Posters Jesus Quotes

Historic figures have homes to visit for posterity; the Lord of history left no home. Luminaries leave libraries and write their memoirs; He left one book, penned by ordinary people. Deliverers speak of winning through might and conquest; He spoke of a place in the heart.

in writing like this, he was letting truth from beyond time into history, and thus making history the handmaid of posterity and not its governor...

There were bland photos of boats and landscapes with the words RELAXATION and MEDITATION printed beneath them. There was also a poster about Jesus and footsteps in the sand, as if banality could be exponentially increased.

The Jesus of the Gospels is far more suited for an F.B.I. Wanted poster than for being the poster child of American values. While the historical Jesus certainly wasn’t a hippie, he was obviously dangerous and subversive. After all, Rome didn’t crucify people for extolling civic virtues and pledging allegiance to the empire.

He pulled a Tupperware container out of the fridge and set it next to the carton of eggs. “Why do I get the feeling you weren’t there to catch a Cubs game?” She ignored his question. “Are those prechopped peppers in that Tupperware container?” Troy cracked an egg into a bowl. “Yeah.” “I’m not sleeping with you.” “Jesus,” he choked out. “How did we arrive here from prechopped peppers?” Ruby pushed back her chair and stood, the poster child for nervous energy. “You must cook for girls pretty often to chop up peppers in advance, that’s all I’m saying. So if there are strings attached to that omelet, I don’t want it. No matter how good it tastes, the answer is no.

Look, I'm here because we need to stop this killer. I'm somewhat on board with the craziness. But we've now got a priest stealing the Shroud of Turin from the Catholic Church so we can use the blood of Jesus to defeat the anti-Christ, who, by the way, is Newsweek's (sic) poster boy of the year, all at the urgings of an alcoholic priest. Do I have it right?

Why would God have inspired the words of the Bible if he chose not to preserve these words for posterity? Put differently, what should make me think he had inspired the words in the first place if I knew for certain (as I did) that he had not preserved them? This became a major problem for me in trying to figure out which Bible I thought was inspired. Another big problem is one that I don’t deal with in Misquoting Jesus. If God inspired certain books in the decades after Jesus died, how do I know that the later church fathers chose the right books to be included in the Bible? I could accept it on faith—surely God would not allow noninspired books in the canon of Scripture. But as I engaged in more historical study of the early Christian movement, I began to realize that there were lots of Christians in lots of places who fully believed that other books were to be accepted as Scripture; conversely, some of the books that eventually made it into the canon were rejected by church leaders in different parts of the church, sometimes for centuries. In some parts of the church, the Apocalypse of John (the book of Revelation) was flat out rejected as containing false teaching, whereas the Apocalypse of Peter, which eventually did not make it in, was accepted. There were some Christians who accepted the Gospel of Peter and some who rejected the Gospel of John. There were some Christians who accepted a truncated version of the Gospel of Luke (without its first two chapters), and others who accepted the now noncanonical Gospel of Thomas. Some Christians rejected the three Pastoral Epistles of 1 and 2 Timothy and Titus, which eventually made it in, and others accepted the Epistle of Barnabas, which did not. If God was making sure that his church would have the inspired books of Scripture, and only those books, why were there such heated debates and disagreements that took place over three hundred years? Why didn’t God just make sure that these debates lasted weeks, with assured results, rather than centuries?1

I have never been a poster boy for serenity, but I knew I needed to restore some semblance of inner peace. In search of a fix much quicker than my weekly forays into the talking cure, I came upon an ancient and proven practice, one that exists in every culture and religious tradition as a means to attaining calm and an alternate plane of consciousness: an extended fast. Buddha did it, Jesus did it, even Pythagoras and George Bernard Shaw did it. It's like a Cole Porter song from the world's least-fun musical.

The Jesus of the Gospels is far more suited for an F.B.I. Wanted poster than for being the poster child of American values. While the historical Jesus certainly wasn’t a hippie, he was obviously dangerous and subversive. After all, Rome didn’t crucify people for extolling civic virtues and pledging allegiance to the empire. In announcing and enacting the kingdom of God, Jesus was countercultural and counter-imperial. This is why Jesus was crucified. His crime was claiming to be a king who had not been installed by Caesar.

I still have a poster I found among my grandfather’s stuff, given to him by the missionaries to tack up on his wall. It reads: Let Jesus save you. Come out of your blanket, cut your hair, and dress like a white man. Have a Christian family with one wife for life only. Live in a house like your white brother. Work hard and wash often. Learn the value of a hard-earned dollar. Do not waste your money on giveaways. Be punctual. Believe that property and wealth are signs of divine approval. Keep away from saloons and strong spirits. Speak the language of your white brother. Send your children to school to do likewise. Go to church often and regularly. Do not go to Indian dances or to the medicine men.

The testimony is followed by another montage of Team Impact feats of strength. “Ladies and Gentlemen,” an amped up announcer voice a la Monster Truck Rally proclaims, “We are Team Impaaaaact. Standing on faith tonight let’s give it up for the King of Kings and Lord of Lords, the one, the only, the Risen Warrioooooor!” Are they talking about Jesus? Is he a cage fighter or the Lamb of God? If ever there was a cross-denying tribute to a theology of glory, it would be Team Impact. As is the case with the rest of TBN, the scandal of Jesus’ birth, life, teachings, death, and resurrection are ignored entirely in favor of a Jesus-as-Rambo theology; here the Lord just kicks ass and takes names, much like the freakishly muscular Team Impact guys. Taking one’s Christology from a couple of chapters of Revelation (ignoring the central Christ image, that of the Lamb who was slain) rather than the gospels is baffling to me. I recently saw an “inspirational” self-mocking emerging church poster. The word “incarnational” rested below an image of a heavily tattooed guy wearing a crown of thorns made of barbed wire. The caption read “What would Jesus do? I’m pretty sure he’d do stuff I think is cool.” We all wish to make Christ in our own image because the truth of a God who dies is too much. We’ll believe anything but that, and if that anything happens to bring us power and victory and glory then all the better.

After breakfast, we join hands in the living room like we always do, under the framed poster of the Ten-Point Program, and Daddy leads us in prayer. “Black Jesus, watch over my babies today,” he says. “Keep them safe, steer them from wrong, and help them recognize snakes from friends. Give them the wisdom they need to be their own people. “Help Seven with this situation at his momma’s house, and let him know he can always come home. Thank you for Sekani’s miraculous, sudden healing that just so happened to come after he found out they’re having pizza at school today.

My favorite phrase those days, which I saw on a Family Dog poster, was “May the Baby Jesus Shut Your Mouth and Open Your Mind,” which came from a Captain Beefheart record.

You’re covered in blood,” Felix noted. Jericho snorted. “Yeah, kind of a hazard of the job.” Felix scoffed. “Yeah, but you’re also wearing that weird smug, smirky look you only get whenever you get laid, and since you were in an abandoned cabin with Trevor the perv, we’re…alarmed.” He flicked his hand dramatically. “Alarmed,” Jericho echoed. Arsen leaned in, his tone conspiratorial. “Did you fuck Trevor the perv, Coe?" Felix pulled a face. “I’m just hoping he fucked him before he killed him, not after. Once you cross that line, you don’t come back.” Jericho tried to follow their dizzying thought process, but before he could formulate a response, Nico and Levi arrived. Fuck. Levi looked like a wanted poster had fucked a tattoo model. His inky dark hair fell in his face, and he sucked on a Dum-Dum lollipop. Nico’s springy blond curls hung in his face. He looked surprisingly angelic for somebody who was such a little monster. “What’s up? Why’s everybody looking so constipated?” Levi asked. “Coe fucked Trevor the perv,” Arsen said, as if this was fact and not their wild speculation. Levi wrinkled his nose. “That dude was gay? Or was he, like”—he mimed a blowjob—“trying to bribe his way out of it?” Jericho’s face contorted at the idea of a blowjob from greasy ass Trevor, but they paid him no mind. Nico also looked disgusted. “What the fuck, man? Like, I get it. Who hasn’t wanted to fuck somebody they killed or kill somebody they fucked? But it’s a slippery slope, man.” “This is what I told him,” Arsen said, shaking his head. “Once you cross that line…” “Jesus Christ. I didn’t fuck Trevor the perv. I killed Trevor the perv,” Jericho said, walking around the four of them to head to his office, attempting to close the door behind him. His brother caught it and swung it back open. “If you didn’t fuck Trevor, then who was it? And don’t lie and say it didn’t happen. Your after orgasm glow never lies,” Arsen said, flopping down into a chair hard enough to rock it back dangerously far before it righted itself. “I—” Jericho shook his head. “I ran into a guy.” “With your dick?” Levi asked. Nico’s brows knitted together. “In the middle of the woods?” “Like, a homeless man in the woods? A… What’s the word? A hobo?” Arsen asked. Levi elbowed him. “We don’t call them that anymore. Show some respect.” Arsen shrugged. “Sorry. What do you call a man roaming the woods looking for sex?” “A lie,” Felix said, his mouth set in a hard line. “No way my brother banged some hot, sweaty lumberjack in the woods. That’s not his type.” His long, elegant fingers trailed over his collarbones, a slow smile spreading along his face as his brother seemed to get lost in his own lumberjack fantasy. “I—” “There’s nothing in the woods but animals and Sasquatch,” Nico said. “Sasquatch?” Levi parroted. Nico nodded. “Yeah, you know. Bigfoot.” “Did you fuck Bigfoot?” Levi asked, pulling the lollipop from his mouth with a pop.

She shot him a look. "What?" he asked. "Where's my journal? I want to jot this down for posterity." Huh? He lifted a confused brow and she smirked, ornery light glinting in her amber brow. "You just spoke, like what? A whole four sentences? Not to mention there were a few adjectives thrown in there. That must be some sort of record. It should be memorialized accordingly, don't you think? She batted her lashed. Jesus, the woman was too much.

Leonard Ravenhill: The prophet is violated during his ministry, but he is vindicated by history. He is the villain of today and the hero of tomorrow. He is excommunicated while alive and exalted when dead! He is dishonored with epithets when breathing and honored with epitaphs when dead. He is friendless while living and famous when dead. He is against the establishment in ministry; then he is established as a saint by posterity.1

The ashes of Augustus," she said. "Monsignor Isaac was searching for the golden urn in which the emperor's ashes were placed before it was buried in the Mausoleum of Augustus. Livia, his wife, had presided over the burning of the emperor's body for three days and two nights in the presence of members of the senate. It was even rumored that Livia paid the senator Numerius Atticus to say that he had seen the spirit of Augustus ascending into heaven." "Like Jesus' Ascension?" Ryan became introspective. "Exactly. In ancient times, ascension symbolized that a deceased ruler was of divine origin. Livia wanted Augustus' divinity to be remembered for posterity.

Because Christ was of Ruth’s posterity. The Holy Ghost thought fit to take particular notice of that marriage of Boaz with Ruth, whence sprang the Saviour of the world. We may often observe it, that the Holy Spirit who indited the Scriptures, often takes notice of little things, minute occurrences, that do but remotely relate to Jesus Christ. Secondly,

The covenant of works could by no means be renewed by fallen Adam, so as thereby to help himself and his posterity out of his misery, the which is the only thing in question here; otherwise, indeed, it might have been renewed, which is evident by this sad token, that many do actually renew it in their covenanting with God, being prompted thereto by their ignorance of the high demands of the law, their own utter inability, and the way of salvation by Jesus Christ.

So that one night after the Bumble rando blew me off and I was emotionally ravaged, practically kneeling on the ground, arms out in the Scott Stapp/Jesus position a la Andy Dufresne on the poster of Shawshank Redemption, I thought to myself, ‘Am I going to fall the fuck apart every single time some guy I meet doesn’t end up being the one?

IT’S NO SURPRISE that men like Graham, Hamblen, and Boone gained celebrity status within this burgeoning evangelical culture. What’s more curious is the fact that John Wayne would, too. Unlike Hamblen, Wayne didn’t have a born-again experience. Unlike Boone, Wayne could hardly be called the poster boy of “family values.” Thrice married, twice divorced, Wayne also carried on several high-profile affairs. He was a chain-smoker and a hard drinker. Yet despite his rough edges, Wayne would capture the hearts and imaginations of American evangelicals. The affinity was based not on theology, but rather on a shared masculine ideal.

I said, ‘I’m not going to be here for long.’ ‘The lending desk closes in five,’ she said. And she wheeled on towards a door with a poster on it saying Enter a World Of Adventure, and disappeared through it. For a while I couldn’t locate the Poetry shelves at all. I walked past Pottery and Ceramics, past Parenting Skills, Personal Development, Philosophy, Psychology and Pet Care, but there was no Poetry. I walked past an old man sitting beside a shelf that said Withdrawn Fiction: 10p, and a big woman in Scholl sandals and beige socks, reading a book called Bring Me My Arrows of Desire. I walked past a carousel displaying off-the-peg reading glasses – See Clearly Again for only £3.99! said a sign – a claim which seemed improbable to me, like one of Jesus’s miracles. Pinned to a cork noticeboard beside the carousel was another poster I hadn’t noticed the last time I’d gone there. It said: THE WORLD ENDS TOMORROW! (according to Nostradamus) So please make sure you return your overdue books

In the Middle Ages, people would have pictures or statues of the Virgin Mary, or Jesus Christ, or a favourite saint. Today, people have pictures, posters or statues of celebrities: actors, sports stars, TV stars, fictional characters. Is that an improvement?

The unvarnished Jesus cannot be empirically proved or reduced to a spokesperson for a preferred ism. Jesus will not be the poster boy for left-wing activism or right-wing militarism. Jesus has his own agenda—it’s just and peaceable, but first of all it worships God.

The room is full of color. Clothing strewn here and there, art, and posters. On the corner of a desk, a framed photograph. A girl my age leans into another girl, her hip cocked, arm slung over her friend’s shoulders. They are both smiling as though they’ve just shared a secret. One of the girls is clearly the one from the family portrait in the hall, but older here, with her friend. They wear ripped jeans. One of them has on a midriff-revealing tank top, the other what I think is a band or movie T-shirt, though I don’t recognize the name. Again, like the magazines, the sense that there is so much more color to these girls, to their lives, than my own. I turn my attention to the rest of the desk. Cluttered with rainbow pens, coins, to-do lists, jotted-down notes on scraps of paper, highlighters, stickers. A University of Wisconsin red hoodie draped over the chair. Photographs, drawings, ripped homework pages, clothes, and more variations of lip gloss than I would have thought existed. This is the bedroom of a teenage girl. Mine is that of a child. There are no crosses in this room. There’s no framed painting of Jesus, no stuffed animals or Bible.