more powerful than my pain and mediocrity, the hope which those who bear it within them say they recognize. 

  -To remain in a dream of the past or the realm of ideas is to compromise with death.  Since the absolute has become incarnate, how can one not be present at each moment of time, with its particular style, in the uncertain, irrational and painful flux of life, as well as in the bright lights of cities and in every human creation, in order to reveal that perhaps there are cells of purity even in the midst of Vanity Fair and that all things conspire toward unity and joy?  Not to be contemporary leads inevitably to betrayal.

  -When will the clergy realize that they're not being asked for their ideas about society or the current crisis or the future of Catholic Action, but for a word from him who rose from the dead?