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Science as Sacred Metaphor: An Evolving Revelation
For Sister Elizabeth Michal Boyle, there's nothing quite like the world of science 'with its aha! moments, quandaries, and inscrutable mysteries 'to usher the modern seeker into the divine presence of God. In this book, she creates a sacred space at the intersection where science and faith meet. Sister Boyle says that Jesus, who used the lives of birds and wildflowers as signs of the divine would probably be saying today, Consider the implications of lilies and stars, of quarks and quantas. Learn from the drama of life-out-of-death in everything from seeds to tsunamis. In Science as Sacred Metaphor , Sister Boyle leads the reader to unravel the fascinating threads of science and follow them to the marvelous skein of spiritual insight and contemplative wonder. With a blend of scientific fact, powerful poetry, and spiritual exploration, she helps the reader discover a new and more deeply than ever-gracious Mystery in whom all that exists lives and moves and has its being. Elizabeth Michal Boyle, OP, PhD, is a professor of English at Caldwell College, Caldwell, New Jersey. Her book, Preaching the Poetry of the Gospels , won a first place award from the Catholic Press Association in 2004. A playwright, poet, and teacher, she finds inspiration for poetry and prayer in the natural sciences.
160 pages, Paperback
First published September 30, 2006
2 people want to read
About the author
Elizabeth Michael Boyle
6 booksIn 2014 Elizabeth Michael Boyle was presented the Spirit of DIA recognition for her service to DIA. It was with delight we presented the 2010 Fra Angelico Award to our sister, Elizabeth Michael Boyle, Dominican of Caldwell. Elizabeth Michael Boyle, OP is a Caldwell Dominicanand retired Professor of English at Caldwell College.
She received her MA at Catholic University of America and her PhD from Drew University. She is a member of the Academy of American Poets.
A master of the well-honed word, Elizabeth Michael has authored Preaching the Poetry of the Gospels A Lyric Companion to the Lectionary (The Liturgical Press, 2003) which took first place award from the Catholic Press Association. Her second book, Science as Sacred Metaphor: An Evolving Revelation (The Liturgical Press, 2006) contains reflections on the liturgical seasons through the prism of science, using everything from evolution to string theory as poetic texts. Her latest publication, Gift Exchange (Pudding House Press, 20I0) is a chapbook of poems inspired by the arts.
Every poet, potter, pianist, painter, playwright, preacher, pliaist', photographer understands that contemplation precedes transformation. A definition of contemplation, popularly ascribed to English mystics of the Middle Ages, is to take a long loving look at the real & and not avert our eyes.
Not just any look. Some looks can be cold, hard, rolled, jaded. It's a long loving look, the look that stays with/stands with; a look that ruminates' for days, months, even years; a look that sinks deep, takes root until finally it lets go -- scales drop and all things are made new. And contemplation is a long loving look at the real: In a world of imitation leather, faux pearls, rock climbing in malls, instant oatmeal, home trailers laced with formaldehyde and homeland security, finding the takes some looking.
Years ago Amos Wilder wrote:It is at the level of imagination that the fateful issues of our new world-experience must first be mastered. Before the message there must be the vision, before the sermon the hymn, before the prose, the poem. Before the prose, the poem.
When reading poetry, I find myself standing on tiptoe looking over the edge to see beyond the words to the more they hold
-the glint of light reflected off a well turned phrase
-the wince experienced when unexpectedly convicted
-the tear that wells up in solidarity, resonating within from some deep place
Listen to Sunt Lacrymae Rerum In the forest where no ear listens the tree falls without a sound.
So say the monolingual philosophers. But the tree knows better. In each shriveled leaf up torn root and still-born blossom the tree, like other poets, hears distinctly the music of the tears in things. In one forest no tree falls without an echo in song.
As we know, every inspiring poem and work of provocative prose is a pearl of great price' truth, beauty, wisdom formed out of those irritating grains of sand. We listen: Moving across the blank page the sound of my pencil creates a silence the wake of a tiny ship. The silence becomes a person more real to me than myself a companion looking over my shoulder smiling a little at the poem that has ceased to matter.
Nothing I shall ever write can be more true more trustworthy than this faceless presence beside beyond inexorably within. The wise ones called you Unpronounceable.
He called you Abba. Now they tell us to call you Quantum Vacuum, Empty Fullness. Whatever. Language neither creates nor destroys this moment this moving stillness whose white sails carry me through darkest waters.
http://www.diartsop.org/Elizabeth-Mic...
She received her MA at Catholic University of America and her PhD from Drew University. She is a member of the Academy of American Poets.
A master of the well-honed word, Elizabeth Michael has authored Preaching the Poetry of the Gospels A Lyric Companion to the Lectionary (The Liturgical Press, 2003) which took first place award from the Catholic Press Association. Her second book, Science as Sacred Metaphor: An Evolving Revelation (The Liturgical Press, 2006) contains reflections on the liturgical seasons through the prism of science, using everything from evolution to string theory as poetic texts. Her latest publication, Gift Exchange (Pudding House Press, 20I0) is a chapbook of poems inspired by the arts.
Every poet, potter, pianist, painter, playwright, preacher, pliaist', photographer understands that contemplation precedes transformation. A definition of contemplation, popularly ascribed to English mystics of the Middle Ages, is to take a long loving look at the real & and not avert our eyes.
Not just any look. Some looks can be cold, hard, rolled, jaded. It's a long loving look, the look that stays with/stands with; a look that ruminates' for days, months, even years; a look that sinks deep, takes root until finally it lets go -- scales drop and all things are made new. And contemplation is a long loving look at the real: In a world of imitation leather, faux pearls, rock climbing in malls, instant oatmeal, home trailers laced with formaldehyde and homeland security, finding the takes some looking.
Years ago Amos Wilder wrote:It is at the level of imagination that the fateful issues of our new world-experience must first be mastered. Before the message there must be the vision, before the sermon the hymn, before the prose, the poem. Before the prose, the poem.
When reading poetry, I find myself standing on tiptoe looking over the edge to see beyond the words to the more they hold
-the glint of light reflected off a well turned phrase
-the wince experienced when unexpectedly convicted
-the tear that wells up in solidarity, resonating within from some deep place
Listen to Sunt Lacrymae Rerum In the forest where no ear listens the tree falls without a sound.
So say the monolingual philosophers. But the tree knows better. In each shriveled leaf up torn root and still-born blossom the tree, like other poets, hears distinctly the music of the tears in things. In one forest no tree falls without an echo in song.
As we know, every inspiring poem and work of provocative prose is a pearl of great price' truth, beauty, wisdom formed out of those irritating grains of sand. We listen: Moving across the blank page the sound of my pencil creates a silence the wake of a tiny ship. The silence becomes a person more real to me than myself a companion looking over my shoulder smiling a little at the poem that has ceased to matter.
Nothing I shall ever write can be more true more trustworthy than this faceless presence beside beyond inexorably within. The wise ones called you Unpronounceable.
He called you Abba. Now they tell us to call you Quantum Vacuum, Empty Fullness. Whatever. Language neither creates nor destroys this moment this moving stillness whose white sails carry me through darkest waters.
http://www.diartsop.org/Elizabeth-Mic...
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