Carolyn Weber Quotes

Ahhh, teaching literature. A noble calling! For we are all stories.

...just who is your master? For we all have one. No individual, by the very state of existence, can avoid life as a form of servitude; it only remains for us to decide, deny, or remain oblivious to, whom or what we serve.

He quickened his stride: 'The truth is in the paradox, Miss Drake. Anything not done in submission to God, anything not done to the glory of God, is doomed to failure, frailty, and futility. This is the unholy trinity we humans fear most. And we should, for we entertain it all the time at the pain and expense of not knowing the real one.

No individual, by the very state of existence, can avoid life as a form of servitude; it only remains for us to decide, deny, or remain oblivious to, whom or what we serve.

What if everything operates by love?' I said to her, 'I mean, what if this God presence . . . is God moving through us and through everything we do? If so, why do we resist it? What if everything horrible that happens, from drive-by shootings to illness, is because we have broken this chain of love, and we don't know how to put everything right again?

To that point I had not realized that in doing something I love, and at which at times I may even excel, I felt something I could only define as akin to an electric volt deep in my core. From where did this power come? Was it the presence--extension or workings or shadow--of something else in me? Or was it something else encouraging me to love through what I love?

Dr. Deveaux stopped and looked at me hard. He leaned in and whispered, 'The rest is all bullshit, Miss Drake. It's as simple as that. Your purpose here in life is to discern the real thing from the bullshit, and then to choose the non-bullshit. Think of the opportunity that God has given you to study as the means by which to attain your own personal bullshit detector. Sometimes that will be particularly difficult, because those who proclaim to know the truth, well intentioned or not, are spewing the most bullshit. But you will know when you have been properly ravished. And then you'll see, how the entire world is eyeball deep in it and that we choose it, and that we choose it every day. But the good news is that, although we struggle with it, there is a way out. Yes, there is a very worthy antidote and option to all the bullshit.

There is nothing more powerful, more radical, more transformational than love. No other substance or force. And do not be deceived, for it is all of these things, and then far more than that. It can't be circumscribed by our desires or dictated by the whim of our moods. Not the Great Love of the Universe, as I like to call it. Not the Love that set everything in motion, keeps it in motion, which moves through all things and yet bulldozes nothing, not even our will. Try it. Just try it and you'll see. If you love that Great Love first, because It loved you first, and then love yourself as you have been loved, and love others from that love...WOW! BAM! Life without that kind of faith-that's death. Therein lies the great metaphor...Life without faith IS death. For life, as it was intended to be, is love. Start loving and you'll really start living. There is no other force in the universe comparable to that.

Dr. Inchbald tried his best to comply. 'I've come to the conclusion that God is sovereign, even over science, and that I cannot pretend to fully know His ways. They really are mysterious, as the saying goes. And they are not of the mind of men, no matter how hard we try to wrap our minds about these ways. I can marvel at the intricacies of the human body, which really are pretty miraculous to behold. In fact, I don't know how one can go to medical school and not be in greater awe of a Creator than ever before.

I'm like an addict when it comes to books. Compelled to read, understand, savor, wrangle with, be moved by, learn to live from these silent companions who speak so loudly.

Trauma cracks us open (or for some of us, cuts us open) so the Holy Spirit can get in. So we can “right” ourselves.

Humility, or the ending point of being lost, can become the starting point of righteousness.

Looking at the parable of the poor widow who gave her last coins to the offering, I considered what it is to give God everything, to truly give him significant pieces of yourself until you have given him your all. To give so much that all that is left is to be with him. I think of how the world measures the depth of our giving by what we hand over, but Jesus measures it by what we hold on to.

I found that those friends of mine who welcomed the unseen into the realm of their seen offered immediate understanding. Some are Christians, some are not. Most are artists of some kind or other; artistry can extend to a way of being, of living lovingly in this world. Many seem to have almost a spiritual affinity for the unmarked trail, armed only with True North. ["Leap With Faith" Blogpost By Carolyn Weber — July 27, 2011]

Yet, it doesn't make us superfluous or unimportant, the fact that God doesn't need us,' I rushed on. 'Actually, quite the opposite. It's because He loves us in spite of not needing us that makes His love so, well, awesome.

[My father] was handsome and tanned and smelled wonderful, like a mix of the ocean and fresh-cut grass, except when he smoked his pipe, which also smelled wonderful, as how I thought wisdom must smell, when it curls about your head.

It all comes down to Jesus Christ, and what you CHOOSE to believe about Him. Jesus claims He is the Son of God. Jesus claims He died for you and rose from the dead. He claims that the only way to cancel out your sin and spend eternity in heaven is to be believe that He is who He said He was. These are the claims on the table. Bold claims. its will make you wince, won't it? Personally, I think the boldness of the claims makes the choosing a lot easier. Most people who have never actually read the menu probably assume they can order a la carte at the Jesus table or customize their own recipe of faith. But you can't say yes to the historical figure and a few parables but pass on miracles, the resurrection, and the Son-of-God thing. That is not the offering. Christ is a fixed meal. It is all or nothing with His claims. Everyone is invited, but only you can decide if you actually want to eat at His table. For those who do believe in Christ, it means getting real, being hones about your sin, and living your life as if you really mean it.

But just as suddenly the darkness receded, the pool of light seemed to take me in, as I thought how anything we do—any job, act, gesture—becomes meaningful if done with a heart for God. Was this the great diurnal paradox looming up again—nothing matters and everything does?

Yes...I love how the Irish are so comfortable with paradox that they revel in it. In fact, if you took it away from them, I suspect they would start gasping like fish out of water. No wonder their land's name, now removed from its Gaelic notions of abundance in 'eire,' evokes anger, or 'ire,' and yet also the rich, cooling green of a sea-colored jewel. A 'terrible beauty' indeed. They understand oppression and repression and explosion, but they remain a culture of faith-faith that creaks and groans and pulls, but is alive and never dull. And which urges them to art, to poetry, to song-these, too, are forms of action. Of passion. Of conviction. Yes, of love.

...I have always felt as thought we are all made for deep relationship. I don't mean this in a prudish, judgmental way, but in the sense that whenever we do give up easily on people, or have one-night stands, or divorce, especially on a whim, it's no wonder we feel empty inside, even if we don't want to admit it. We seem 'wired' for so much more.

Jesus wanted freedom for women too,” Regina continued, “but His notion of liberation is very different from our limited one. His teachings are for the most part genderless; they apply to everyone. What is important is that my identity doesn’t lie primarily in being a professor, or being a wife, or even in being a mother. Those things will always fall short. Entire careers get swept away at a moment’s notice at the presentation of a pink slip, a vote of the elders, an accusation of a student, a cut in the budget. Marriages face infidelities, for instance, and end up like car wrecks from which people can recover but are never again the same. Children grow up and move far away and forget to write or call—as they should.” She smiled wistfully. “The point is, if you have your identity in any of these things, it’s surefire disappointment. Anything man-made—or woman-made, for that matter—will and does fail you. Having my identity in Christ first and foremost gives me the courage—yes, the courage—to live my life boldly, purposefully, in everything I do, no matter what that is.” I

...I read the Bible steadily...Even the long, monotonous lists. Even the really weird stuff, most of it so unbelievable as to only be true. I have to say I found it the most compelling piece of creative non-fiction I had ever read. If I sat around for thousands of years, I could never come up with what it proposes, let alone with how intricately Genesis unfolds toward Revelation.

I began to worry that perhaps I was getting in over my head here. It was occurring to me that believing in the Bible was an all-or-nothing affair. Either you believe it is the revealed Word of God, or you don’t. It is like being a little bit pregnant. Impossible. Either you are in or you are out. Having eliminated lunatic, given the unavoidable seriousness warranted of my attention, was it now liar or Lord?

Dr. Deveaux stopped and looked at me hard. He leaned in and whispered, “The rest is all bullshit, Miss Drake. It’s as simple as that. Your purpose here in life is to discern the real thing from the bullshit, and then to choose the non-bullshit. Think of the opportunity that God has given you to study as the means by which to attain your own personal bullshit detector. Sometimes that will be particularly difficult, because those who proclaim to know the truth, well intentioned or not, are spewing the most bullshit. But you will know when you have been properly ravished. And then you’ll see, then you’ll see, how the entire world is eyeball deep in it and that we choose it, and that we choose it every day. But the good news is that, although we struggle with it, there is a way out. Yes, there is a very worthy antidote and option to all the bullshit.” I

Conversion, EVERYTHING, including yourself, gets turned around. Transformed.' 'What happens if you turn FROM one, but can't fully turn TO the other?' I cried. 'Tell me, Michael, is there a word for being eternally, pathetically, insurmountably 'stuck'?' I paused, searching for the right words, the words that would convey exactly how my soul ached but could not quite leap. They were evading me...Is there a word for wanting to forget this God and Jesus and the whole mess? For wanting to forget it ALL?' I pinned him with my eyes. 'Despair,' he reminded me, draining his glass.

That is the bizarre thing about the good news: who knows how you will really hear it one day, but once you have heard it, I mean really HEARD it, you can never UNHEAR it. Once you have read it, or spoken it, or thought it, even if it irritates you, even if you hate hearing it or cannot find it feasible, or try to dismiss it, you cannot UNREAD it, or UNSPEAK it, or UNTHINK it. It is like a great big elephant in a tiny room. Its obvious presence begins to squeeze out everything else, including your own little measly self. Some accept it easily, some accept it quickly, and some are struck with the mystical reality of it right away. These people have no trouble bringing the unseen into the realm of the seen. But others of us fight the elephant; we push back on it, we try to ignore it, get it to leave the room, or attempt to leave the room ourselves. But it does not help. The trunk keeps curling around the doorknob. The hook is there. It may snooze or loom or rise and recede, but regardless of the time passed or the vanity endured, the idea keeps coming back, like a cosmic boomerang you just cannot throw away. I did not realize this was part of the grace of it all-such relentless truthfulness.

And there you are. In the ring. With The Terror. it’s just tiny, feeble you, another student or two smarter than you, and your professor, far smarter than you. Oh sure, your professor civilly serves tea or sherry depending on the time of day, but The Terror remains. Gradually, however, The Terror morphs into The Excitement as you being to lose yourself in the luxurious tendrils of a stimulating argument. Time always flies, the hour (or two or three) leaving you exhausted, happy, perturbed, and yet strangely satisfied by the end…. As a result, pursuing one’s degree at Oxford becomes for most not a matter of prerequisite for a job, or to please one’s parents, or to make minimum income bracket. Rather, the opportunity to study here seals an experience marked by intense personal growth resulting from a genuine desire to learn. A heady, hearty experience that changes you forever because it cracks you open ultimately to the humility of learning, which is where all of this wanted to take you in the first place.” 56

Na zlomeček věčnosti oběma lodím nic nebránilo ve volné střelbě na protivníka a v tom okamžiku dva různé počítače odstartovaly své palebné plány. Žádný lidský smysl nedokázal postřehnout, co se odehrálo potom; žádný lidský mozek by si to neuměl přebrat. Vzájemná vzdálenost činila dvacet tisíc kilometrů a řízené střely, lasery a grasery dštily zkázu přes tu miniaturní propast vakua jako rozzuření démoni. Ahmed zavrávoral, když jeho bočním štítem bez námahy prošel první graserový svazek. Jeho boky byly opatřeny metrovým pancířem z nejtvrdší slitiny keramiky a kompozitu, jakou se člověk doposud naučil odlévat, a přesto se jí graser prodral pohrdavě snadno. Od strašlivé rány se rozlétly obrovské úlomky a vzájemný pohyb lodi změnil to, co by bývalo kruhovým otvorem, v dlouhou zející trhlinu. Paprsek rozpáral bok lodi, jako když vyvrhovací nůž rozpáře žraloka, a z rány vytryskl vířící cyklon vzduchu, trosek a lidských těl. Ale to byl pouze jeden z osmi takových graserů. Všechny do jednoho zaznamenaly přímé zásahy a na bitevním křižníku nikoho ani ve snu nenapadlo, že by přestavěná obchodní loď mohla nést takové zbraně. Zatímco si zuřivý úder Poutníka s křižníkem pohrával, komunikační obvody zahlcovala kakofonie výkřiků bolesti, šoku i hrůzy a potom se přihnaly řízené střely Q lodě a znovu a znovu křižník probodávaly jednorannými lasery, aby dokončily strašlivé dílo graserů. Zbraňová stanoviště se rozlétala na kusy, výboje bláznivě sršely a kabely syčely, pukaly a explodovaly. Příďová místnost gravitoru vybuchla, když jeden graser zasáhl naplno generátory, a tlaková vlna změnila sto metrů pancéřovaného trupu v pokroucené trosky. Všechny tři fúzní jednotky se automaticky nouzově zastavily a po celé lodi se zavírala vzduchotěsná vrata. Ale v příliš mnoha případech neměla ta vrata v čem zadržovat vzduch, neboť grasery Poutníka se propálily naskrz celým trupem a křižník se převaloval v prostoru jako umírající bezmocný vrak. Ale nezahynul sám. Poutník vypálil o zlomek sekundy dříve než Ahmed - ale jen o zlomeček a na rozdíl od Ahmeda neměl žádný pancíř a žádná hermeticky uzavíratelná oddělení. Byla to obchodní loď, jenom tenká slupka kolem obrovského prázdného prostoru pro náklad, a to nemohla žádná přestavba změnit. Zbraně, které přežily, aby se mohly zakousnout do jeho trupu, byly mnohem lehčí než ty, jež rozpáraly Ahmeda, ale proti tak zranitelnému cíli byly děsivě účinné. Celý pravobok od přepážky třicet jedna dozadu po přepážku šedesát pět byl na padrť. Prázdné doky LAC se rozlétly jako rozšlápnuté sklenice. Zásobníky dva a čtyři byly roztrhány na kusy, stejně jako všechny výmetnice kromě čísla dva. Šest z osmi graserových stanovišť vybuchlo a prakticky celá jejich obsluha zahynula. Jeden laser se prořízl až k jádru lodě, zničil fúzní reaktor jedna a prorazil palubní vězení, z něhož už Randy Steilman a jeho druhové nikdy neměli vyjít před soud, a další se prořízl až na samotnou velitelskou palubu. Můstek zametla tlaková vlna, přepážky a podélníky se trhaly jako papír a zuřící hurikán vytrhl Jennifer Hughesovou navzdory tlumícímu postroji z křesla a odnesl ji do prostoru mimo loď. Její tělo už nikdo nikdy nenajde, ale na tom sotva záleželo, protože svištící příval atmosféry s ní udeřil o okraj trhliny v trupu a na místě jí roztříštil přilbu. John Kanehama zaječel do interkomu, když ho jako oštěp probodla dlouhá letící tříska slitiny. Staršího seržanta O’Haleyho přesekl vejpůl plochý úlomek, dlouhý jako on sám, a Aubrey Wanderman se pozvracel do přilby, když tentýž úlomek prolétl mezi osazenstvem jeho stanoviště a roztrhal Carolyn Wolcotovou a poručíka Jansena. Tento výjev z pekla se po obrovském trupu Poutníka opakoval znovu a znovu. Další výbuchy a odletující trosky zasahovaly lidi, které minula palba Ahmeda, jako by se umírající loď mstila posádce za to, do čeho ji přivedla, a HMS Poutník se potácivě převaloval pryč s nefunkčním pohonem, zničeným hypergenerátorem a s osmi sty mrtvými a umírajícími lidmi v rozbitých odděleních.

Fear is at the core of what it means to be woman,

What is important is that my identity doesn't lie primarily in being a professor, or being a wife, or even in being a mother. Those things will always fall short. Entire careers get swept away at a moment's notice at the presentation of a pink slip, a vote of the elders, an accusation of a student, a cut in the budget. Marriages face infidelities, for instance, and end up like car wrecks from which people can recover but are never again the same. Children grow up and move far away and forget to write or call--as they should...The point is, if you have your identity in any of these things, it's surefire disappointment. Anything man-made--or woman-made, for that matter--will and does fail you. Having my identity in Christ first and foremost gives me the courage--yes, the courage--to live my life boldly, purposefully, in everything I do, no matter what that is.

Education was still considered a privilege in England. At Oxford you took responsibility for your efforts and for your performance. No one coddled, and no one uproariously encouraged. British respect for the individual, both learner and teacher, reigned. If you wanted to learn, you applied yourself and did it. Grades were posted publicly by your name after exams. People failed regularly. These realities never ceased to bewilder those used to “democracy” without any of the responsibility. For me, however, my expectations were rattled in another way. I arrived anticipating to be snubbed by a culture of privilege, but when looked at from a British angle, I actually found North American students owned a far greater sense of entitlement when it came to a college education. I did not realize just how much expectations fetter—these “mind-forged manacles,”2 as Blake wrote. Oxford upholds something larger than self as a reference point, embedded in the deep respect for all that a community of learning entails. At my very first tutorial, for instance, an American student entered wearing a baseball cap on backward. The professor quietly asked him to remove it. The student froze, stunned. In the United States such a request would be fodder for a laundry list of wrongs done against the student, followed by threatening the teacher’s job and suing the university. But Oxford sits unruffled: if you don’t like it, you can simply leave. A handy formula since, of course, no one wants to leave. “No caps in my classroom,” the professor repeated, adding, “Men and women have died for your education.” Instead of being disgruntled, the student nodded thoughtfully as he removed his hat and joined us. With its expanses of beautiful architecture, quads (or walled lawns) spilling into lush gardens, mist rising from rivers, cows lowing in meadows, spires reaching high into skies, Oxford remained unapologetically absolute. And did I mention? Practically every college within the university has its own pub. Pubs, as I came to learn, represented far more for the Brits than merely a place where alcohol was served. They were important gathering places, overflowing with good conversation over comforting food: vital humming hubs of community in communication. So faced with a thousand-year-old institution, I learned to pick my battles. Rather than resist, for instance, the archaic book-ordering system in the Bodleian Library with technological mortification, I discovered the treasure in embracing its seeming quirkiness. Often, when the wrong book came up from the annals after my order, I found it to be right in some way after all. Oxford often works such. After one particularly serendipitous day of research, I asked Robert, the usual morning porter on duty at the Bodleian Library, about the lack of any kind of sophisticated security system, especially in one of the world’s most famous libraries. The Bodleian was not a loaning library, though you were allowed to work freely amid priceless artifacts. Individual college libraries entrusted you to simply sign a book out and then return it when you were done. “It’s funny; Americans ask me about that all the time,” Robert said as he stirred his tea. “But then again, they’re not used to having u in honour,” he said with a shrug.

I think of how the world measures the depth of our giving by what we hand over, but Jesus measures it by what we hold on to.

I dozed, jolting occasionally at the driver's loud pronouncement of upcoming stops. At this early hour the bus hummed along quietly with few passengers, so the stops were infrequent. In the hazy surrealism of predawn, there really was not much to see--what I could make out was mainly countryside, though not what I would call quaint, and certainly no Shakespearean cottages or fairy folk peeping from the trees.

I realized that I was still caught on the ring road--on that, thank goodness, forgiving ring road--but that eventually, at some point, everyone needs to get off, including me. It is easy to coast and even easier to mock the signs, but reading them, really reading them, and then making the largest decision there is, the greatest decision to which all others defer and are tied back to--to know who we are, what we stand for, and for what we are responsible--to read the signs and then choose the right way . . . well, that's hard.

Be of good comfort, Master Ridley, and play the man. We shall this day light such a candle, by God’s grace, in England, as I trust shall never be put out.

Often the darkest things within ourselves become the keys by which we open ourselves to God, to His healing, and to a better comprehension of grace (full comprehension, I think, is beyond us at present). Yes,

We can lean into the human fear, acknowledge it, and move through it to the larger vision, or we can remain crumpled by it, crumble to it.

radical, more transformational than love. No other source or substance or force. And do not be deceived, for it is all of these things, and then some! Often folks like to dismiss it as a mere emotion, but it is far more than that. It can’t be circumscribed by our desires or dictated by the whim of our moods. Not the Great Love of the Universe, as I like to call it. Not the Love that set everything in motion, keeps it in motion, which moves through all things and yet bulldozes nothing, not even our will. Try it. Just try it and you’ll see. If you love that Great Love first, because It loved you first, and then love yourself as you have been loved, and then love others from that love . . . Wow! Bam! Life without that kind of faith—that’s death. Therein lies the great metaphor, Miss Drake.” He nodded toward me. “Life without faith is death. For life, as it was intended to be, is love. Start loving and you’ll really start living. There is no other force in the universe comparable to that.

I did not understand the pervasiveness of sin-how I simultaneously wove it and got caught in it, and just how far-reaching its effects were. We always assume that its great gnarled roots lie somewhere else; at least I know I did. I always felt certain that someone else was responsible for casting shadows on my vista.

But really,' Rachel insisted, 'so unfair. Just as Christians automatically cannot be folks who give serious thought to what they are doing. As though millions of people for hundreds of years across hundreds of cultures have simply had it wrong. Chesterton was right when he claimed that 'the Christian ideal has not been tried and found wanting; it has been found difficult and left untried.

But just as suddenly the darkness receded, the pool of light seemed to take me in, as I thought how anything we do-any job, act, gesture-becomes meaningful if done with a heart for God. Was this the diurnal paradox looming up again-nothing matters and everything does? I stared at the candle flickering before me, deciphering the seeming coolness of blue and green dancing, so improbably, within the bright orange and red. Which was hotter? Which was purer? I had to admit, to my growing concern, reading the Bible was becoming rather addictive. There did indeed seem to be something for everyone, including me.

Rather, the opportunity to study here seals an experience marked by intense personal growth resulting from a genuine desire to learn. A heady, hearty experience that changes you forever because it cracks you open ultimately to the humility of learning, which is where all of this wanted to take you in the first place.

Despair IS the greatest sin,' Dr. Nuttham finally responded slowly. 'It involves forgetting that God is there. Forgetting that He is good and that all He is and does eXtends from and works toward this perfect goodness. That doesn't mean that He allows evil, or creates it, or perpetuates it. That's our entwinement. Rather, He uses even our evil toward His good. We all need forms of remembering this first great love...writing, reading, creating, BEING.

The morning after I heard the gospel, however, I woke up with what felt like a hangover. Little would I know it was of the spiritual kind that accompanies the inevitable dawn of realization that life is not perhaps, what we previously thought it was. And we cannot go back to pretending. What a headache to be caught in that liminal space! Literally.

On one level they suggested eros, or erotic love; at another level they conveyed agape, or the self-giving love of God. The former beckons the latter, and yet the latter does not need any predilection. Indeed all other forms of love will be healed and function most beautifully when subsumed under agape’s rule. However, the intertwining of sex and spirituality has always haunted literature and art, perhaps because we crave the intimate and are most immediately assuaged by the sexual, and so we know of no other more appropriate language.

Even in the valley of the shadow of death, two and two do not make six. —LEO TOLSTOY S

Your purpose here in life is to discern the real thing from the bullshit, and then to choose the non-bullshit. Think of the opportunity that God has given you to study as the means by which to attain your own personal bullshit detector.

horizon of hope.” “So men and women are doomed forever, by biology, to be separated? To not even own

There is nothing as pitiful as a young cynic,” Maya Angelou famously wrote, “because he has gone from knowing nothing to believing nothing

If you do what you love, you will never work a day in your life,

The more I discovered of the scientific world, the more it convinced me of the amazing interconnectedness and brilliancy of God’s design. People tend to think of science as being at odds with faith, but nothing could be further from the truth. The one only confirms the other; the one only illuminates its echo, and yet its limitations and dependence in the face of the other.

Chesterton was right when he claimed that ‘the Christian ideal has not been tried and found wanting; it has been found difficult and left untried.

I would hope a God that I believe in is bigger than I am,” he said one night. I argued that I could not appreciate something if I did not understand it. He held that his appreciation for something only grew if he could not comprehend it fully.

That is the bizarre thing about the good news: who knows how you will really hear it one day, but once you have heard it, I mean really heard it, you can never unhear it. Once you have read it, or spoken it, or thought it, even if it irritates you, even if you hate hearing it or cannot find it feasible, or try to dismiss it, you cannot unread it, or unspeak it, or unthink it.

Despair is the greatest sin,” Dr. Nuttham finally responded slowly. “It involves forgetting that God is there. Forgetting that He is good and that all He is and does extends from and works toward this perfect goodness. That doesn’t mean that He allows evil, or creates it, or perpetuates it. That’s our entwinement. Rather, He uses even our evil toward His good.

The more I discovered of the scientific world, the more it convinced me of the amazing interconnectedness and brilliancy of God's design. People tend to think of science as being at odds with faith, but nothing could be further from the truth.

Anything not done in submission to God, anything not done to the glory of God, is doomed to failure, frailty, and futility. This is the unholy trinity we humans fear most. And we should, for we entertain it all the time at the pain and expense of not knowing the real one.

I feel lucky that I grew up in a home that taught and upheld these beliefs, but I have also thought them through very carefully for myself. My dad is hip, fun, a bit of a war hero too, I guess. He is a pastor of all things, but he's also a real person - a person who understands what it is like to long for things, to suffer, to be at odds with the world. And by enduring example he has shown me, along with my mom, that while it's not often easy living a life committed to Christ, it is the only life that makes sense and the only life that matters.' He sat back. 'So that is what I believe.

For me,' Rachel explained at the coffee hour after service, 'I chose St. Ebbe's as my home church because the gospel was taught with all due respect and care, and yet it was apparent that the congregation was having fun. The sermons were not just about love and peace, like dotting your i's with hearts whenever you wrote. There existed an appropriate emphasis, I thought, on much of the hard stuff, like sin and consequence, accountability, the relevance of spiritual discipline, and the rules needed to direct the flow of traffic, so to speak, to optimize all that life has to offer. But there was plenty of room for celebration too.' She took a sip of her coffee. 'To put it simply, I guess, it's because I found that the people here, for the most part, take the gospel seriously without taking themselves too seriously.

Churches are far from perfect, as fallible institutions, consisting of fallible people, in a fallible world,' Rachel conceded. 'But when they do work, there is nothing like them. There is no greater high than experiencing the love of God in action among His people, for His people, and for the world.