At first, Theresa just wanted me to go through the rather meager theology section of the library and reorganize some of the categories. All these books—theology, church history, philosophy, and scripture—are on shelves lining the main house basement, where are located our main entrance, coat racks, mail slots, and a large ping-pong table that runs along a good stretch of the shelves.

After I finished the job Theresa had asked me to do, we got talking. "Theresa, I have something to tell you." "What is it, Fr. Denis?"

"I hate to tell you this…" "Go ahead, Father."

"It’s our scripture section… It’s… Well, it’s awful!" Yes, the truth blurted out. Our shelves were filled (and I mean jam-packed-one-more-pamphlet-won’t-get-in-there full) mostly with books of dubious quality. Badly written books, dated books, dull books, books which had presented the "latest, modern" approach to Scripture—twenty years ago. They were now as dead as the proverbial doornail.

There were shelf upon shelf of them—worn, faded, uninspiring, gathering dust, and virtually unread. The shelves served primarily as hiding places for stray ping-pong balls.

In fairness, I must add that there were some good books in amongst the dross, but who could find them? Who would have the patience to sort through the heaps of mediocre and shopworn to find the pearls?

Me, that’s who! With Theresa’s enthusiastic support, I ruthlessly attacked the shelves in a culling job of, well, biblical proportions.

Goodbye, book on the Tower of Babel that no one has read in 45 years. So long, product of now-obsolete research on the Dead Sea Scrolls! Hasta la vista, all you books which commit the unforgivable, the unpardonable sin, namely that of making Sacred Scripture boring!

Books flew in all directions. Shelf upon shelf emptied out. The scripture section contracted to almost one half its original size. When I finished the sorting, we had, well, as I said to Theresa, "It’s still a lousy section; it’s just a lot smaller."

That was to be the end of my job. We now had room to start adding new books as they came in donation, and in time, over, say, a few years, we could build up a fine scripture library.

A week later, Theresa got a phone call. A retired school principal in Peterborough had collected a library of books over the years, and was now aging and couldn’t read too well. He wanted to give his books to people who would read them.

Theresa went there, a four-hour round trip by car, and came back with forty boxes of books—all of them scripture, patristics, theology, and history! All were in mint condition; all were of exceptional quality. We sorted and classified them in a hushed, holy reverence.

Many we gave away, passed on, put to be sold in our secondhand book shop, but many others now fill the library shelves anew, with beautiful, inspiring books inviting us to explore and celebrate the gift of God’s Word.

It’s a lovely story, don’t you think? God blessing us and taking care of his little ones here in Combermere, and inviting us and our visitors to plunge into the infinite depths of his Holy Bible. It got me thinking.

We had to cull the clutter first. We had to give God space to bless us. We had to empty out a few shelves, so he could fill them.

Mother Theresa used to say, "How can God fill what is already full?" And she wasn’t talking about bookshelves, either.

We all have a lot of clutter, inward and outward. Our homes and our hearts are filled with stuff. Our closets and hearts are jam-packed with things. Clothes, but also noise. Knickknacks, but also resentments. Too much furniture and too many words, both spoken and rattling around in our tired brains.

Why don’t we cull? Most of us know we have too much of the goods of the earth and way too much interior junk. Too much noise from the entertainment and communication gadgets we plug into and too much noise inside us: fears, regrets, anxieties, confusion.

We know we should cull, but perhaps we hesitate, afraid of those empty shelves, afraid that we’ll be "just as lousy, but a lot smaller."

Maybe deep down we believe that all the junk we hang on to and the noise we fill our days with, even though we know it’s junk, is better than emptiness. Maybe we fear being reduced to nothingness, to nullity.

But God cannot fill what is already full. We have to take that chance that God is going to fill us with his life. We need the courage to cull, especially within our own hearts.

Practicing inner silence (with some amount of outer silence to help us along) is a form of culling, of clearing off the shelves, of giving God room to bless us. Turning off the TV, and the radio, and the iPod, and the MP3 player—culling!

Filling that silence with the name of Jesus repeated rhythmically in our hearts, or the rosary, or (yes!) Scripture—opening the door for that divine donation.

Letting that divine peace which only God can give soothe our resentments, heal the wounds life has dealt us, quiet us down—receiving the very gift of God filling our shelves anew to the breaking point.

Oh,there is "stuff" we need, and Lord knows there is a measure of noise we cannot reduce. But what about the unnecessary noise, the extraneous clatter and jangle?

What about the compulsive flipping on of the car stereo? What about the mindless babble of the TV, hour after hour? What about the squirrel-cage rattling around of the same thoughts over and over again, the chewing over of old wounds, the ceaseless worrying over an unknown future, like a dog worrying a bone?

The noise that is junk, the stuff we don’t need—let’s cull it in silence and prayer so that the glorious empty shelves, our quiet(er) hearts, can stand in their splendid nullity to await God’s blessings.

We have nothing good to lose and a whole infinite world of beauty to gain.