[Preached in St. Michael's Church, New York, Sunday evening, October 20, 1872 by Thomas N. Burke O.P.]

MY FRIENDS: The subject upon which I have chosen to address you this evening is a most important one. The question which most nearly concerns every man in this world, is the question which the people asked the apostles on the day of Pentecost: “What shall I do in order to be saved?” There is before every man a double future– the future of time and the future of eternity– a future made up of the few, passing, fleeting hours of time, with their burdens of joy or of sorrow. But whether, indeed, they be crowned with every delight– like the lives of those reprobates of Scripture who filled every valley with their pleasures, and who denied themselves nothing– or whether, on the other hand, this future of time be a period of suffering unmingled with joy, of sorrow and of misery, it matters but little. Life is so fleeting, time flies by so rapidly, it remains with us for so brief a moment, that it really matters little whether that moment be made up of joy or of sorrow, of misery or delight. For instance, how small and insignificant to the man of pleasure, how worthless and scarcely deserving even the tribute of a passing remembrance, are all the pleasures and the joys of a man of the world when he lies there agonizing upon his death-bed, reviewing in a moment the brief and passing pleasures that he enjoyed, bidding them a last farewell, and then turning with uncertain and with gloomy eyes to contemplate the mighty eternity that is before him! How little to the greatest saints and to those miracles of penance which the Catholic Church has nourished– how little and how trifling to them did all their mortification and all their labors appear, when, for one instant, they thought upon these things as they were dying. They were all now gone, swept away upon the wings of time, and nothing remained of their bitterness; but all was changed into the hope of future glory and joy that should never know end. When St. Theresa was in prayer, her friend, St. Peter of Alcantara, passed away from this life. For more than fifty years he had restrained every passion, guarded every sense, denied himself every joy, and made, indeed, his life upon this earth a real crucifixion of that body in which he served God. And whilst they holy nun of Avala was in her prayer, suddenly a great light appeared before her, she lifted up her eyes and saw the familiar face of her old Franciscan friend. But, oh! how changed it was! No long the emaciated face worn away with fasting, no longer the cheeks furrowed by the constant tears of repentance which flowed from his eyes, no longer the eyes languid and weak from loss of sleep and of rest. No! but the brightness of heaven was around him, and it seemed to her as if all that this world had of light came forth from him, and he said to her: “Oh, Theresa! Now, now, in the first moment of my joy, I realize how happy was the penance, and mortification, and the sorrow that brought me so great a return.”