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I Choose to Breathe the Breath of Christ PDF Print E-mail

I choose to breathe the breath of Christ
that makes all life holy.

I choose to live the flesh of Christ
that outlasts sin’s corrosion and decay.

I choose the blood of Christ
along my veins and in my heart
that dizzies me with joy.

I choose the living waters flowing from his side
to wash and clean my own self and the world itself.

I choose the awful agony of Christ
to charge my senseless sorrows with meaning
and to make my pain pregnant with power.

I choose you, good Jesus, you know.

I choose you, good Lord;
count me among the victories
that you have won in bitter woundedness.

Never number me among those alien to you.

Make me safe from all that seeks to destroy me.

Summon me to come to you.

Stand me solid among angels and saints
chanting yes to all you have done,
exulting in all you mean to do forever and ever.

Then for this time, Father of all,
keep me, from the core of my self,
choosing Christ in the world.  Amen.

– Joseph Tetlow SJ

Joseph Tetlow is a professor of spiritual theology.  Many of the prayers attributed to him are taken from a manual entitled “Choosing Christ in the World.”  It is designed to help people experience the spiritual exercises over an extended period of time as they go about their daily tasks.

This prayer is a contemporary paraphrase of the Anima Christi – a favorite prayer of St. Ignatius which he placed at the beginning of his book of spiritual exercises.  He frequently suggested that the retreatant conclude a prayer period by reciting this prayer.

 

Prayer

Personal Prayer of Pedro Arrupe

Grant me, O Lord, to see everything now with new eyes,
to discern and test the spirits
that help me read the signs of the times,
to relish the things that are yours,
and to communicate them to others.

Give me the clarity of understanding that you gave Ignatius.

—Pedro Arrupe SJ

O God, give me the courage and strength
to be worthy of being called a Christian.

—Karl Rahner SJ

 

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Inspiration

Hiroshima

August 1945

 

Prometheus is weeping by a rock

In Hiroshima,

Where there are no flowers

Except the black ones the children drew

and were.

From dying nipples

They sucked a blistered milk,

And they died;

Ovened in their mother’s life.

And they died.

Those whom the silence and the heat surprised

Could not cry;

But the fiery air was still humid,

Tumid even, with tears.

I know the Titan is sorrier now he ever stole fire for us.

But

The rock was a cold thing

Far from the petrified shadows of this sooted place.

And the rock, in its ice, said, “Nagasaki.”

 

Harold Buckley