Compelling Christmas Quotes

Why did a demon who possessed the savage strength of a werewolf also need such compelling beauty? It was one of those philosophical questions that had no answer. Like why Firefly had been canceled after just one season.

I am here, forever, to protect you. To help you, to love you. To keep you happy.” It was an oath that every elf knew, but never had to say. There was no prompt. At a certain age, two elves of nearly the same name would meet. Then one would say the oath, simply because they felt compelled to. It was more than a promise; it was a feeling. One that every single elf was born with.

No priest, no theologian stood at the manger of Bethlehem. And yet all Christian theology has its origin in the wonder of all wonders: that God became human. Holy theology arises from knees bent before the mystery of the divine child in the stable. Without the holy night, there is no theology. “God is revealed in flesh,” the God-human Jesus Christ — that is the holy mystery that theology came into being to protect and preserve. How we fail to understand when we think that the task of theology is to solve the mystery of God, to drag it down to the flat, ordinary wisdom of human experience and reason! Its sole office is to preserve the miracle as miracle, to comprehend, defend, and glorify God’s mystery precisely as mystery. This and nothing else, therefore, is what the early church meant when, with never flagging zeal, it dealt with the mystery of the Trinity and the person of Jesus Christ…. If Christmas time cannot ignite within us again something like a love for holy theology, so that we—captured and compelled by the wonder of the manger of the son of God—must reverently reflect on the mysteries of God, then it must be that the glow of the divine mysteries has also been extinguished in our heart and has died out.

To close a fellow human being in your heart compels more respect than attending 1000 Christmas Masses.

It was Christmas but that was not a day or a season - it was an expectation, a promise of joy and peace, an obligation to pierce the veil of singleness, separating me from all the universe, a duty more compelling because of the night itself, the real Christian anticipation that God Almighty, God Himself, would in the silent moments of that night leap the gap between the divine and the human and commune with us all. An expectation and a challenge: to find the peace I could not find, to find the joy that was not mine, to forgive and be forgiven, when, in fact, my only sin and my only virtue, then and now, was my aloneness.

Owen couldn’t believe his luck. Candice Mayfair was the beautiful white wolf he’d seen that day so long ago. Not that she looked like a wolf right now. He only knew she was the wolf, unequivocally, because he recognized her scent. After the initial shock of seeing an unfamiliar and intriguing Arctic she-wolf, he’d gone after her. The whole pack had gone on a run that night, but they knew to stay far away from any campsite. He and the other guys had swum across the river to explore a bit. Cameron and his mate had stayed on the other side with the kids. He’d even swum back across the river to find her and discovered her scent had led right to one of the tents. Since she had moved into the tent, he knew she had to be one of their shifter kind. He’d even hung around the next day, waiting to catch a glimpse of her, but there were several women, and he had no idea which one had been her. Two blonds, a couple of brunettes, and a red-haired woman—none of whom looked like the picture he had of Clara Hart, though. Being a white wolf in summer had made it difficult to blend in, so he’d had to keep well out of sight. Candice Mayfair was definitely the author of the books on the website, though she didn’t look like the photo her uncle had of her, if she was Clara Hart. She had the same compelling eyes, different color, but they got his attention, grabbed hold, and wouldn’t let go. He carried her to her couch and set her down, staying close, his hand still on her arm until she seemed to regain her equilibrium. “The wolf pup was yours,” she accused, jerking her arm away from him. “Wolf pup?” “Yeah, wolf pup. Don’t pretend you don’t know about your own wolf pup.” Then all the pieces began to fall into place. Campers. Campfire. Food. Corey, the wolf pup she had to be referring to, hadn’t just found the food like they’d thought. Candice must not have been a wolf until that night. “You fed him? Corey? His mom wondered why he smelled of beef jerky that night. We thought he’d found some at the campsite. Don’t tell me…he bit you.

It was a thousand pities that so good a woman should have been driven by the sad stress of circumstances to tell so many fibs. One after another she was compelled to invent them, that there might be a way open to her of escaping the horrors of a prolonged sojourn in that hotel.

Very gratifying,” said Dumbledore mildly. “We all like appreciation for our own hard work, of course. But you must have had an accomplice, all the same . . . someone in Hogsmeade, someone who was able to slip Katie the — the — aaaah . . .” Dumbledore closed his eyes again and nodded, as though he was about to fall asleep. “. . . of course . . . Rosmerta. How long has she been under the Imperius Curse?” “Got there at last, have you?” Malfoy taunted. There was another yell from below, rather louder than the last. Malfoy looked nervously over his shoulder again, then back at Dumbledore, who went on: “So poor Rosmerta was forced to lurk in her own bathroom and pass that necklace to any Hogwarts student who entered the room unaccompanied? And the poisoned mead . . . well, naturally, Rosmerta was able to poison it for you before she sent the bottle to Slughorn, believing that it was to be my Christmas present. . . . Yes, very neat . . . very neat . . . Poor Mr. Filch would not, of course, think to check a bottle of Rosmerta’s. Tell me, how have you been communicating with Rosmerta? I thought we had all methods of communication in and out of the school monitored.” “Enchanted coins,” said Malfoy, as though he was compelled to keep talking, though his wand hand was shaking badly. “I had one and she had the other and I could send her messages —” “Isn’t that the secret method of communication the group that called themselves Dumbledore’s Army used last year?” asked Dumbledore.

As I walked away from the cheeky blonde, her sass about the airlines and crew still irritated the hell out of me. She was a damn firecracker; that much was clear. Sure, she had the air of someone who’d never worked a hard day in her life—probably spoiled rotten by her parents. But there was something else about her, the way she challenged me, as though she were a wild mustang daring me to try and break her. Her fiery spirit and sharp tongue contrasted with her delicate features and petite frame, but it had stirred something reckless in me. I’d been compelled to confront her. People always have a way of chasing what’s bad for them, and I wasn’t immune. Maybe it was that instinct, that primal pull to run straight at what could take you down, that appealed to me. Hell, that was how men like me ended up heading off to war.

I’d been compelled to confront her. People always have a way of chasing what’s bad for them, and I wasn’t immune. Maybe it was that instinct, that primeval pull to run straight at what could take you down, that appealed to me. Hell, that was how men like me ended up heading off to war.

Will you marry me, Louisa Windham? I feel compelled to point out to you that you should not when a better alternative exists.

I’ve conferred with the family, Joseph. Your opponent is a weasel who discredits vermin throughout the realm. Do as honor compels you, and even his fellow weasels will not lament the loss.” Joseph

Hullo, Aunt Jen!” “Bronwyn, hello. Please tell Scout not to knock anything over.” On the mantel, Timothy had come to attention, though he remained sitting. He hissed at the dog and added a low, menacing growl for good measure. “Scout, come.” The dog ignored his owner, another Windham grandchild, this one down from the North with St. Just and his countess. The scent of Elijah’s boots was apparently more compelling than the punishment for indifferent hearing. “Scout, come here this instant.” Bronwyn sounded like her papa, the former cavalry officer, but the dog had apparently never bought his colors. Elijah nudged the beast in the direction of the door with his knee. “Miss Winnie, was there something you were looking for? Something you wanted to tell us?” “Yes!” The dog walked over to the girl while Jenny steadied a jar of brushes his tail had nearly knocked to the floor. “I forget—oh, I remember. Aunt Eve is here. You have to come get kissed. She’s going to have a baby, and Papa says from the size of her he thinks it will be a baby horse.” Jenny hoped St. Just hadn’t said that within Eve’s hearing—though he probably had. “We’ll be along presently. You can tell everybody we’re coming.

Imagine what would happen if schools taught with the same approach to curriculum that most churches use. One year, a teacher stumbles onto an engaging curriculum on verbs, with some really cool videos on gerunds. When the kids and teachers get bored with that curriculum, they cut it short, and the teacher runs to the curriculum store, finds a compelling study on algebraic equations (narrated by Rob Bell-Curve), and starts to teach that the next week. When that study is winding down, the teacher decides it’s time to teach on rocks or medieval knights or Christmas around the world.

When we experience his grace, we're compelled to tell others so they may praise the Lord with us. In doing so, their faith is bolstered, knowing that God is real, God is powerful, God is sovereign, and God is moving.

This is how God works: a blessing for one is a blessing for all, and the end result is a greater focus on him. When we experience his grace, we're compelled to tell others so they may praise the Lord with us. In doing so, their faith is bolstered, knowing that God is real, God is powerful, God is sovereign, and God is moving.

The traditional English Christmas has its origins in the ninth century, when King Alfred the Great enshrined in law the importance of keeping the Church’s feasts, and commanded that there should be a holiday on Christmas Day and the twelve days that followed, for it was believed that the Magi had journeyed for twelve days to see the infant Jesus. During that period, no free man could be compelled to work. From that time, the common man has enjoyed this right to the best of his ability, while kings and nobles have indulged themselves in abundance on a lordly scale.

It is the quintessential story about perseverance but also about our humanness. We tend to regard ourselves as super-human, but the moment we detect a flaw we crash and lose confidence. We'd rather die than admit failure. Yet God compels us to dust ourselves off and fight another day. Like he does with James Bond.

Year-end: a wonderful time, especially for commerce, which contributes to the increase in income concentration. Most people are taken by a peculiar state – a kind of seasonal depression. Why? Because, for a brief period, they are compelled to reflect on their lives, on their existence, and to escape the diabolical work routine, that balm that temporarily makes us forget the most fundamental questions of life. In general, during Christmas and these festive dates marking the end of cycles, regardless of their culture, people feel a growing weight on their shoulders. However, they cannot express or verbalize what they feel. Unmet expectations, people who are no longer here, concerns about life and the future. In summary, the weight of an unexamined existence. These celebrations are social conventions based on astronomical movements that have acquired religious and sacred connotations. In themselves, they hold no intrinsic meaning, except for the purpose of instilling in individuals a false joy, a false hope that things can – or will – improve. "Feel hope, feel joy," says the good old man, because the system needs it; it needs people to continue believing in it so that everything keeps spinning. In reality, this period should serve precisely an anti-cyclic function, leading individuals to a situational awareness so that they can truly understand the wholeness of their existence and its fundamental questions. An existence that is not fragmented but unique and whole, giving meaning to the present in light of the past and in the attempt to project the future. All of this aims to break free from the annual cycle of forgetfulness and false happiness that is habitually imposed on us. It is time to break this cycle.