Protestant Quotes

There may be times when we are powerless to prevent injustice, but there must never be a time when we fail to protest.

We must always take sides. Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim. Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented.

Several of them would have protested if they could have found the right arguments.

Disobedience is the true foundation of liberty. The obedient must be slaves.

The duty of youth is to challenge corruption.

It has always been the prerogative of children and half-wits to point out that the emperor has no clothes. But a half-wit remains a half-wit, and the emperor remains an emperor.

I shook my head in wonder. "How does he do it?" "Want to know my secret?" Nikolai asked from behind us. We both jumped. He leaned in, looked from left to right, and whispered loudly. "I have a lot of money." I rolled my eyes. "No, really," he protested. "A lot of money.

Nice people made the best Nazis. My mom grew up next to them. They got along, refused to make waves, looked the other way when things got ugly and focused on happier things than “politics.” They were lovely people who turned their heads as their neighbors were dragged away. You know who weren’t nice people? Resisters.

In such ugly times, the only true protest is beauty.

Galen Werner, you may choose one of my daughters to be your bride, and when I die, you shall sit beside her as co-ruler of Westfallin." "Your Majesty.... I - I don't know - " Rose felt her knees shaking. Did he not love her after all? "Psst, Galen?" Pansy tugged on his arm. Galen leaned down. "If Rose doesn't want you," the little girl whispered loudly, "you can marry me." Galen laughed shakily. "Thanks, Pansy." "Oh, Rose! Don't just stand there like a lump," Poppy said, poking her in the back. "If he's too embarrased, you should be the one to say something." "Poppy!" Daisy looked scandalized. "It's not Rose's place to - " Under cover of their squabbling, Rose took Galen's hand and moved closer to him. "Do you want to marry me?" she whispered in a much quieter tone than Pansy had used. "Yes," he said. "If neither of you is going to speak up," King Gregor said, "I shall simply have to decide it for myself!" "Father," Rose protested, "that won't be necessary!" "I choose Rose," Galen blurted out at the same time. "There. Done. Easy." King Gregor clapped his hands.

My legs gave way and the Darkling caught me up against his body with one surprisingly strong arm. “I guess you only look like a mouse,” he whispered in my ear, and then beckoned to one of his personal guard. “Take her,” he said, handing me over to the oprichnik who reached out his arm to support me. I felt myself flush at the indignity of being handed over like a sack of potatoes, but I was too shaky and confused to protest. Blood was running down my arm from the cut the Darkling had given me.

If ever they did shoot her, she would probably stand there protesting,

The captain saluted and left, and Alix heard him shouting orders to men to form a firing squad and then orders for the prisoners to be brought out and lined up. There seemed to be some kind of altercation going on. Someone was protesting vocally. ‘I am a British airman and I demand to be treated as a prisoner of war!’ The sound of the voice struck her somewhere in the middle of her chest and she jumped to her feet and ran out of the house. A ragged line of prisoners was drawn up on the far side of the clearing with a dozen Partisans carrying rifles facing them. Her eyes went along the line. Every face was heavily bearded, unrecognisable at a distance, but then a difference in the way the men were dressed struck her. All wore tunics that had some suggestion of a uniform but on one man the trousers that protruded below it, though ragged and faded, were unmistakably Air Force blue. ‘Ready!’ shouted the captain. ‘Take aim.’ ‘No!’ Alix tore across the clearing and flung herself between the firing line and the prisoners. ‘No! I know this man! He is an American, but with the British RAF. He is not an enemy.’ ‘Not an enemy?’ the captain queried. ‘Then what is he doing fighting alongside the Chetniks?’ ‘I don’t know,’ Alix said breathlessly. ‘But you can’t shoot him without finding out. If you shoot a British serviceman you could jeopardise any help we might get.’ The captain looked uneasy. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘We’ll let Comrade Tito decide about this.’ He called to one of the men guarding the prisoners. ‘Bring that man over here. The one who’s been causing all the trouble.’ The man in the blue trousers was shoved roughly forward. ‘Alix!’ he gasped hoarsely. ‘Thank god!’ She caught hold of his arm. ‘Steve? It is you, isn’t it?’ ‘What’s left of him,’ he responded, with an effort at a smile.  

Happy the creators of pessimistic systems! Besides taking refuge in the fact of having made something, they can exult in their explanation of universal suffering, and include themselves in it. I don't complain about the world. I don't protest in the name of the universe. I'm not a pessimist. I suffer and complain, but I don't know if suffering is the norm, nor do I know if it's human to suffer. Why should I care to know? I suffer, without knowing if I deserve to. (A hunted doe.) I'm not a pessimist. I'm sad.

Love? What is it? The most natural painkiller what there is.” You may become curious, though, about what happened to that painkiller should depression take hold and expose your love—whatever its object—as just one of the many intoxicants that muddled your consciousness of the human tragedy. You may also want to take a second look at whatever struck you as a person, place, or thing of “beauty,” a quality that lives only in the neurotransmitters of the beholder. (Aesthetics? What is it? A matter for those not depressed enough to care nothing about anything, that is, those who determine almost everything that is supposed to matter to us. Protest as you like, neither art nor an aesthetic view of life are distractions granted to everyone.) In depression, all that once seemed beautiful, or even startling and dreadful, is nothing to you. The image of a cloud-crossed moon is not in itself a purveyor of anything mysterious or mystical; it is only an ensemble of objects represented to us by our optical apparatus and perhaps processed as a memory.

For those who are with greatness born Should live not for themselves alone.

Alongside the ledger of atrocity, I keep another. The Palestinian doctor who would not abandon his patients, even as the bombs closed in. The Icelandic writer who raised money to get the displaced out of Gaza. The American doctors and nurses who risked their lives to go treat the wounded in the middle of a killing field. The puppet-maker who, injured and driven from his home, kept making dolls to entertain the children. The congresswoman who stood her ground in the face of censure, of constant vitriol, of her own colleagues’ indifference. The protesters, the ones who gave up their privilege, their jobs, who risked something, to speak out. The people who filmed and photographed and documented all this, even as it happened to them, even as they buried their dead. It is not so hard to believe, even during the worst of things, that courage is the more potent contagion. That there are more invested in solidarity than annihilation. That just as it has always been possible to look away, it is always possible to stop looking away. None of this evil was ever necessary. Some carriages are gilded and others lacquered in blood, but the same engine pulls us all. We dismantle it now, build another thing entirely, or we hurtle toward the cliff, safe in the certainty that, when the time comes, we’ll learn to lay tracks on air.

By whose pen will the next generation, struck with stupor, disconcerted by this universal sanguinary madness, learn about these acts of fraternity, which were like a protest, a revolt against the mortal fate which set, face to face, men who had no reason to hate each other?

One of my favorite stories I love to share is about a disabled Black Panther named Brad Lomax, who was instrumental in the 504 Sit-In that happened in California in the ’70s, and how he got the Black Panther Party to assist in the protest. The Black Panther Party fed the protestors, and without their involvement, many consider that the protest may not have been sustainable.

Riots, protests, and mass movements are rarely the result of a single event. Instead, a long series of microaggressions and daily aggravations slowly multiply until one event tips the scales and outrage spreads like wildfire.

What I want is to be whole. I want to not hate myself. I want to be pretty. I want my parents to love me a million years ago in ways that they probably didn’t. Maybe they did. I think they did, but I can find no other explanation for this constant need, this unfillable hole, this conviction that I am repulsive, pathetic, disgusting. I search every face for some indication to the contrary. Pleadingly. I want them to look at me the way I look at those women, the ones who walk by not seeing me. Haughty and autonomous. Maybe this is why I have the beard. It is protesting too much. It says, I don’t need you to love me, to be attracted to me, and here’s how I will demonstrate that. I will look like a ridiculous intellectual. I will look dirty, as if perhaps I smell.

Yep. Just after eleven. You slept like a striped burrowing frog.” “Like a what?” “A striped burrowing frog,” repeated Wolf, dropping into an armchair opposite him, which creaked in protest. “They’re Australian.

Protest Man stood in his usual spot in the northwest corner of the plaza, dressed in his business suit and domino mask and holding one of his usual obscure protest signs (today, it said “Stop the black cars!”).