Blunt Sarcastic Quotes

Finn swore and swung on me, his eyes darting between me and the road. “You don’t have a filter, do you? You just say whatever the hell comes into your head!” “You just told me no games. You just told me to say it like it is. That’s what I’m doing.” “There’s a big difference between saying it like it is and telling all there is to tell!” “You’re probably right.” I nodded. “I’ve always been . . . blunt, but something happened to me when I let go on the bridge,” I explained softly. “My give-a-damn broke. I don’t care anymore. I just don’t. I’m not afraid. I’m not feeling suicidal, but I don’t give a rat’s ass. Does that make any sense?” Finn nodded. “Yeah. It does. I’ve been there myself. But I just fixed my give-a-damn, unfortunately. So you need to have a little respect and show a little restraint. Deal?” “Okay.” I sighed. “Tell it like it is, but only in doses Clyde can handle. Got it.” “Thank you,” he said sarcastically. I resolved to freeze him out and didn’t say another word, staring out the window, composing song lyrics in my head so I wouldn’t go crazy.

I only have four settings: blunt, goofy, quiet, or sarcastic.

When the Messiah came in the form of a baby, that changed the whole scorecard for what it meant to be great, especially when we consider that the baby was humbled to the point of execution on a cross (Phil. 2:5–11).

It’s very easy for the church today to fall into the same bad behavior that the Pharisees, Sadducees, and religious teachers exhibited in Jesus’ day. But we have less excuse for blocking access to the love of the Father, because we’re supposed to be learning from the example of Jesus! Which leads me to ponder what Jesus might think if he came to my church and observed the way we are helping people connect to the love of the Father—or denying them, as the case may be. Would Jesus like my church? Would he attend my church?

Steve Brown wrote in A Scandalous Freedom: The good news is that Christ frees us from the need to obnoxiously focus on our goodness, our commitment, and our correctness. Religion has made us obsessive almost beyond endurance. Jesus invited us to a dance . . . and we’ve turned it into a march of soldiers, always checking to see if we’re doing it right and are in step and in line with the other soldiers. We know a dance would be more fun, but we believe we must go through hell to get to heaven, so we keep marching.

Philosopher Søren Kierkegaard described the tension so many of us feel between thought and action this way: “The Bible is very easy to understand—but we pretend to be unable to understand it, because we know very well that the minute we do, we are obligated to act accordingly.

It’s easy to be overcome with a sense of helplessness when we consider issues such as poverty and hunger and injustice in the world. I can’t fix it for everyone. I’m just one person. But it is important that I fix it for someone. I would venture to say that everyone knows someone who could use a little help. Everyone knows someone who is lonely, sick, poor, or imprisoned in some way.

In every scriptural instance where Jesus expresses anger—the rawest of all emotions—this is the match that lit his fuse: Do not get in the way of God’s love. Think about it this way: Jesus came to provide his people direct access to the Father as demonstrated by the veil in the temple being torn at the crucifixion (Matt. 27:51). This was an enormously symbolic part of the crucifixion that most people miss. The area behind the veil was the Holy of Holies, where God dwelt. Only the high priest could go into the Holy of Holies, and only once a year.