Priest Appreciation Quotes

Uber drivers, summoned by phone, awaited them and drove them to the restaurant. This 'sleight of hand' was Father Jon's idea. Jennifer felt like an actress in a James Bond movie, but she appreciated the subterfuge.

She collected herself, and rose from the floor. “Until you have a better grasp on what we’re dealing with here, I’d appreciate your immediate proximity.” I did as she asked. She was the expert, after all. But what a terrifying thought, that the world’s foremost expert knew only enough to live in horror.

I used to read in books how our fathers persecuted mankind. But I never appreciated it. I did not really appreciate the infamies that have been committed in the name of religion, until I saw the iron arguments that Christians used. I saw the Thumbscrew—two little pieces of iron, armed on the inner surfaces with protuberances, to prevent their slipping; through each end a screw uniting the two pieces. And when some man denied the efficacy of baptism, or may be said, 'I do not believe that a fish ever swallowed a man to keep him from drowning,' then they put his thumb between these pieces of iron and in the name of love and universal forgiveness, began to screw these pieces together. When this was done most men said, 'I will recant.' Probably I should have done the same. Probably I would have said: 'Stop; I will admit anything that you wish; I will admit that there is one god or a million, one hell or a billion; suit yourselves; but stop.' But there was now and then a man who would not swerve the breadth of a hair. There was now and then some sublime heart, willing to die for an intellectual conviction. Had it not been for such men, we would be savages to-night. Had it not been for a few brave, heroic souls in every age, we would have been cannibals, with pictures of wild beasts tattooed upon our flesh, dancing around some dried snake fetich. Let us thank every good and noble man who stood so grandly, so proudly, in spite of opposition, of hatred and death, for what he believed to be the truth. Heroism did not excite the respect of our fathers. The man who would not recant was not forgiven. They screwed the thumbscrews down to the last pang, and then threw their victim into some dungeon, where, in the throbbing silence and darkness, he might suffer the agonies of the fabled damned. This was done in the name of love—in the name of mercy, in the name of Christ. I saw, too, what they called the Collar of Torture. Imagine a circle of iron, and on the inside a hundred points almost as sharp as needles. This argument was fastened about the throat of the sufferer. Then he could not walk, nor sit down, nor stir without the neck being punctured, by these points. In a little while the throat would begin to swell, and suffocation would end the agonies of that man. This man, it may be, had committed the crime of saying, with tears upon his cheeks, 'I do not believe that God, the father of us all, will damn to eternal perdition any of the children of men.' I saw another instrument, called the Scavenger's Daughter. Think of a pair of shears with handles, not only where they now are, but at the points as well, and just above the pivot that unites the blades, a circle of iron. In the upper handles the hands would be placed; in the lower, the feet; and through the iron ring, at the centre, the head of the victim would be forced. In this condition, he would be thrown prone upon the earth, and the strain upon the muscles produced such agony that insanity would in pity end his pain. I saw the Rack. This was a box like the bed of a wagon, with a windlass at each end, with levers, and ratchets to prevent slipping; over each windlass went chains; some were fastened to the ankles of the sufferer; others to his wrists. And then priests, clergymen, divines, saints, began turning these windlasses, and kept turning, until the ankles, the knees, the hips, the shoulders, the elbows, the wrists of the victim were all dislocated, and the sufferer was wet with the sweat of agony. And they had standing by a physician to feel his pulse. What for? To save his life? Yes. In mercy? No; simply that they might rack him once again. This was done, remember, in the name of civilization; in the name of law and order; in the name of mercy; in the name of religion; in the name of Christ.

Sure enough the goldfish was swimming upside down, its boggle eyes wide and staring, its fins flapping madly at its sides. Brandon felt like the fish looked. He was anxious over how Lewis knew he was a vet and the address of the practice he worked at. "I don't think it has vertigo, Lewis." A professional approach was all he could think of. "Has it ever done this before?" "He. He's not an 'it' and his name is Fluffles. I'd appreciate it if you referred to Fluffles by his name rather than a generic term demeaning him into nothing more than an object devoid of gender." Lewis cocked his head, staring unblinking. "Fluffles is a beloved pet. I demand you show him respect!" "Ooookaaaay." Brandon pressed his lips together and released them with a loud pop. "Has Fluffles ever done this before?" "Don't know." Lewis peered into the bag. "I've only had him forty-five minutes.

Simply put, the story of paleo-Christianity is Greek-speaking mystics in southern Italy demanding personal access to the Eucharist. It wasn’t the priests who attracted them to Jesus. It wasn’t the Church Fathers. And it certainly wasn’t the Bible or the basilicas, because neither existed. It was an experience of meeting God, free from doctrine, dogma, and any institution whatsoever. Surely that’s something people today can appreciate.

Roth stared down at the table. He'd had a normal upbringing---two parents, no suicides, no murders, not even a single wayward touch from a priest in his parish. And yet he still found plenty of to complain about. What was wring with him? Just as people had a bad habit of dismissing others' problems and tragedies, so too did they have a bad habit of not appreciating what they have. Or had.

Thanks to meetings and discussions with experts in the natural sciences, with physicists and biologists as well as with historians, I have learned to appreciate the importance of those other branches of knowledge which involve the scientific disciplines; these are likewise capable of attaining the truth from different perspectives. The splendor of the truth–Veritatis Splendor–constantly needs to accompany them, enabling people to meet, to exchange ideas, and to enrich one another.

Yet my study of the history of religion has revealed that human beings are spiritual animals. Indeed, there is a case for arguing that Homo sapiens is also Homo religiosus. Men and women started to worship gods as soon as they became recognizably human; they created religions at the same time as they created works of art. This was not simply because they wanted to propitiate powerful forces; these early faiths expressed the wonder and mystery that seem always to have been an essential component of the human experience of this beautiful yet terrifying world. Like art, religion has been an attempt to find meaning and value in life, despite the suffering that flesh is heir to. Like any other human activity, religion can be abused, but it seems to have been something that we have always done. It was not tacked on to a primordially secular nature by manipulative kings and priests but was natural to humanity. Indeed, our current secularism is an entirely new experiment, unprecedented in human history. We have yet to see how it will work. It is also true to say that our Western liberal humanism is not something that comes naturally to us; like an appreciation of art or poetry, it has to be cultivated. Humanism is itself a religion without God—not all religions, of course, are theistic. Our ethical secular ideal has its own disciplines of mind and heart and gives people the means of finding faith in the ultimate meaning of human life that were once provided by the more conventional religions.

A dainty man of a nervous disposition, Father Laughton detests discord above all things. He always climbs down before seriously disagreeing with anyone; he can’t dismiss the most disruptive student from his class without feeling sorry twenty seconds later and racing down the corridor to summon him back. As a result, his music appreciation courses are notoriously anarchic – in fact they make anarchy look like a slow day at the library – and yet, at the same time, they are marked by a kind of goodwill, and the priest always seems happy there, in the midst of the melee, humming along to a Field larghetto or a Chopin mazurka while paper planes, pencil cases, books and larger objects fly through the air around him.

Amy talks about that bastard Hunter like he’s reg’lar people,” Henry hissed. Loretta walked over to the window and unfastened the doeskin membrane to gaze out into the twilight. She curled her fingers around the windowsill, digging her nails into the wood. Gazing up at the rise, she remembered Hunter’s gentleness with Amy when he brought her back to the village after her ordeal with Santos. “Uncle Henry, you may as well know. That bastard you hate so much is my husband.” Wood splintered from under Loretta’s fingernails. “I married him before a priest, and I--I love him. I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t speak ill of him in front of me.” Behind her, the cabin grew so quiet that Loretta could hear the others breathing. Rigid, she waited for the explosion. It wasn’t long in coming. “Say what?” Henry cried. “Hunter is my husband.” Repeating the words lent her courage. She turned from the window to face her uncle, who had lurched to his feet. “We’re married, and our union is blessed by the church.” “He forced you?” “Unlike some I know, Hunter has never forced me to do anything.” She met Henry’s gaze, well aware her meaning wasn’t lost on him. “He’s never mistreated me in any way, never intimidated me. I’m proud to be his wife. When he comes for me, I’ll be going with him.” “Jesus Lord, she’s lost her mind,” Henry whispered. He sank onto the bench, looking like a billows that had just been emptied of air. “Go with him? Back to the Comanches? Rachel, talk sense to her. I never heard of such.” Making a visible effort not to follow Amy up the stairs, Rachel searched her niece’s eyes, then sighed. “I reckon if she loves him, Henry, all the talkin’ in the world won’t change it. Loretta? Are you sure of this?” “Yes. I love him, with all my heart.

The Bukharin pamphlet was published in the United States in 1920 by the Contemporary Publishing Association, one of the early underground publishing organizations of the Communist Party. It stated: All these considerations explain the program of the Communists with regard to their attitude to religion and to the church. Religion must be fought, if not by violence, at all events, by argument. The church must be separated from the state.… There is a poison called opium. When it is smoked sweet visions appear. You feel as if you were in paradise, but its action tells on the health of the smoker. His health is gradually ruined, and little by little he becomes a meek idiot. The same applies to religion. There are people who wish to smoke opium, but it would be absurd if the state maintained at its expense—that is to say, at the expense of the people—opium dens and special men to serve them. For this reason the church must be—and already is—treated in the same way. Priests, bishops, archbishops, patriarchs, abbots and the rest of the lot must be refused state maintenance. Let the believers, if they wish it, feed the holy fathers at their own expense on the fat of the land, a thing which they, the priests, greatly appreciate. To say this was a hard, distasteful, cynical view of religion would be an obvious understatement. Nonetheless, it was fully consistent with the long-accepted communist view of religion: Religion was a seductive drug, a poison, an opiate that when smoked produces sweet visions, hallucinations, turning the junkie into a “meek idiot.” The priests were like the dealers; they peddle the junk to hook the addicts who sit stupidly in the pews.

When I told my ma that, I remember her laughing, a certain low and gently rueful laugh she’s had her whole life, which I’m sure was appreciated by the Cathedral priests and anyone else who has ever needed to hear a laugh perfect for when things are so hopeless that they’re also a little bit funny. “More

The answer may lie in something we do not always fully appreciate about the crucifixion of Jesus: just how institutional it was. The central institutions of Jesus’ world—the Roman occupying army and its procurator, the Romans’ client king Herod, and the religious establishment led by the Jerusalem Sanhedrin and its high priest—all play pivotal roles in the trials that lead to Jesus’ condemnation. And in doing so all of them are revealed to be deeply corrupt.

Now it was winter. He hated the damp of Paris. “Behold me at length on the vaunted scene of Europe!” Jefferson wrote in 1785.48 “I find the general fate of humanity here most deplorable. The truth of Voltaire’s observation offers itself perpetually, that every man here must be either the hammer or the anvil.” As much as Jefferson loved France, residence abroad gave him a greater appreciation for his own nation. “My God! How little do my countrymen know what precious blessings they are in possession of, and which no other people on earth enjoy,” Jefferson wrote Monroe.49 “I confess I had no idea of it myself.” This was the voice of the republican Jefferson, the political philosopher who recoiled at the idea that the United States might one day meet the same fate that led so many nations of the Old World into monarchy, priestly authority, and corruption.

Indian philosophy separates what a man is from what he possesses. We are a set of thoughts and we have a set of things. Ram derives his strength from his thoughts, what he is, while Ravana derives his strength from his possessions, what he has. Ravana has knowledge; he may be learned, but he is not wise. Through Ravana, the bards draw attention to the learned brahmin priest who spouts hymns verbatim but fails to appreciate their meaning or transform himself because of them.

slept on the priest’s floor last night. We got very drunk.” “You and the padre got smashed? What was the occasion?” “Clergy Appreciation Day.” “That’s a thing?” “Apparently so. Got drunk with a priest last night. Broke a televangelist’s wrist this morning. My new favorite holiday.

But there was a still greater truth to be impressed upon their minds. Living in the midst of idolatry and corruption, they had no true conception of the holiness of God, of the exceeding sinfulness of their own hearts, their utter inability, in themselves, to render obedience to God’s law, and their need of a Saviour. All this they must be taught. God brought them to Sinai; he manifested his glory; he gave them his law, with the promise of great blessings on condition of obedience: “If ye will obey My voice indeed, and keep My covenant, then ...ye shall be unto Me a kingdom of priests, and an holy nation.” Exodus 19:5, 6. The people did not realize [372] the sinfulness of their own hearts, and that without Christ it was impossible for them to keep God’s law; and they readily entered into covenant with God. Feeling that they were able to establish their own righteousness, they declared, “All that the Lord hath said will we do, and be obedient.” Exodus 24:7. They had witnessed the proclamation of the law in awful majesty, and had trembled with terror before the mount; and yet only a few weeks passed before they broke their covenant with God, and bowed down to worship a graven image. They could not hope for the favor of God through a covenant which they had broken; and now, seeing their sinfulness and their need of pardon, they were brought to feel their need of the Saviour revealed in the Abrahamic covenant and shadowed forth in the sacrificial offerings. Now by faith and love they were bound to God as their deliverer from the bondage of sin. Now they were prepared to appreciate the blessings of the new covenant. The terms of the “old covenant” were, Obey and live: “If a man do, he shall even live in them” (Ezekiel 20:11; Leviticus 18:5); but “cursed be he that confirmeth not all the words of this law to do them.” Deuteronomy 27:26. The “new covenant” was established upon “better promises”—the promise of forgiveness of sins and of the grace of God to renew the heart and bring it into harmony with the principles of God’s law. “This shall be the covenant that I will make with the house of Israel; After those days, saith the Lord, I will put my law in their inward parts, and write it in their hearts.... I will forgive their iniquity, and will remember their sin no more.” Jeremiah 31:33, 34.

And, most ambitiously, Updike dreamed up an absurdist spectacle (not unlike the drama of the blind cripple and the priests) that drew a large and appreciative lunchtime crowd to a street adjacent to the Yard: a fool disguised as an old man driving an ancient jalopy was hit from behind by a car packed with fellow fools; the old man jumped out and swore at the others in Italian, whereupon they poured from their car carrying sledgehammers and crowbars and proceeded to utterly demolish the jalopy—then drove off lickety-split, leaving the ruined vehicle in the road. In addition to the pranks and the motley

All the way from the United state of America and i am saying a big thank you to High Priest Agidijar for the great work he did for me when my lover left me for another girl, Without having much to say i just want to testify in my own little way to show appreciation and tell the world about High Priest Agidijar who through the act of spell casting has been able to reunite so many broken relationships and marriages. I am bold to say this because i am among the people that High Priest Agidijar has helped and for him to continue the good works i have to spread his contact details by writing it on internet like this via email (HIGHPRIESTAGIDIJARTEMPLE@OUTLOOK.COM)

In the morning, as good as his word, Halim brought out his implements for breaking curses. “Tell me at once if this hurts,” he said anxiously. Toadling shook her head, bemused at him for his eagerness, and at herself for not running away. “All right,” she said. “If this will make you happy.” It could not be said that it went well, but neither did it go badly. She sat patiently while he sprinkled holy water on her, and lit candles in a circle, and recited verses from the Quran, none of which did anything. “Oh dear,” said Halim. “I suppose I should try the Christian prayer to be thorough, but I suspect that my mother wouldn’t appreciate it. And I don’t know if that’s blasphemy or not, and it’s probably bad form to blaspheme while you’re breaking a curse.” “I’ll do it,” said Toadling, and launched into the Lord’s Prayer. “Our Father, who art in heaven…” The words twisted around in her throat, as her fairy gift tried to recast them in modern tongue. She had learned the prayer two hundred years ago to please the priest, and the words on her heart were different than the ones on her tongue. Halim waited politely, but nothing happened. “Next?” said Toadling. “I’m supposed to hurl this mixture of moly and salt in your face,” he said doubtfully. “But that seems quite hostile.” “Do it.” She closed her eyes. She felt an absurd smile on her face and couldn’t quite stop it. He still could not bring himself to hurl the mixture. She felt salt and herbs patter gently on her cheek. It did exactly nothing. “Last one,” said Halim. “Um. I’m supposed to nick you with the blessed knife.” She held out her hand. He looked from the knife to her, back to the knife. She was surprised to see he’d gone a little green. “Aren’t you a knight?” she asked. “Haven’t you stabbed people before?” “Very few,” he said. “And they were all trying to stab me first.” She laughed and took the knife from him. It was not hard. Master Gourami’s spells had often involved a drop of blood to bind them. She prodded the ball of her thumb with the tip and felt the skin part. Cold steel was never kind to fairies, but those born human were safe enough. Her blood was darker and thinner than Halim’s would be, and she suspected that the cut would itch for a few days, but that was all. She flipped the knife around and offered him the hilt. “Is the curse broken?” he asked. “There really isn’t one,” she said. “not on me.” He sighed. “I suppose I’ll have to climb the tower, then.

But one day as I came back to camp from patrol, I saw these dead trees had met spring, a flower bud was raising from the ash, blooming overnight. It is both pitiable and endearing. The army is filled with those that does not know how to appreciate beauty... wishing I could cut several branches of plum blossoms in the Marquis's manor myself in the early spring of next year

The priest looked away, clearly disgusted. His gaze settled on Sarkis. “Can your husband not speak for himself?” “I can,” said Sarkis. “Then why don’t you?” “My wife talks enough for both of us.” The mounted man snickered. The priest shook his head, turning back to his horse. “I will pray for you.” “I would appreciate that,” said Sarkis, deadpan. The mounted man put his hand over his mouth.

Zhanlu answered proudly: “I can give you some advice, Headmaster Lu. For example, I don’t think my master likes flowers; compared to plants, he seems to take an appreciation for fungi more. A few days ago, he asked me to clean up the greenbelt on the Model 3 and replace it with a farm of mushrooms…

My coach, the priest and my grandfather appreciate the language I taught.

Boniface had no doubt about which was more important. “One sword ought to be under the other,” he proclaimed, “and the temporal power under the spiritual power.” He even stated that as spiritual intermediary, the lowliest parish priest was a higher power than the greatest king or emperor, and he quoted the Pseudo-Dionysius to that effect.16 King Philip IV did not appreciate being relegated to the lower rungs of a pope-dominated Great Chain of Being. He also had a weapon the pope did not: an army. And so in 1303 he sent troops to the papal retreat at Agnani to arrest Boniface and bring him back to France for trial. Outraged and mortified, the elderly pope died on the way.

You do appreciate just what your moment of weakness has wrought, do you not?’ Pilate’s tone was bitter. ‘Dead medical staff. Dead soldiers. Dead civilians—lots of dead civilians. I don’t expect you to agree with the Roman view of abortion, but for Goddess’s sake, no one’s making you have one at gunpoint.’ ‘Our taxes still pay for it, Procurator.’ ‘No they don’t. After the last attack I shifted a few columns in the annual budget around. Rest assured that abortion in this province is now centrally funded. Judaean taxpayers don’t pay a denarius for it.’ ‘That doesn’t stop it being murder, Procurator.’ Pilate brought his fist down on the desk with such force that his carved shark bounced into Cornelius’s lap, while his inkwell spilled onto the leather inlay. ‘I find talking about this disturbing, High Priest,’ he said, his voice oddly throttled. ‘It’s women’s business.’ He pressed the buzzer, summoning Horace.

I abhor some of what Catholicism teaches about homosexuality, but I appreciate that in one respect the Church has come to see us whole. Where it used to regard homosexuality as a mere behavior, engaged in sinfully by heterosexuals, it now understands that some men love men and some women love women, and are so constituted as to have no meaningful choice in the matter. Where many denominations regard same-sex love itself as wicked, the Catholic Church asks of homosexuals not that they be heterosexual but that they remain celibate, which is, at least, possible. Now, to ask a human being to dwell in a bed of solitude without the touch of another, until God Himself extends His embrace, is to ask for the most profound and, for most people, enormous of sacrifices. Many people would rather die in loving company than live alone. That, indeed, is what makes the priestly vow of celibacy the supreme act of devotion that it is. There surely are some people who can live whole and healthy lives without sex. I know a middle-aged Catholic woman who, because she is both unmarried and devout, is celibate by choice. She is vibrant and proud, partly, of course, because her celibacy is chosen and principled, rather than furtive or paralytic. But to be celibate is one thing; to live without even the possibility of love is something else again, a stripping-out of self and soul which leaves behind an ageless child.

APRIL 15 Peculiar Treasure Now therefore, if you will obey My voice in truth and keep My covenant, then you shall be My own peculiar possession and treasure from among and above all peoples; for all the earth is Mine. And you shall be to Me a kingdom of priests, a holy nation [consecrated, set apart to the worship of God]. EXODUS 19:5-6 Self-rejection and self-hatred can almost seem pious in a sense. They can become a way of punishing yourself for your mistakes, failures, and inabilities. People cannot be perfect, so they sometimes reject and despise themselves. Do you lack appreciation for your own worth and value? You may not feel treasured or even acceptable, but you are. In Ephesians 1:6, Paul says that all who believe in Christ have been “accepted in the beloved.” What joyous and amazing affirmation! Surely you are valuable; otherwise your heavenly Father would not have paid such a heavy price for your redemption.

On a bleak winter day, Dostoyevsky and his fellow prisoners were marched through the snow in front of the firing squad. As a military official shouted out the death sentences, a priest led each man to a platform, giving him an opportunity to kiss the cross the priest carried. Three of the prisoners were then marched forward and tied to a stake. Dostoyevsky looked on, realizing he would be next in line. He watched the soldiers pull the men’s caps down over their eyes. He felt revulsion in his stomach as the firing squad lifted their rifles, adjusted their aim, and stood ready to pull the triggers. Out of suffering and defeat often comes victory. Frozen in suspense, Dostoyevsky waited for what seemed like a lifetime. Then he heard the drums start up again. But they were beating retreat! He watched, stunned, as the firing squad lowered their rifles and the soldiers removed the prisoners’ caps from their eyes. Their lives—and his—would be spared.2 Immediately after this incident, Dostoyevsky wrote a letter to his brother about the change the experience had worked in him: “When I look back on my past and think how much time I wasted on nothing, how much time has been lost in futilities, errors, laziness, incapacity to live; how little I appreciated it, how many times I sinned against my heart and soul—then my heart bleeds. Life is a gift. … Now, in changing my life, I am reborn in a new form. Brother! I swear that I will not lose hope and will keep my soul and heart pure. I will be reborn for the better. That’s all my hope, all my consolation!

Padre Pio’s stay at Saint Anne was anything but peaceable. Although the friars greatly appreciated the presence of a priest so dedicated to prayer and as cheerful and pleasant as could be at recreation time, disturbing things were happening. Often, especially in the evening, there were noises and explosions that left those poor friars terrified. Padre Pio apologized to the superior and explained: the devil was testing him with every sort of trial, but he fought back and always won. Yet he would be covered with sweat and so exhausted that the other friars would have to help him change clothes.