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Christ from the very first moment of his existence virtually bears all men within himself....For the Word did not merely take a human body; he incorporated himself in our humanity, and incorporated our humanity in his humanity.
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The Church exists for nothing else but to draw men into Christ, to make them little Christs. If they are not doing that, all the cathedrals, clergy, missions, sermons, even the Bible itself, are simply a waste of time. God became Man for no other purpose. It is even doubtful, you know, whether the whole universe was created for any other purpose.
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Reading is the first thing, just reading the Bible. As we read we enter a new world of words and find ourselves in on a conversation in which God has the first and last words. We soon realize that we are included in the conversation.
My old ideas were not adequate for the extremes of joy and grief I experienced. These [Bible] stories kept coming back, but they changed as if re-formed by the alchemy of time. They grew bigger and deeper, more fantastical and more astonishing. Wait, God asked Abraham to kill his own son? I suppose this happens to most of us as we age; we get smaller, and our dependencies get bigger. We become less fascinating to ourselves, less inclined to think of ourselves as the author of all that we are, and at the same time, we realize how we have been the one shaped—by history, by family, by forces beyond awareness. And I think what came, in the most incremental, boring way possible, is that at some point I had the sensation that these stories are not fabricated tales happening to other, possibly fictional, people: they are the underlying shape of reality. They are renditions of the recurring patterns of life. They are scripts we repeat....These stories provide the horizon of meaning in which we live our lives—not just our individual lives, but our lives together....We are created and being created still.
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There are two ways of seeing. One is to look at a forest, and take in a landscape, and the colors, depth, dimensions, and nuances of all of it. But there is also the act of getting on your hands and knees and looking at one flower, and one petal.
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Who will cry for the little boy, lost and all alone?
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It was the Beauty I longed for, beyond the beauty that I longed for in her...
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When I look at him there is a collection of awful memories. Memories I have spent most of my adult life trying to forget.
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Live at Home.
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Sometimes we have to leave what we know to find out what we know.
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Things which matter most must never be at the mercy of things which matter least.
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