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Spiritual Conferences: Including Fr. Faber's Most Famous Essays: Kindness, Death, and Self-Deceit
Kindness, Death, and Self-Deceit, Father Faber's most famous essays, form themajor portion of his Spiritual Conferences, perhaps his most widely read book. But it also includes his usual penetrating insights on many other topics, with chapters on Weariness in Well-Doing, Why So Little Comes of Frequent Confession, Heaven and Hell, Taking Scandal, The Monotony of Piety, Confidence, the Only Worship, A Taste for Reading and All Men Have a Special Vocation. Fr. Faber knows intimately the weaknesses of wounded human nature, and like a wise doctor, he offers remedies to heal and strengthen. He also stands back to appreciate the spiritual life as a whole, describing it not as an ivory tower pastime, but rather as the healthiest, manliest, completest, divinest thing on earth. He affirms that there is nothing so briskly interesting or so full of changeful vitality as the spiritual life, the life of the soul. Spiritual Conferences represents the best introduction to the works of this great priest and classic spiritual writer, whose insights will enlighten, inspire and guide the reader for the rest of his life. Father Frederick William Faber was born in Yorkshire, England in 1814. He was converted from the Anglican ministry to Catholicism in 1845. Ordained a priest in 1847, he joined the Oratorians in 1848 and worked with John Henry Cardinal Newman. In addition to numerous fine hymns, Fr. Faber authored nine books, including the following (which are available in this series): Spiritual Con-ferences, All for Jesus, Growth in Holiness, The Blessed Sacrament, Th.e Foot of the Cross, The Pre-cious Blood, Bethlehem and The Creator and the Creature. Fr. Faber died in London in 1863.
Paperback, 345 pages

Published 2009 by TAN (first published 1859)

Book Quotes
We are already acquainted with the phenomena of the growing sensitiveness of conscience. We know how we come to see sin, where we saw none before, and what a feeling of insecurity about the past that new vision has often given us. Yet death is a sudden stride into the light. Even in our General Confessions, the past was discernible in a kind of soft twilight; now it will be dragged out into unsheltered splendour. The dawn of the judgment, mere dawn though it will be, is brighter than any terrestrial noon; and it is a light which magnifies more than any human microscope. There lie fifty crowded years, or more. O, such an interminable-seeming waste of life, with actions piled on actions, and all swarming with minutest incredible life, and an element of eternity in every nameless moving point of that teeming wilderness! How colossal will appear the sins we know of, so gigantic now that we hardly know them again! How big our little sins! How full of malice our faults that seemed but half-sins, if they were sins at all. Then again, the forgotten sins, who can count them? Who believed they were half so many or half so serious? The unsuspected sins, and the sinfulness of our many ignorances, and the deliberateness of our indeliberations, and the rebellions of our self-will, and the culpable recklessness of our precipitations, and the locust-swarms of our thought-peopled solitudes, and the incessant persevering cataracts of our poisoned tongues, and the inconceivable arithmetic of our multiplied omissions—and a great solid neglected grace lying by the side of each one of these things—and each one of them as distinct, and quiet, and quietly compassed, and separately contemplated, and overpoweringly light-girdled, in the mind of God, as if each were the grand sole truth of His self-sufficing unity! Who will dare to think that such a past will not be a terrific pain, a light from which there is no terrified escape? Or who will dare to say that his past will not look such to him, when he lies down to die? Surely it would be death itself to our entrapped and amazed souls, if we did not see the waters of the great flood rising far off, and sweeping onward with noiseless, but resistless, inundation, the billows of that Red Sea of our salvation, which takes away the sins of the world, and under which all those Egyptians of our own creation, those masters whom we ourselves appointed over us, with their living hosts, their men, their horses, their chariots, and their incalculable baggage, will look in the morning- light of eternity, but a valley of sunlit waters.

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