St. Augustine

Feast of Monica, Mother of Augustine of Hippo, 387 What art Thou then, my God? What, but the read more

Feast of Monica, Mother of Augustine of Hippo, 387 What art Thou then, my God? What, but the Lord God? For who is Lord but the Lord? or who is God save our God? Most highest, most good, most potent, most omnipotent; most merciful, yet most just; most hidden, yet most present; most beautiful, yet most strong; stable, yet incomprehensible; unchangeable, yet all changing; never new, never old; all-renewing, and bringing age upon the Proud, and they know it not; ever working, ever at rest; still gathering, yet nothing lacking; supporting, filling, and over-spreading; creating, nourishing, and maturing; seeking, yet having all things. (Continued tomorrow).

In an authority so high [as Scripture], admit but one officious lie, and there will not remain a single passage read more

In an authority so high [as Scripture], admit but one officious lie, and there will not remain a single passage of those apparently difficult to practice or to believe, which on the same most pernicious rule may not be explained as a lie uttered by the author willfully to serve a purpose.

Of this I am certain, that no one has ever died who was not destined to die some time. Now read more

Of this I am certain, that no one has ever died who was not destined to die some time. Now the end of life puts the longest life on a par with the shortest... And of what consequence is it what kind of death puts an end to life, since he who has died once is not forced to go through the same ordeal a second time? They, then, who are destined to die, need not be careful to inquire what death they are to die, but into what place death will usher them.

Feast of Augustine, Bishop of Hippo, Teacher, 430 Too late came I to love thee, O thou Beauty so read more

Feast of Augustine, Bishop of Hippo, Teacher, 430 Too late came I to love thee, O thou Beauty so ancient and so fresh, yea too late came I to love thee. And behold, thou wert within me, and I out of myself, where I made search for thee: I ugly rushed headlong upon those beautiful things thou hast made. Thou indeed wert with me; but I was not with thee: these beauties kept me far enough from thee: even those, which unless they were in thee, should not be at all.

This is the very perfection of a man, to find out his own imperfection.

This is the very perfection of a man, to find out his own imperfection.