Meek And Mild Quotes

Gentle Jesus, meek and mild' is a snivelling modern invention, with no warrant in the gospels.

The people who hanged Christ never, to do them justice, accused him of being a bore - on the contrary, they thought him too dynamic to be safe. It has been left for later generations to muffle up that shattering personality and surround him with an atmosphere of tedium. We have efficiently pared the claws of the Lion of Judah, certified him "meek and mild" and recommended him as a fitting household pet for pale curates and pious old ladies.

Yesterday I was clever, so I took the glory for me. Today He makes me wise, so I give the glory to Thee

In spite of his mildness and timidity in reproving, every one about him knew that on the exceptional occasions when he chose, he was absolute. He never, indeed, chose to be absolute except on some one else’s behalf.

Baby Jesus, meek and mild, pray for me, an orphan child. Be my strength, be my friend, be with me until the end. Amen.

Here at our ministry we refuse to present a picture of “gentle Jesus, meek and mild,” a portrait that tugs at your sentiments or pulls at your heartstrings. That’s because we deal with so many people who suffer, and when you’re hurting hard, you’re neither helped nor inspired by a syrupy picture of the Lord, like those sugary, sentimental images many of us grew up with. You know what I mean? Jesus with His hair parted down the middle, surrounded by cherubic children and bluebirds. Come on. Admit it: When your heart is being wrung out like a sponge, when you feel like Morton’s salt is being poured into your wounded soul, you don’t want a thin, pale, emotional Jesus who relates only to lambs and birds and babies. You want a warrior Jesus. You want a battlefield Jesus. You want his rigorous and robust gospel to command your sensibilities to stand at attention. To be honest, many of the sentimental hymns and gospel songs of our heritage don’t do much to hone that image. One of the favorite words of hymn writers in days gone by was sweet. It’s a term that down’t have the edge on it that it once did. When you’re in a dark place, when lions surround you, when you need strong help to rescue you from impossibility, you don’t want “sweet.” You don’t want faded pastels and honeyed softness. You want mighty. You want the strong arm an unshakable grip of God who will not let you go — no matter what.

The most frightening blazing anger was alive in her now. It was not only Elizabeth that she could have killed but Ross. She could have thrown every piece of crockery at him, and knives and forks too. Indeed she could have attacked him knife in hand. Fundamentally there was nothing meek or mild about her. She was a fighter, and it showed now.

He [Mr. Snagsby] is a mild, bald, timid man with a shining head and a scrubby clump of black hair sticking out at the back. He tends to meekness and obesity.

Whatever we have in the glory of man is "away". Those are just not enough before we go "home" to the glory of God.

No one ever made more trouble than gentle Jesus meek and mild.

Holding his hands up in front of his closed eyes, John Coffey said: “Baby Jesus, meek and mild, pray for me, an orphan child. Be my strength, be my friend, be with me until the end. Amen.

No. No. I clenched my hands into fists and pulled on that word. No. I seized my anger and breathed life into its embers. Because I was not the woman they and my father had squashed into a mould. I was not quiet and meek and mild. I was fucking furious.

Little Lamb, who made thee      Dost thou know who made thee,    Gave thee life, and bid thee feed    By the stream and o'er the mead;    Gave thee clothing of delight,    Softest clothing, woolly, bright;    Gave thee such a tender voice,    Making all the vales rejoice?      Little Lamb, who made thee?      Dost thou know who made thee?      Little Lamb, I'll tell thee;      Little Lamb, I'll tell thee:    He is called by thy name,    For He calls Himself a Lamb    He is meek, and He is mild,    He became a little child.    I a child, and thou a lamb,    We are called by His name.      Little Lamb, God bless thee!      Little Lamb, God bless thee! - The Lamb

When he kissed her, she no longer was the one people did not notice, no longer was the meek and mild her friends had come to expect of her. His kisses told her that he noticed her, that he desired her, and that knowledge transformed her into a woman who took what she wanted even if it meant breaking from society’s strictures.

She never expected gross perfidy from the meek and mild.” Mathilde saw her own face reflected in the window, but no, it was a barn owl on a low branch in the cherry trees. She could barely master herself. She had never expected this. These women. Such kindness. Their eyes shining in the dim room. They saw her. She didn’t know why, but they saw her and they loved her even still. “There’s

With ye, I don’t want your land or money. I don’t need power or prestige. I just want ye. I love ye, Aella. I love it when you’re angry and outspoken and killing things. I love ye when ye claw my back to ribbons and scream to wake the dead. I love that ye are not meek or mild, or willing to let others make your decisions.” “Even if it does drive you mental and I need to have the last word?” “Because ye do those things.” “So we’re stuck together forever?” “And ever.” “Seal it with a kiss?” she asked with a sensuous smile. Her Scot did better than that. He made short work of their clothes, his powerful hands ripping them from their bodies while she laughed, a young, girlish sound, carefree and wanton.

I'm a peaceful man, sir, meek and mild, and I can overlook any insult, because I've got a wife to support and children to bring up . . . In no way am I going to draw my sword against anyone, peasant or knight, and I hereby, before God my Maker, forgive all affronts that anybody ever has offered me or will offer me, whether the person who has offered them, offers them, or will offer them is of high or low birth, rich or poor, a gentleman or a commoner, not excepting any estate or condition whatsoever.

The sun descending in the west, The evening star does shine; The birds are silent in their nest, And I must seek for mine. The moon, like a flower, In heaven's high bower, With silent delight Sits and smiles on the night. Farewell, green fields and happy groves, Where flocks have took delight. Where lambs have nibbled, silent moves The feet of angels bright; Unseen they pour blessing, And joy without ceasing, On each bud and blossom, And each sleeping bosom. They look in every thoughtless nest, Where birds are covered warm; They visit caves of every beast, To keep them all from harm. If they see any weeping That should have been sleeping, They pour sleep on their head, And sit down by their bed. When wolves and tigers howl for prey, They pitying stand and weep; Seeking to drive their thirst away, And keep them from the sheep. But if they rush dreadful, The angels, most heedful, Receive each mild spirit, New worlds to inherit. And there the lion's ruddy eyes Shall flow with tears of gold, And pitying the tender cries, And walking round the fold, Saying, 'Wrath, by His meekness, And, by His health, sickness Is driven away From our immortal day. 'And now beside thee, bleating lamb, I can lie down and sleep; Or think on Him who bore thy name, Graze after thee and weep. For, washed in life's river, My bright mane for ever Shall shine like the gold As I guard o'er the fold. - "Night

Because it wasn’t enough to be accompanied by the beast who scared the crap out of every god in Heaven, Xuanzang was assigned a few more traveling companions. The gluttonous pig-man Zhu Baijie. Sha Wujing, the repentant sand demon. And the Dragon Prince of the West Sea, who took the form of a horse for Xuanzang to ride. The five adventurers, thusly gathered, set off on their— “Holy ballsacks!” I yelped. I dropped the book like I’d been bitten. “How far did you get?” Quentin said. He was leaning against the end of the nearest shelf, as casually as if he’d been there the whole time, waiting for this moment. I ignored that he’d snuck up on me again, just this once. There was a bigger issue at play. In the book was an illustration of the group done up in bold lines and bright colors. There was Sun Wukong at the front, dressed in a beggar’s cassock, holding his Ruyi Jingu Bang in one hand and the reins of the Dragon Horse in the other. A scary-looking pig-faced man and a wide-eyed demon monk followed, carrying the luggage. And perched on top of the horse was . . . me. The artist had tried to give Xuanzang delicate, beatific features and ended up with a rather girly face. By whatever coincidence, the drawing of Sun Wukong’s old master could have been a rough caricature of sixteen-year-old Eugenia Lo from Santa Firenza, California. “That’s who you think I am?” I said to Quentin. “That’s who I know you are,” he answered. “My dearest friend. My boon companion. You’ve reincarnated into such a different form, but I’d recognize you anywhere. Your spiritual energies are unmistakable.” “Are you sure? If you’re from a long time ago, maybe your memory’s a little fuzzy.” “The realms beyond Earth exist on a different time scale,” Quentin said. “Only one day among the gods passes for every human year. To me, you haven’t been gone long. Months, not centuries.” “This is just . . . I don’t know.” I took a moment to assemble my words. “You can’t walk up to me and expect me to believe right away that I’m the reincarnation of some legendary monk from a folk tale.” “Wait, what?” Quentin squinted at me in confusion. “I said you can’t expect me to go, ‘okay, I’m Xuanzang,’ just because you tell me so.” Quentin’s mouth opened slowly like the dawning of the sun. His face went from confusion to understanding to horror and then finally to laughter. “mmmmphhhhghAHAHAHAHA!” he roared. He nearly toppled over, trying to hold his sides in. “HAHAHAHA!” “What the hell is so funny?” “You,” Quentin said through his giggles. “You’re not Xuanzang. Xuanzang was meek and mild. A friend to all living things. You think that sounds like you?” It did not. But then again I wasn’t the one trying to make a case here. “Xuanzang was delicate like a chrysanthemum.” Quentin was getting a kick out of this. “You are so tough you snapped the battleaxe of the Mighty Miracle God like a twig. Xuanzang cried over squashing a mosquito. You, on the other hand, have killed more demons than the Catholic Church.” I was starting to get annoyed. “Okay, then who the hell am I supposed to be?” If he thought I was the pig, then this whole deal was off. “You’re my weapon,” he said. “You’re the Ruyi Jingu Bang.” I punched Quentin as hard as I could in the face.

But I've still better things about children. I've collected a great, great deal about Russian children, Alyosha. There was a little girl of five who was hated by her father and mother, 'most worthy and respectable people, of good education and breeding.' You see, I must repeat again, it is a peculiar characteristic of many people, this love of torturing children, and children only. To all other types of humanity these torturers behave mildly and benevolently, like cultivated and humane Europeans; but they are very fond of tormenting children, even fond of children themselves in that sense. it's just their defencelessness that tempts the tormentor, just the angelic confidence of the child who has no refuge and no appeal, that sets his vile blood on fire. In every man, of course, a demon lies hidden- the demon of rage, the demon of lustful heat at the screams of the tortured victim, the demon of lawlessness let off the chain, the demon of diseases that follow on vice, gout, kidney disease, and so on. "This poor child of five was subjected to every possible torture by those cultivated parents. They beat her, thrashed her, kicked her for no reason till her body was one bruise. Then, they went to greater refinements of cruelty- shut her up all night in the cold and frost in a privy, and because she didn't ask to be taken up at night (as though a child of five sleeping its angelic, sound sleep could be trained to wake and ask), they smeared her face and filled her mouth with excrement, and it was her mother, her mother did this. And that mother could sleep, hearing the poor child's groans! Can you understand why a little creature, who can't even understand what's done to her, should beat her little aching heart with her tiny fist in the dark and the cold, and weep her meek unresentful tears to dear, kind God to protect her? Do you understand that, friend and brother, you pious and humble novice? Do you understand why this infamy must be and is permitted? Without it, I am told, man could not have existed on earth, for he could not have known good and evil. Why should he know that diabolical good and evil when it costs so much? Why, the whole world of knowledge is not worth that child's prayer to dear, kind God'! I say nothing of the sufferings of grown-up people, they have eaten the apple, damn them, and the devil take them all! But these little ones! I am making you suffer, Alyosha, you are not yourself. I'll leave off if you like

The Lamb Little Lamb, who made thee? Dost thou know who made thee? Gave thee life & bid thee feed, By the stream & o’er the mead; Gave thee clothing of delight, Softest clothing, wooly, bright; Gave thee such a tender voice, Making all the vales rejoice? Little Lamb, who made thee? Dost thou know who made thee? Little Lamb, I’ll tell thee, Little Lamb, I’ll tell thee: He is called by thy name, For he calls himself a Lamb. He is meek & he is mild; He became a little child. I a child & thou a lamb. We are called by his name. Little Lamb, God bless thee! Little Lamb, God bless thee!

Miss Leighton."  He smiled grimly.  "You may be your family's slave, but you are not mine." "I'm not a slave." "No?" "Slaves labor but don't get paid.  Slaves are often mistreated.  Slaves have no time to themselves, exist to serve the needs of others, and are not appreciated." "Yes.  My point exactly." Amy cheeks burned with embarrassment.  Though she was tempted to challenge the remark, and angrily at that, she didn't want him asking questions she had no wish to answer.  Better that he didn't know the truth about her — then, at least, he'd continue to be kind to her, to talk to her, to treat her as though she was something precious and special. Besides, he was bound to find out about her shameful beginnings, anyhow.  Ophelia and Mildred would make sure of it.  Quietly, she went about getting him his hot water. "Miss Leighton?" "Yes?" "Have I offended you?" "No."  And then:  "But I'm not a slave, I have a nice home here, and I have nothing to complain about, so please don't make my business your own, Captain.  Now here's your hot water, soap, and a towel, and when you're finished, I'll see you eat whether you want to or not." His elegant brows rose in surprise and amusement.  "I beg your pardon?" Good heavens!  Had she really been so rude?  "I said, I'd like to see you eat something," she mumbled, embarrassed. "My dear Miss Leighton.  I daresay I liked it better when you were snapping at me!" "I wasn't snapping . . . was I?" His lips curved in a smile; a real one this time, and one so rich and warm and wonderful that it made the sun shine like July in Amy's heart, warming her from head to toe.  "You were," he said mildly, "and I must confess I much prefer your temper over your meekness.  Snap at me all you want.  And snap at your sisters, too.  If you'd only turn some of that mettle on them, perhaps they'd treat you with the respect you deserve." She went quiet.  Too quiet. "Miss Leighton?" he asked, plunging his hands into the bowl of water and then searching around for the soap.  "Now have I offended you?" "No . . . but they will never treat me with respect, because . . . well, because I don't deserve any." "What an absurd thing to say!  Why the devil do you think that?" "Can we please change the subject?" He sighed, found the soap, and bending his head toward the bowl of water, lathered his face, ears, neck and nape.  "Very well, then.  If that's what you want, I shall endeavor to keep my curiosity, and my protests, to myself.

Most Americans are familiar with Warner Sallman’s Head of Christ painting. This picture is commonly found on nursing home walls or memorial cards given out at funeral homes. Sallman’s portrayal is one of an easily caricatured “meek and mild” Jesus. Though perhaps depicting his approachability and kindness toward children, such pictures can often leave us with a lopsided, sentimental impression of Jesus. No, the real Jesus was not only a friend of sinners and a welcomer of children; he was also a radical, a controversialist, a convicting and even frightening character. He is the Lion of the tribe of Judah (Rev. 5:5). The Head of Christ is a far cry from the temple-clearing, storm-calming Jesus, who evokes sometimes troubled, sometimes terrified responses: “Who then is this, that even the wind and the sea obey Him?” (Mark 4:41).7

A devotee (1) is kind to everyone, (2) does not quarrel with anyone, (3) is fixed in the Absolute Truth, (4) is equal to everyone, (5) is faultless, (6) charitable, (7) mild, (8) clean, (9) simple, (10) benevolent, (11) peaceful, (12) completely attached to Kṛṣṇa, (13) has no material hankering, (14) meek, (15) steady, (16) self-controlled, (17) does not eat more than required, (18) is sane, (19) respectful, (20) humble, (21) grave, (22) compassionate, (23) friendly, (24) poetic, (25) expert, and (26) silent.

Margaret of Anjou. Where Henry VI was meek and mild, Margaret was fiery and fearsome. ‘She spareth no pain’, it was said, ‘to sue her things to an intent and conclusion to her power’.

This idea that Jesus is meek, mild, indifferent, and non-judgmental is the stuff of pure myth. Pastor Mark Driscoll says he used to believe Jesus was dull, boring, passionless—in short, unappealing—until he read the Bible. He didn’t recognize in its pages the Jesus about Whom he’d always been told. Driscoll challenges us to read the Gospel of Mark, which will “spin your head around.” Jesus, says Driscoll, tells people to “repent.” He tells people to quit their jobs and follow him. He tells a demon to shut up. After He heals a leper He swears him to silence, too. Then He picks a fight with Sunday school teachers, He tells His mom He’s busy, He rebukes the wind, He kills two thousand pigs, and “he offends people, but doesn’t go to sensitivity training.” He calls people hypocrites and calls Peter “Satan,” He curses and kills a tree, He tells people they’re going to hell, and He rebukes the disciples for falling asleep on Him in the garden.21 Driscoll’s point is not that Jesus was mean or bad in any way; merely that the lukewarm, pacifist image this culture has created of Him is as ridiculous as it is inaccurate.

Kindness is not a journey for the meek and mild. For those of us who have been steeped in ways of being that are not kind, it takes tremendous energy to purge ourselves of patterns and behaviors that are not kind. Every day we have to choose to commit to live out kindness that day.

And so it is, that the blessed Jesus, our adorable Master, has escaped fame. No one says much about Jesus, except His followers. We do not find His name written among the great and mighty; even though, he is truly the greatest, mightiest, holiest, purest, and best man that ever lived. Jesus is neglected and forgotten. He was “Gentle Jesus, meek and mild.” His kingdom is not of this world.  He was not rough, but all love. His words were softer than butter, they were gentler than soothing oil. No one ever spoke like this man, so gently. Therefore he is neglected and forgotten. He did not come to be a conqueror with his sword, nor a Mahomet with his fiery eloquence. He came to speak with a soft whisper; one that could melt the rocky heart and heal those broken in spirit. His attitude was always, “Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.” Jesus Christ was all gentleness. This is why he has not been praised by people who otherwise would have considered him famous.

Hello. Special Infirmary, please.’ He was surprised to hear Journe’s voice. The professor had turned out in person. ‘Have you had time to examine my customer? What do you think of him?’ A clear reply would have relieved him somewhat, but old Journe was not a man to provide clear answers. He launched into a long speech at the other end of the line, full of technical terms, the upshot of which was that it was 60 per cent likely that Lagrange was play-acting, but unless he slipped up, it might be a few weeks before they would be able to prove this scientifically. ‘Is Doctor Pardon still there?’ ‘He’s about to leave.’ ‘What’s Lagrange doing now?’ ‘He’s quite meek and mild. He allowed himself to be put to bed, and started talking to the nurse in a childish voice. He burst into tears and told her people had threatened to hit him, that everyone was against him, and it had been like this all his life.’ ‘Can I see him tomorrow?’ ‘Yes, whenever you like.’ ‘I’d just like a quick word with Pardon.’ And to the latter: ‘So, what do you think?’ ‘Nothing new to report. I’m not entirely of the same mind as the professor, but he’s more competent than me, and it’s years since I practised psychiatry.’ ‘But you have your own idea?’ ‘I’d prefer to wait a few hours before talking about it. The case is too serious to give a snap judgement. Aren’t you going home to bed now?’ ‘Not yet. I don’t think I’ll be getting any sleep tonight.

Those who charged the Christians with burning down Rome with firebrands were slanderers; but they were at least far nearer to the nature of Christianity than those among the moderns who tell us that the Christians were a sort of ethical society, being martyred in a languid fashion for telling men they had a duty to their neighbours, and only mildly disliked because they were meek and mild.

We know “gentle Jesus, meek and mild,” but do we reflect Jesus the mighty man of war?

Somewhere out there,” said Jean, “must be an illness that makes its sufferers meek, mild, and agreeable. I’ll find it someday, and see that you get the worst possible case.” “I’m sure I was born immune.

I believe it is a grave mistake to present Christianity as something charming and popular with no offense in it. Seeing that Christ went about the world giving the most violent offense to all kinds of people, it would seem absurd to expect that the doctrine of his person can be so presented as to offend nobody. We cannot blink at the fact that gentle Jesus, meek and mild, was so stiff in His opinions and so inflammatory in His language that He was thrown out of church, stoned, hunted from place to place, and finally gibbeted as a firebrand and a public danger. Whatever His peace was, it was not the peace of an amiable indifference.

There is one more invaluable truth about apologetics set forth by Peter in 3:15. It has to do with the Christian’s attitude when defending the faith. When one is under duress it is easy to be defensive or caustic to antagonists. So Peter reminds Christians to defend their faith with godly attitudes, namely “gentleness and reverence.” “Gentleness” refers to our attitude toward unbelievers, while “reverence” speaks of our attitude before God. “Humility” best summarizes the implications of both terms. Specifically, gentleness means meekness, mildness, friendliness, and moral strength under control. We are not to be domineering, overbearing, belittling or condescending when witnessing to the unbelievers, but rather we are to speak “the truth in love” (Ephesians 4:15). Greg Bahnsen rightly referred to this approach as “humble boldness.

At the end, he insists in both cases on secrecy. He’s reached the point where it’s vital that word doesn’t leak out. If his kingdom-mission is becoming more explicitly a Messiah-mission, this really is dangerous. He must do what he has to do swiftly and secretly. In between, both stories tell of a two-stage process of illumination. The blind man sees people, but they look like trees walking about; the crowds see Jesus, but they think he’s just a prophet. (If you want to get a good picture of how Jesus appeared to his contemporaries, forget ‘gentle Jesus, meek and mild’ and read the stories of John the Baptist, Elijah and the other great prophets: fearless men of God who spoke out against evil and injustice, and brought hope to God’s puzzled and suffering people.) Then, as it were with a second touch, Jesus faces the disciples themselves with the question. Now at last their eyes are opened. They have understood about the loaves, and all the other signs. ‘You’re the Messiah!’ Peter speaks for them all. It’s vital for us to be clear at this point. Calling Jesus ‘Messiah’ doesn’t mean calling him ‘divine’, let alone ‘the second person of the Trinity’. Mark believes Jesus was and is divine, and will eventually show us why; but this moment in the gospel story is about something else. It’s about the politically dangerous and theologically risky claim that Jesus is the true King of Israel, the final heir to the throne of David, the one before whom Herod Antipas and all other would-be Jewish princelings are just shabby little impostors. The disciples weren’t expecting a divine redeemer; they were longing for a king. And they thought they’d found one. Nor was it only Herod who might be suspicious. In Jesus’ day there was a prominent temple in Caesarea Philippi to the newest pagan ‘god’ – the Roman Emperor himself. A Messiah announcing God’s kingdom was a challenge to Rome itself. As

Eliza had a skill for rat catching, though she didn't like to do it. The rats were just trying to stay alive after all, as best they could in a city that favored neither the meek nor the mild. She tried not to think what Mother would say- she'd always had a soft spot for animals-

was not a pleasant day, and to make matters worse it rained until late in the afternoon. The Story Girl had not recovered from the mortifications of the previous day; she would not talk, and she would not tell a single story; she sat on Rachel Ward's chest and ate her breakfast with the air of a martyr. After breakfast she washed the dishes and did the bed-room work in grim silence; then, with a book under one arm and Pat under the other, she betook herself to the window-seat in the upstairs hall, and would not be lured from that retreat, charmed we never so wisely. She stroked the purring Paddy, and read steadily on, with maddening indifference to all our pleadings. Even Cecily, the meek and mild, was snappish, and complained of headache. Peter had gone home to see his mother, and Uncle Roger had gone to Markdale on business. Sara Ray came up, but was so snubbed by Felicity that she went home, crying. Felicity got the dinner by herself, disdaining to ask or command assistance. She banged things about and rattled the stove covers until even Cecily protested from her sofa. Dan sat on the floor and whittled, his sole aim and object being to make a mess and annoy Felicity, in which noble ambition he succeeded perfectly.