Pew Book Quotes

Don't be yourself, be a pizza. Everyone loves pizza.

Don't be something you're not. Unless you can be a fabulous unicorn. Always be a fabulous unicorn.

Money can't buy you happiness but it buys you all the things you don't have, even friends.

If you can't PRAY for the peace your church, PROMOTE the Christian doctrines, PREPARE for every good work and PROVIDE for the expansion of the Church, you are just like the PEWS (table and chairs) in the chapel.

But that day...well, Soda can't sit still long enough to enjoy a movie, much less a sermon. It wasn't long before he and Steve and Two-Bit were throwing paper wads at each other and clowning around, and finally Steve dropped a hymn book with a bang--accidentally, of course. Everyone in the place turned to look around at us, and Johnny and I nearly crawled under the pews. And then Two-Bit waved at them. I hadn't been to church since.

If someone hates your guts feed them to them. If someone loves your guts they're probably a zombie.

The church was stuffed with mourners, of course. No one from work - I tried to keep my life and my magazine separate - but otherwise everybody Andrew and I knew was there. It was disorientating, like having the entire contents of one’s address book dressed in black and exported into pews in non alphabetical order.

I begin to suspect," said the curate, after a pause, "that the common transactions of life are the most sacred channels for the spread of the heavenly leaven. There was ten times more of the divine in selling her that gown as you did, in the name of God, than in taking her into your pew and singing out of the same hymn-book with her.

I praise but in brief words the noble writing of these books, for words that praise a book, wherein something is done supremely well, remain, to sound in the ears of a later generation, like the foolish sound of church bells from the tower of a church when every pew is full.

She went to the church to sit in the cave of stone, filled with the voices of strangers. Murmurs coming through the air, bowling in the ceiling and sifting down with the speckled greens and blues, the deep dark red of the stained glass at the end of the nave. She sat in the hard wooden pew and waited for the hymns. And when the singing started, she could weep. She went to the church to open her mouth and feel her heart again, constricted, struggling, banging against her throat, the tears there in the place of words, her voice struggling out in the vast air, stopped by grief.

She’d thought: “Christ was Christ for others, but who? Who was a Christ for Christ?” He’d had to go directly to the God. And she, as she sat in the pew, had also wanted to be able to go directly to the Omnipotence, without having to go through Christ’s human condition which was also hers and everyone else’s. And, oh, God, not wanting to go to Him through the merciful condition of Christ might once again be nothing more than the fear of loving.

Close and slow, summer is ending in Hampshire, Ebbing away down ramps of shaven lawn where close-clipped yew Insulates the lives of retired generals and admirals And the spyglasses hung in the hall and the prayer-books ready in the pew And August going out to the tin trumpets of nasturtiums And the sunflowers’ Salvation Army blare of brass And the spinster sitting in a deck-chair picking up stitches Not raising her eyes to the noise of the ‘planes that pass Northward from Lee-on-Solent.

Most merciful God, we confess that we are by nature sinful and unclean. We have sinned against You in thought, word, and deed, by what we have done and by what we have left undone. We have not loved You with our whole heart; we have not loved our neighbors as ourselves. We justly deserve Your present and eternal punishment. For the sake of Your Son, Jesus Christ, have mercy on us. Forgive us, renew us, and lead us, so that we may delight in Your will and walk in Your ways to the glory of Your holy name. Amen.

A massive ball of brown water, uprooted tree trunks, sheared rooftops, bloated horses, stiff dogs and cats, shattered church windows, broken pews, sodden Bibles, Memorial Day flags, busted brick walls, twisted train cars, splintered rail lines, bowed streetlamps, upturned carriages, naked dolls, bent tin soldiers, dented red wagons, books, black stoves, beds, tables, armchairs, mantels, photographs, love letters, wedding dresses, baby booties, and masses of drowned humanity careens straight for us. Neither Eugene Eggar nor I can move.

Any honest evaluation of contemporary evangelicalism will acknowledge that there are many people walking the streets and sitting in pews who have “obtained like precious faith with us” as the demons (2 Peter 1:1).11 They know something of the person and work of Christ, and they will make something of a confession when it is convenient. However, there is little evidence of an ongoing reality of the saving work of Christ in their lives. Their hope of eternal salvation is founded upon a decision they made long ago, which they believed was sincere, to “accept Christ” by means of a simple prayer. Ministers of the gospel who should have known better confirmed their hope. Like demons, they are lost. Yet, unlike demons, they do not know it.

Bible translations succeed or fail based on Christian trust, because only a vanishingly small percentage of Bible readers can, and even fewer do, go through the laborious process of checking their English translations against the Greek and Hebrew. The vast majority of Bible readers simply take—they have to take—the word of others that the translations in their laps are faithful. When scholarly Christians and ministry-leading Christians go to battle over Bible translations, in dog fights far above the it’s-all-Greek-to-me heads of people in the pew, some of the flak falls on the flock. The sheep today have many resources—like this book—and can do some good homework, but if they can’t read the original languages of Scripture they must still take sides based largely on whom they trust.

The newspaper is a Bible which we read every morning and every afternoon, standing and sitting, riding and walking. It is a Bible which every man carries in his pocket, which lies on every table and counter, and which the mail, and thousands of missionaries, are continually dispersing. It is, in short, the only book which America has printed and which America reads. So wide is its influence. The editor is a preacher whom you voluntarily support. Your tax is commonly one cent daily, and it costs nothing for pew hire. But how many of these preachers preach the truth? I repeat the testimony of many an intelligent foreigner, as well as my own convictions, when I say, that probably no country was ever rubled by so mean a class of tyrants as, with a few noble exceptions, are the editors of the periodical press in this country. And as they live and rule only by their servility, and appealing to the worse, and not the better, nature of man, the people who read them are in the condition of the dog that returns to his vomit.

That was when Sam had proposed doing away with Goal-Setting Sunday. “Why do we even bother? We set these goals and make a big deal out of it for a month or so, then we forget all about it. When we do remember it, we feel bad that we didn’t do anything. Why don’t we just skip Goal-Setting Sunday this year?” That had gone over like a pregnant pole-vaulter. Dale had quoted from the book of Revelation about lukewarm churches and how God would spew them out of his mouth. “Do you want the Lord to spit us out, Sam? Is that what you want? ’Cause I tell you right now, that’s what He’ll do. You’re leading us down a slippery slope. First, we’ll stop doing the Goal-Setting Sunday, then the next thing you know there’ll be fornication right here in the church. You watch and see.” Any deviation from tradition had Dale Hinshaw prophesying an outbreak of fornication in the church pews. It took Sam several years to learn he was better off keeping quiet and not suggesting anything new. “Just go along with it,” his wife had told him. “It’s only one Sunday a year. Let them do whatever they’re going to do. It’s easier that way.” So when Dale suggested at the elders meeting that it was time for Goal-Setting Sunday, Sam didn’t argue. They scheduled it for the first Sunday after Easter, which is when they’ve always held it, lest fornication break out in the church.

That, for a while, seemed like life. And if I was really being honest with myself, I wasn’t into it. The only option was to sit in the pews every Sunday at church and casually wonder if I was going to go to hell because of who I was? No, thank you. Or to understand that the structures on which the country was built were engineered against me? Hard pass. What choice did I have besides constantly code-switching between identities as a means of hiding in plain sight? And wasn’t it just normal to feel like such a mistake as an adult that every time I walked over a bridge or stood on a subway platform, I had to talk myself out of stepping over the edge? I came to believe I was a monster and that I deserved to feel the way I felt. And I didn’t want to turn the page. But through it all there was a constant tethering me to the idea of a future: the library. The library is the place where I could borrow first Grover’s philosophical tome, then a couple of Choose Your Own Adventures I could cheat at, and later a stack of mysteries I could spoil for myself, all attempts to look for some other way of understanding who I was. In the book stacks, I found The Bluest Eye and The Color Purple and Giovanni’s Room and David Rakoff’s Fraud and more. I saw a new vision of Otherness in those books, and the pages kept turning. At the end of every one was a wall waiting to be broken down—a lurch toward becoming—a new paragraph in a story with an ending far different from what I’d ever dared imagine. Every story, whether truth or fiction, is an invitation to imagination, but even more so, it’s an invitation to empathy. The storyteller says, “I am here. Does it matter?” The words that I found in these books were a person calling out from a page, “I am worthy of being heard and you are worthy of hearing my story.” It seems simple but it’s a bold declaration. How many times in life do we receive the message, implicit or explicit, that what we’ve experienced or what we feel isn’t noteworthy or remarkable? The books that I found in the library, ones that I deeply understood and ones that seemed so outside of my experience they might as well have been written in Klingon, all carried the same hopes: to be seen, to be heard, to exist.

Donald Grey Barnhouse was one who set an example of combining gospel preaching with humble prayer. He often could be found in the sanctuary on Saturdays, kneeling beside each pew, thinking about the people who often sat there, and asking God to bless them with the following day's sermon.

Activities to Develop the Proprioceptive System Lifting and Carrying Heavy Loads—Have the child pick up and carry soft-drink bottles to the picnic; laundry baskets upstairs; or grocery bags, filled with nonbreakables, into the house. He can also lug a box of books, a bucket of blocks, or a pail of water from one spot to another. Pushing and Pulling—Have the child push or drag grocery bags from door to kitchen. Let him push the stroller, vacuum, rake, shove heavy boxes, tow a friend on a sled, or pull a loaded wagon. Hard muscular work jazzes up the muscles. Hanging by the Arms—Mount a chinning bar in a doorway, or take your child to the park to hang from the monkey bars. When she suspends her weight from her hands, her stretching muscles send sensory messages to her brain. When she shifts from hand to hand as she travels underneath the monkey bars, she is developing upper-body strength. Hermit Crab—Place a large bag of rice or beans on the child’s back and let her move around with a heavy “shell” on her back. Joint Squeeze—Put one hand on the child’s forearm and the other on his upper arm; slowly press toward and away from his elbow. Repeat at his knee and shoulder. Press down on his head. Straighten and bend his fingers, wrists, elbows, knees, ankles, and toes. These extension and flexion techniques provide traction and compression to his joints and are effective when he’s stuck in tight spaces, such as church pews, movie theaters, cars, trains, and especially airplanes where the air pressure changes. Body Squeeze—Sit on the floor behind your child, straddling him with your legs. Put your arms around his knees, draw them toward his chest, and squeeze hard. Holding tight, rock him forward and back.

We’re at church, for god sakes!” she hissed. “This isn’t right.” He shifted just so, his eyes narrowed with stubborn determination. “Why? God is love. God nurtures love. And, I love you, Elaine Pearson, and not just for your lovely body.” “You’re talking about sex, Ian.” He visually swept the church interior, noting the empty pews and flickering candles. “No, ma’am, I’m not,” he murmured, turning his attention back to her. “Sexual attraction is only a fraction of what flows between us. My body responds to you on a physical level, but that doesn’t mean I’m not in love with your mind and your soul. Remember that,” he stated with conviction, his words sounding like an order. "I can get inside your head, love. You and I are connected in the stars—whether or not you believe that singular truth is irrelevant. What we are…who we are…together…transcends the past. Every experience led us here. You need to stop fighting me…yourself…and us.

Every Sunday, the Weavers drove their Oldsmobile east toward Waterloo and pulled into the gravel parking lot of the Cedarloo Baptist Church, on a hill between Waterloo and Cedar Falls, took their place in the pews, and listened to the minister. But there seemed to be no fire or passion, no sense of what was really happening in the world. They’d tried other churches and found congregations interested in what God had done 2,000 years ago, but no one paying attention to what God was doing right then. Certainly, churches weren’t addressing the crime in Cedar Falls, the drugs, or the sorry state of schools and government, not to mention the kind of danger that Hal Lindsey described. They would have to find the truth themselves. They began doing their own research, especially Vicki. She had quit work to raise Sara, and later Samuel, who was born in April 1978. When Sara started school, Randy and Vicki couldn’t believe the pagan things she was being taught. They refused to allow her to dress up for Halloween—Satan’s holiday—and decided they had to teach Sara at home. But that was illegal in Iowa. A booster shot of religion came with cable television and The PTL Club, the 700 Club, and Jerry Falwell. The small television in the kitchen was on all the time for a while, but most of Vicki’s free time was spent reading. She’s lose herself in the Cedar Falls public library, reading the science fiction her dad had introduced her to as a kid, the novels and self-help books friends recommended, biblical histories, political tracts, and obscure books that she discovered on her own. Like a painter, she pulled out colors and hues that fit with the philosophy she and Randy were discovering, and everywhere she looked there seemed to be something guiding them toward “the truth,” and, at the same time, pulling them closer together. She spent hours in the library, and when she found something that fit, she passed it along first to Randy, who might read the book himself and then spread it to everyone—the people at work, in the neighborhood, at the coffee shop where he hung out. They read books from fringe organizations and groups, picking through the philosophies, taking what they agreed with and discarding the rest. Yet some of the books that influenced them came from the mainstream, such as Ayn Rand’s classic libertarian novel Atlas Shrugged. Vicki found its struggle between the individual and the state prophetic and its action inspiring. The book shows a government so overbearing and immoral that creative people, led by a self-reliant protagonist, go on strike and move to the mountains. “‘You will win,’” the book’s protagonist cries from his mountain hideout, “‘when you are ready to pronounce the oath I have taken at the start of my battle—and for those who wish to know the day of my return, I shall now repeat it to the hearing of the world: “‘I swear—by my life and my love of it—that I will never live my life for the sake of another man, nor ask another to live for mine.

The patient may decide Christianity itself is as faulty as its practitioners and give it up--as long as he doesn't become humble. "All you have to do," Screwtape instructs Wormwood, "is to keep out of his mind the question 'If I, being what I am, can consider that I am in some sense a Christian, why should the different vices of those people in the next pew prove that their religion is mere hypocrisy and convention?'" (p. 8).

Don't be yourself. Be a pizza. Everyone loves pizza.

In light of his criticism, maybe we need to reevaluate Jesus’ commendation — and look more closely at our own church and our own lives. The church at Ephesus was a hardworking church, but without the hot fire of love for Christ, their work was simply a performance. The services were well planned, the pews were packed, and the pastor’s sermons were polished, but Jesus says, “I miss the love you had at first.” He misses the extravagance of love poured out; he misses the spontaneous expressions of praise; he misses the full sacrifice of their hearts. The ministry at the Ephesian church in your neighborhood is very impressive, but Jesus is not pleased.

Lord gave His church some final instructions. In fact, the very last words He spoke on earth have been commonly known as “the Great Commission.”1 This unchanging command is to “make disciples of all ethnic groups of the world” (Matt. 28:19-20). All four Gospels, along with the book of Acts, repeat the disciple-making mission entrusted to the church.2 In fact, from a hermeneutical perspective, one must interpret the entire New Testament in light of the Great Commission and the redemptive work of Jesus. The salvific mission of Jesus remains the same and has been handed down to every believer. The follower of Christ must obediently pick up the baton and carry on the mission of Jesus. On the other hand, the Great Commission has fallen on hard times and in reality has been re-defined as “the Great Omission.”3 Perhaps one’s conscience has been soothed by the fine art of “making church members” or helping the poor. Nevertheless, the haunting words of the Great Commission continue to echo from the pages of Scripture, “make disciples of all nations” not just casual followers. Far too often, Christians are content with leading people to say a prayer or sign a card in order to ease their guilty hearts. The bar of discipleship has been lowered, and leadership has accepted the fact that most church members will never be involved in the disciple-making mission of Jesus. In fact, low expectations have become the norm in everyday Christianity. The content of preaching continues to be “dumbed down,” and the ever-widening gap between the professional clergy and the common layman continues to expand. As long as the offerings exceed the budget, leadership will accept the status quo. Nevertheless, the church remains oblivious to the mission of Jesus. Perhaps missiologist Ed Stetzer has correctly surmised the situation: The greatest travesty in the contemporary church is we pile hundreds of Christians into our churches and stack them in on padded pews very similar to products stacked on shelves in the grocery store and we let them come and go and do absolutely nothing and we let them think they’re okay. The greatest sin in most churches is that we have made it okay to do nothing and call ourselves a follower of Jesus.4

Demons worm these teachings into false religions, cults, pulpits, denominations, and seminary classrooms. Satan is mentioned in four of the seven letters to the churches in Revelation 2–3. We must never forget that “Satan is always at church before the preacher is in the pulpit or a member is in the pew. He comes to hinder the sower, to impoverish the soil, or to corrupt the seed.”3 What are some of these demonic doctrines that are being peddled today? God is a myth. Creation happened by time and chance. Man is simply a higher form of animal. Man is inherently good. The Bible was written by men; it’s not inspired by God. The Bible is filled with contradictions and errors. The Bible is one of many books that contain divine revelation. Man can get to heaven by his own good works. Jesus is not God, but a created being. Jesus did not physically rise from the dead. The miracles in the Bible never really happened. Everyone will go to heaven. There is no hell. God’s highest goal is your happiness. God wants you rich and healthy. Demons are lying spirits who want to destroy us body and soul and deceive us until the end. They are dead serious about this mission. We must be serious as well. We must know the truth and do all we can to spread it.

Strategies for Welcoming Children Here are some ideas to consider for welcoming children in services: •   Encourage parents to prepare a “shul bag” to bring to the service. In it should be some reading or picture books, a quiet toy, a favorite stuffed animal, a snack and a drink (to be eaten in the hallway), extra diapers, fresh wipes, a pretend tallit, and a kippah. •   Create a children’s area in the rear of the shul by taking out a few pews and establishing a play space for babies and toddlers while parents and grandparents participate in the service. Proximity to the door allows for a quick getaway. •   Offer children a basket of appropriate Shabbat toys to play with at the entrance of the sanctuary. •   Keep a cart of Jewish children’s books for parents to share with children during the service. •   Encourage parents to take the children to babysitting and youth services, clearly sending a message that the main service is geared for adults. The babysitting is first rate, offered in a clean, well-stocked nursery. •   Take a strategy from the megachurches and establish a family room, sometimes called a crying room, in the congregation: a closed-off space constructed of glass where families can make noise, but still hear the service. At Saddleback, young children are most definitely not encouraged in the main sanctuary. But families can use the four family rooms in the building that receive live televised broadcasts of the service or sit just outside the glass walls of the sanctuary where speakers allow the adults to hear the service.

Tom pulled at my hand. He wanted to go to church. He was taken sometimes by June, and always embarrassed us by singing very loudly, with no tune whatsoever, out of the hymn book held upside down. Keith had once reversed the hymn book for him, but Tom had responded to this with a howl of protest which brought all the congregation’s eyes to our pew. Tom knew which was right way up, and preferred the other. Sometimes he would sing by himself in the middle of the minister’s prayers. People enjoyed that, I think. Extempore prayers are often long. “Half

Our powerlessness is largely a result of our prayerlessness. We are eating the bitter fruit of our failure to pray. Our children, government, churches and society are reaping the result of dry eyes in the pews and crusty hearts in the pulpits. Ed Silvoso says it well in his book That None Should Perish: When Christians begin to pray for the felt needs of the lost, God surprises them with almost immediate answers to prayer. In fact, prayer for the needs of that one-hundredth sheep is the spiritual equivalent of dialing 911.3

Dear friends, let us love one another, for love comes from God. Everyone who loves has been born of God and knows God. —1 John 4:7 (NIV) I’ve always been something of a loner. In middle school, I preferred a good fantasy novel to time on the playground, and in college, I often chose to do homework or watch a movie rather than spend time with friends. Even at church, I chose to sit in pews toward the back, where I could pray alone. Sometimes my desire to be on my own was so strong that I would snap at people just to get them to leave me alone. I’d like to say all that changed when I met Emily; that her warmth and beauty opened my heart so wide I couldn’t hold it in any longer. But it didn’t; at least not at first. It took weeks of hanging out together before I worked up the courage to ask her out, and even when we started dating, I still found myself drawing away. After a night where I raised my voice at Emily for simply asking if we could have dinner together, I knew I had to change. Not only was I endangering the most important relationship in my life, but I wasn’t living by Christ’s precept to love and care for one another. I didn’t become a new person overnight. It took months of work and prayer to stop pushing Emily away. Ultimately, I had to accept that I wanted to watch her laugh as much as anything on earth—and I would change, in any way necessary, to protect and keep her in my life with God’s help. My relationship with Emily—and my family and friends—is ongoing…. Thank You, Lord, for always leaving Your heart open for me, thereby teaching me to open my heart to others. —Sam Adriance Digging Deeper: 2 Cor 5:17; Gal 2:20

Colonel Mouton. Did you know the Episcopalian church on West Main was a Confederate field hospital? That’s right. When the Yankees captured it, they pushed the pews together and turned them into feed troughs for their horses.” She was sniffling but had stopped crying. “How do you know all this?” she asked. “I read books,” I said.

Jacoby, as had become his habit, sat in the last row of pews and breathed the sacred air. He was not becoming religious so much as he was connecting with the spirituality offered within the churches themselves. He, of course, marveled at the architecture and opulence, even if the latter struck him as somewhat over the top, but he most appreciated the serenity. Churches in Italy felt so safe, as if he could appreciate the solace they provided over the centuries. It was a similar sentiment he enjoyed in museums, surrounded by the blessings of humanity in all its glory. It affirmed his faith, so often challenged, in mankind and of what they were capable.

This book is not for the faint of heart. Please read all warnings before you continue. ~ Dubcon ~ Light Blood Play ~ Bully ~ Child Abuse (Physical and Sexual Assault) ~ Gore ~ Loved One's Death ~ Mention of Child Death ~ Pew Pew Play ~ Torture ~ Sexual Content ~ Adult Language ~ BDSM

They were not the faith I chose. Like mom’s ghostly visitors when she was five, my cousins chose me, knocking on my midnight door, portentous at my bedside. After all my god denying and god shopping. After all my hours in Quaker pews, reading Yoruba books, studying Lukumí prayers. Just so the universe could be cute a decade later and pass me a note in class. You were born into the church, Qui Qui.

I saw books with titles like Lies My Teacher Told Me, and I felt a little sorry for the people who needed a book to explain such an obvious concept to them. I had known teachers could be liars since I was young.

Isn’t this bow cool? It’s called a crossbow, I don’t know why. Instead of taking forever to fire one arrow, it can fire arrows quickly. Pew pew pew! Think of how many bad guys you could slay—pew pew pew pew pew!

Gilead is a book that deserves to be read slowly, thoughtfully, and repeatedly … I would like to see copies of it dropped onto pews across our country, where it could sit among the Bibles and hymnals and collection envelopes. It would be a good reminder of what it means to lead a noble and moral life—and, for that matter, what it means to write a truly great novel.”—Ann Patchett, The Village Voice

Jeff Myers, in his book Grow Together, says that the value of friendship is so important to millennials, in particular, that if a church doesn’t support and provide structure for relationship-building among this generation, it’ll be hard-pressed to keep those young adults in its pews.

See, I’ve got this coping mechanism thing where, when I’m feeling frightened or vulnerable or over my head, I intellectualize the situation to try and regain a sense of control. (I’ve read a lot of books on air travel, parenting, and death.) It was scary starting over at a new church and trying to make new friends, so before each visit, I girded myself with a sense of smug detachment wherein I could observe the proceedings from the safety of my intellectual superiority, certain I could do a better job at running the show thanks to my expertise as, you know, a Christian blogger. Oh, I talked a big game about the importance of ecumenicism and the beauty of diversity within the global church, but when I deigned to show up at one of these unsuspecting congregations, I sat in the pew with my arms crossed, mad at the Baptists for not being Methodist enough, the Methodists for not being Anglican enough, the Anglicans for not being evangelical enough, and the evangelicals for not being Catholic enough. I scrutinized the lyrics to every worship song, debated the content of every sermon. I rendered verdicts regarding the frequency of communion and the method of baptism. I checked the bulletins for typos. In some religious traditions, this particular coping mechanism is known as pride.

With hurricane magic, we can pew pew all the baddies and defeat the Dire Wolf.