Yes Minister Quotes

Yes, Minister, it turns out that there was a mysterious force that caused that plane to crash. We call it gravity.

Yes, alive,” said Fudge. “That is — I don’t know — is a man alive if he can’t be killed? I don’t really understand it, and Dumbledore won’t explain properly — but anyway, he’s certainly got a body and is walking and talking and killing, so I suppose, for the purposes of our discussion, yes, he’s alive.

Clarification is not to clarify things. It is to put one’s self in the clear (Sir Humphrey Appleby)

Horace, fit, and athletic and light on his feet, gave their guards the fewest opportunities to beat him, although on one occasion an angry Tualaghi, furious that Horace misunderstood an order to kneel, slashed his dagger across the young man’s face, opening a thin, shallow cut on his right cheek. The wound was superficial but as Evanlyn treated it that evening, Horace shamelessly pretended that it was more painful than it really was. He enjoyed the touch of her ministering hands. Halt and Gilan, bruised and weary, watched as she cleaned the wound and gently pated it dry. Horace did a wonderful job of pretending to bear great pain with stoic bravery. Halt shook his head in disgust. “What faker,” he said to Gilan. The younger Ranger nodded. “Yes. He’s really making a meal of it isn’t he?” He paused, then added more ruefully, “Wish I’d thought of it first.

Civil servants have an extraordinary genius for wrapping up a simple idea to make it sound extremely complicated.

In defeat, malice. In victory, revenge

Mrs Hacker was the only woman present. They’d made her a sort of honorary man for the evening.

... a cynic is only a term used by an idealist to describe a realist.

Abraham Lincoln was asked by an aide about the church service he had attended. Lincoln responded that the minister was inspired, interesting, well-prepared, eloquent and the topic relevant. The aide said, “Then it was a good service?” Lincoln responded, “No.” The aide protested, “But, Mr. President, you said that the minister was inspired, interesting, well-prepared, eloquent, and that the topic was relevant.” “Yes,” replied Lincoln, “but he didn’t challenge us to do any great thing.

Paperwork is the religion of the Civil Service. I can just imagine Sir Humphrey Appleby on his deathbed, surround by wills and insurance claim forms, looking up and saying, 'I cannot go yet, God, I haven't done the paperwork.

She says I shall now have one mouth the more to fill and two feet the more to shoe, more disturbed nights, more laborious days, and less leisure or visiting, reading, music, and drawing. Well! This is one side of the story, to be sure, but I look at the other. Here is a sweet, fragrant mouth to kiss; here are two more feet to make music with their pattering about my nursery. Here is a soul to train for God; and the body in which it dwells is worth all it will cost, since it is the abode of a kingly tenant. I may see less of friends, but I have gained one dearer than them all, to whom, while I minister in Christ's name, I make a willing sacrifice of what little leisure for my own recreation my other darlings had left me. Yes, my precious baby, you are welcome to your mother's heart, welcome to her time, her strength, her health, her tenderest cares, to her lifelong prayers! Oh, how rich I am, how truly, how wondrously blest!

Kalmar nodded. "I'm sorry, Papa. I wasn't strong enough." "None of us are, lad. Me least of all." Esben smiled and took a rattling breath. "But it's weakness that the Maker turns to strength. Your fur is why you alone loved a dying cloven. You alone in all the world knew my need and ministered to my wounds." Esben pulled Kalmar closer and kissed him on the head. "And in my weakness, I alone know your need. Hear me, son. I loved you when you were born. I loved you when I wept in the Deeps of Throg. I loved you even as you sang the song that broke you. And I love you now in the glory of your humility. You're more fit to be the king than I ever was. Do you understand?" Kalmar shook his head. Esben smiled and shuddered with pain. "A good answer, my boy. Then do you believe that I love you?" "Yes, sir. I believe you." Kalmar buried his face in his father's fur. "Remember that in the days to come. Nia, Janner, Leeli - help him to remember.

What would things look like if Satan really took control of a city? Over half a century ago, Presbyterian minister Donald Grey Barnhouse offered his own scenario in his weekly sermon that was also broadcast nationwide on CBS radio. Barnhouse speculated that if Satan took over Philadelphia (the city where Barnhouse pastored), all of the bars would be closed, pornography banished, and pristine streets would be filled with tidy pedestrians who smiled at each other. There would be no swearing. The children would say "Yes, sir" and "No, ma'am," and the churches would be full every Sunday...where Christ was not preached.

In a society that is essentially designed to organize, direct, and gratify mass impulses, what is there to minister to the silent zones of man as an individual? Religion? Art? Nature? No, the church has turned religion into standardized public spectacle, and the museum has done the same for art. The Grand Canyon and Niagara Falls have been looked at so much that they've become effete, sucked empty by too many stupid eyes. What is there to minister to the silent zones of man as an individual? How about a cold chicken bone on a paper plate at midnight, how about a lurid lipstick lengthening or shortening at your command, how about a Styrofoam nest abandoned by a 'bird' you've never known, how about a pair of windshield wipers pursuing one another futilely while you drive home alone through a downpour, how about something beneath a seat touched by your shoe at the movies, how about worn pencils, cute forks, fat little radios, boxes of bow ties, and bubbles on the side of a bathtub? Yes, these are the things, these kite strings and olive oil cans and Valentine hearts stuffed with nougat, that form the bond between the autistic vision and the experiential world, it is to show these things in their true mysterious light that is the purpose of the moon.

He’s suffering from Politician’s Logic. Something must be done, this is something, therefore we must do it.

He that would keep a secret must keep it secret that he hath a secret to keep.

Don't tell me about the Press. I know *exactly* who reads the papers. The Daily Mirror is read by the people who think they run the country. The Guardian is read by people who think they *ought* to run the country. The Times is read by the people who actually *do* run the country. The Daily Mail is read by the wives of the people who run the country. The Financial Times is read by people who *own* the country. The Morning Star is read by people who think the country ought to be run by *another* country. The Daily Telegraph is read by the people who think it is.' "Prime Minister, what about the people who read The Sun?" "Sun readers don't care *who* runs the country - as long as she's got big tits.

Blow on, ye death fraught whirlwinds! blow, Around the rocks, and rifted caves; Ye demons of the gulf below! I hear you, in the troubled waves. High on this cliff, which darkness shrouds In night's impenetrable clouds, My solitary watch I keep, And listen, while the turbid deep Groans to the raging tempests, as they roll Their desolating force, to thunder at the pole. Eternal world of waters, hail! Within thy caves my Lover lies; And day and night alike shall fail Ere slumber lock my streaming eyes. Along this wild untrodden coast, Heap'd by the gelid' hand of frost; Thro' this unbounded waste of seas, Where never sigh'd the vernal breeze; Mine was the choice, in this terrific form, To brave the icy surge, to shiver in the storm. Yes! I am chang'd - My heart, my soul, Retain no more their former glow. Hence, ere the black'ning tempests roll, I watch the bark, in murmurs low, (While darker low'rs the thick'ning' gloom) To lure the sailor to his doom; Soft from some pile of frozen snow I pour the syren-song of woe; Like the sad mariner's expiring cry, As, faint and worn with toil, he lays him down to die. Then, while the dark and angry deep Hangs his huge billows high in air ; And the wild wind with awful sweep, Howls in each fitful swell - beware! Firm on the rent and crashing mast, I lend new fury to the blast; I mark each hardy cheek grow pale, And the proud sons of courage fail; Till the torn vessel drinks the surging waves, Yawns the disparted main, and opes its shelving graves. When Vengeance bears along the wave The spell, which heav'n and earth appals; Alone, by night, in darksome cave, On me the gifted wizard calls. Above the ocean's boiling flood Thro' vapour glares the moon in blood: Low sounds along the waters die, And shrieks of anguish fill the' sky; Convulsive powers the solid rocks divide, While, o'er the heaving surge, the embodied spirits glide. Thrice welcome to my weary sight, Avenging ministers of Wrath! Ye heard, amid the realms of night, The spell that wakes the sleep of death. Where Hecla's flames the snows dissolve, Or storms, the polar skies involve; Where, o'er the tempest-beaten wreck, The raging winds and billows break; On the sad earth, and in the stormy sea, All, all shall shudd'ring own your potent agency. To aid your toils, to scatter death, Swift, as the sheeted lightning's force, When the keen north-wind's freezing breath Spreads desolation in its course, My soul within this icy sea, Fulfils her fearful destiny. Thro' Time's long ages I shall wait To lead the victims to their fate; With callous heart, to hidden rocks decoy, And lure, in seraph-strains, unpitying, to destroy.

Jefferson needs something in that cell,” I said. “Yes, he do,” the minister said. “You hit the nail on the head, mister. Yes, he do. But not that box.” “And what do you suggest, Reverend Ambrose?” I asked. “God,” the minister said. “He ain’t got but five more Fridays and a half. He needs God in that cell, and not that sin box.” “What sin box?” I said. “What you call that kind of music he listen to?” the minister asked. “Us standing in there trying to talk to him, and him listening to that thing till she got to reach over and turn it off—what you call it?” “I call it company, Reverend Ambrose,” I said. “And I call it sin company,” he said. “And I don’t care what you call it!” I said to him.

I went on to explain that it is an honour, and also that we need a transport policy. "If by 'we' you mean Britain, that's perfectly true," he acknowledged. "But if by 'we' you mean you and me and this Department, we need a transport policy like an aperture in the cranial cavity.

He's a smooth-tongued, cold-eyed, hard-nosed, two-faced creep,' I said, trying to be fair. She was puzzled. 'How is he so successful?' 'Because,' I explained, 'he's a smooth-tongued, cold-eyed, hard-nosed, two-faced creep.

Potter,' she said in ringing tones, 'I will assist you to become an Auror if it is the last thing I do! If I have to coach you nightly, I will make sure you achieve the required results!' 'The Minister for Magic will never employ Harry Potter!' said Umbridge, her voice rising furiously. 'There may well be a new Minister for Magic by the time Potter is ready to join!' shouted Professor McGonagall. 'Aha!' shrieked Professor Umbridge, pointing a stubby finger at McGonagall. 'Yes! Yes, yes, yes! Of course! That's what you want, isn't it, Minerva McGonagall? You want Cornelius Fudge replace by Albus Dumbledore! You think you'll be where I am, don't you: Senior Undersecretary to the Minister and Headmistress to boot!' 'You are raving,' said Professor McGonagall, superbly disdainful.

But you won’t abdicate." Of course not. It’s my duty to go on, to maintain the line. I can’t possibly fail in that. It’s as if you and I were throwing a ball back and forth to establish a record, and had been doing so for a millennium. You cannot drop a ball that has remained airborne through good effort for most of a thousand years. You cannot stop an unlikely heart that has been beating for so long. I would rather die than betray continuity, for its own sake if for nothing else. And Britain needs a king, just as it needs motormen and cooks and a prime minister. Just as it needs soldiers who will die for it if they must. It’s my job, or it will be, but you should know that I’ve never wanted it. I was only born to it, as if with a deformity, to which I hope I can respond with grace." Fredericka had been running her finger over the carpet, tracing a pattern in the way children do when they have learnt something overwhelming and are moved, but cannot say so. Freddy expected her to look up, with tears, and that in this moment she might have begun the long and arduous process of becoming a queen. She was so beautiful. To embrace her now, with high emotion flowing from her physical majesty, was all he wanted in the world. Her finger stopped moving, and she turned her eyes to him. Freddy?" Yes?" he answered. What’s raw egg? I read a recipe in She that called for a cup of raw egg. What is that?" After a long silence, Freddy asked, "Which part of the formulation escapes you? Egg? Raw? The link between the two?" The two what?" Fredericka?" Yes, Freddy?" Would you like to go dancing?" Oh, yes Freddy!" Come then. We will.

...There might be a problem, What is that, Minister, We shall find ourselves obliged to put staff there to supervise the transfers, and I doubt whether we will be able to count on volunteers, I doubt whether that will be necessary, Minister, Why, Should anyone suspected of infection turn blind, as will naturally happen sooner or later, you may be sure, Minister, that the others who still have their sight, will turn him out at once, You're right, Just as they would not allow in any blind person who suddenly felt like changing places, Good thinking, Thank you, Minister, may I give orders to proceed, Yes, you have carte blanche.

You are a Jew?' the Dalai Lama asked him. When Kevin said yes, His Holiness said, 'Judaism and Buddhism are very much alike. You should learn more about both and become a better Jew.' I envy that. My tradition has a hard time blessing strong bonds to other traditions, especially those whose truths run counter to our own. We like people to make a conscious choice for Christ and then stay on the road they have chosen, inviting other people to join them as persuasively as they can. It is difficult to imagine a Christian minister talking to a Buddhist who has spent years studying a Christian concept and then telling him to go become a better Buddhist. In some circles, that would constitute a failure on the minister's part, a missed opportunity to save a soul. This is another way in which Buddhism and Christianity differ. Both are evangelistic - what else is a Buddhist mission doing in a suburb of Atlanta? - but the Buddhists seem to understand what Gandhi meant by the 'evangelism of the rose.' Distressed by the missionary tactics of Christians in his country, he reminded them that a rose does not have to preach. It simply spreads its fragrance, allowing people to respond as they will.

Sir Peter Tapsell: ‘You cannot ask the British Prime Minister to autograph a bottle of table wine. You really cannot.’ ‘It is English,’ I bleated. ‘Non-vintage?’ ‘Er … yes.’ ‘Good God, what is the party coming to?

If you tell a guy in the street you're hungry you scare the shit out of him, he runs like hell. That's something I never understood. I don't understand it yet. The whole thing is so simple - you just say Yes when some one comes up to you. And if you can't say Yes you can take him by the arm and ask some other bird to help you out. Why you have to don a uniform and kill men you don't know, just to get that crust of bread, is a mystery to me. That's what I think about, more than about whose trap it's going down or how much it costs. Why should I give a fuck about what anything costs ? I'm here to live, not to calculate. And that's just what the bastards don't want you to do - to live! They want you to spend your whole life adding up figures. That makes sense to them. That's reasonable. That's intelligent. If I were running the boat things wouldn't be so orderly perhaps, but it would be gayer, by Jesus! You wouldn't have to shit in your pants over trifles. Maybe there wouldn't be macadamized roads and streamlined cars and loudspeakers and gadgets of a million-billion varieties, maybe there wouldn't even be glass in the windows, maybe you'd have to sleep on the ground, maybe there wouldn't be French cooking and Italian cooking and Chinese cooking, maybe people would kill each other when their patience was exhausted and maybe nobody would stop them because there wouldn't be any jails or any cops or judges, and there certainly wouldn't be any cabinet ministers or legislatures because-there wouldn't be any goddamned laws to obey or disobey, and maybe it would take months and years to trek from place to place, but you wouldn't need a visa or a passport or a carte d'identite because you wouldn't be registered anywhere and you wouldn't bear a number and if you wanted to change your name every week you could do it because it wouldn't make any difference since you wouldn't own anything except what you could carry around with you and why would you want to own anything when everything would be free?

I reckon you must get bored more easily than other people.” He came up onto one elbow and looked at her. “Yes. You’ll have your hands full, keeping me excited.” “I don’t remember anything about that in the marriage vows,” she said. “There was obey—I noticed that came first—but I privately added a lengthy footnote to that item.” “This surprises me not at all. But there was the part about serving me.” “It, too, needed a footnote. Then love and honor and keeping you and sticking with you and nobody else. I remember all those. But I don’t recall the minister mentioning anything about keeping you excited.” “That was the serve part. It had an asterisk and some fine print.” “I did not hear any fine print.

The drug dealer, the ducking and diving political leader, the wife beater, the chronically “crabby” boss, the “hot shot” junior executive, the unfaithful husband, the company “yes man,” the indifferent graduate school adviser, the “holier than thou” minister, the gang member, the father who can never find the time to attend his daughter’s school programs, the coach who ridicules his star athletes, the therapist who unconsciously attacks his clients’ “shining” and seeks a kind of gray normalcy for them, the yuppie—all these men have something in common. They are all boys pretending to be men. They got that way honestly, because nobody showed them what a mature man is like. Their kind of “manhood” is a pretense to manhood that goes largely undetected as such by most of us. We are continually mistaking this man’s controlling, threatening, and hostile behaviors for strength. In reality, he is showing an underlying extreme vulnerability and weakness, the vulnerability of the wounded boy.

The publisher said of somebody, 'That man will get on; he believes in himself.' [...] I said to him, 'Shall I tell you where the men are who believe most in themselves? For I can tell you. I know of men who believe in themselves more colossally than Napoleon or Caesar. I know where flames the fixed star of certainty and success. I can guide you to the thrones of Supermen. The men who really believe in themselves are all in lunatic asylums.' He said mildly that there were a good many men after all who believed in themselves and who were not in lunatic asylums. 'Yes, there are,' I retorted, 'and you of all men ought to know them. The drunken poet from whom you would not take a dreary tragedy, he believed in himself. That elderly minister with an epic from whom you were hiding in a back room, he believed in himself. If you consulted your business experiences instead of your ugly individualistic philosophy, you would know that believing in himself is one of the commonest signs of a rotter. Actors who can't act believe in themselves; and debtors who won't pay. It would be much truer to say that a man will certainly fail, because he believes in himself. Complete self confidence is not merely a sin; complete self-confidence is a weakness.

Yes, I said; and there is another thing which is likely, or rather a necessary inference from what has preceded, that neither the uneducated and uninformed of the truth, nor yet those who never make an end of their education, will be able ministers of State; not the former, because they have no single aim of duty which is the rule of all their actions, private as well as public; nor the latter, because they will not act at all except upon compulsion, fancying that they are already dwelling apart in the islands of the blest. Very true, he replied. Then,

Yes, we were sold at auction, like swine.  In a big town and an active market we should have brought a good price; but this place was utterly stagnant and so we sold at a figure which makes me ashamed, every time I think of it.  The King of England brought seven dollars, and his prime minister nine; whereas the king was easily worth twelve dollars and I as easily worth fifteen.  But that is the way things always go; if you force a sale on a dull market, I don’t care what the property is, you are going to make a poor business of it, and you can make up your mind to it.

Yes, we need scholars and academics, leaders and ministers. And we need people like me—low-church, untrained laity who are a bit sloppy at times—to grapple with the deep theological issues, bringing our stories, our wisdom, our experiences, our knowledge to the larger conversation. Everyone gets to play.

When Lincoln was running for the House of Representatives from Illinois, he was charged with being “a scoffer at religion,” wrote the historian William J. Wolf, because he belonged to no church. During the campaign, Lincoln attended a sermon delivered by his opponent in the race, Reverend Peter Cartwright, a Methodist evangelist. At a dramatic moment in his performance, Cartwright said, “All who do not wish to go to hell will stand.” Only Lincoln kept his seat. “May I inquire of you, Mr. Lincoln, where you are going?” the minister asked, glowering. “I am going to Congress” was the dry reply. When he was president, Lincoln also liked the story of a purported exchange about him and Jefferson Davis between two Quaker women on a train: “I think Jefferson will succeed,” the first said. “Why does thee think so?” “Because Jefferson is a praying man.” “And so is Abraham a praying man.” “Yes, but the Lord will think Abraham is joking.

Here is a sweet, fragrant mouth to kiss; here are two more feet to make music with their pattering about my nursery. Here is a soul to train for God; and the body in which it dwells is worthy all it will cost, since it is the abode of a kingly tenant. I may see less of friends, but I have gained one dearer than them all, to whom, while I minister in Christ’s name, I make a willing sacrifice of what little leisure for my own recreation my other darlings had left me. Yes, my precious baby, you are welcome to your mother’s heart, welcome to her time, her strength, her health, her tenderest cares, to her lifelong prayers! Oh, how rich I am, how truly, how wondrously blest!

Sir Humphrey Appleby: The Foreign Office is pro-Europe because it’s really anti-Europe. The civil service was united in its desire to make sure that the Common Market didn’t work. That’s why we went into it. Britain has had the same foreign policy objective for at least 500 years: to create a disunited Europe. In that cause we have fought with the Dutch against the Spanish, with the Germans against the French, French and Italians against the Germans, and the French against the Germans and Italians. Divide and rule, you see. Why should we change now, when it’s worked so well? Jim Hacker: It’s all ancient history, surely. Sir Humphrey Appleby: Yes, and current policy. We had to break the whole thing up, so we had to get inside. We tried to break it up from the outside, but that wouldn’t work. Now that we are inside, we can make a big pig’s breakfast of the whole thing! Set the Germans against the French, French against Italians, Italians against Dutch —The Foreign Office is terribly pleased! It’s just like old times! Jim Hacker: Surely we are committed to the European ideal! Sir Humphrey Appleby: Really, Minister! Jim Hacker: If not, why are we pressing for an increase in membership? Sir Humphrey Appleby: For the same reason. It's just like the United Nations, in fact. The more members it has, the more arguments it can stir up, the more futile and impotent it becomes. Jim Hacker: What appalling cynicism! Sir Humphrey Appleby: Yes. We call it diplomacy, Minister.

You wanted magic, watch". She put her hand into the struggling mass of insects and made a shrill faint piping noise in the back of her throat. There was a movement in the mass, and a large bee lander and flatter then the others crawled onto her hand. A few workers followed it stroking it and generally ministering to it. "How did you do that" said Esk. "Ahhh," said Granny, "wouldn't you like to know". "Yes I would that's why I asked Granny," said Esk severely. "Do you think I used magic", Esk looked down at the queen bee, then up at the witch. "No, I think you just know a lot about bees". Granny grinned, "Exactly correct, that's one form of magic of course". "What just knowing things". "Knowing things that other people don't know," said Granny

Yes an atheist priest can perfectly minister to a believing congregation and miracles can happen in that congregation. Miracles depend on the faith of the believer, not that of the officiant. A bartender who never takes alcohol can serve alcohol to his clients. What is necessary is that the priest believes he is doing the good work. The congregation needs faith and it helps them. It would be evil to deny them such a service in the name of his lack of faith.

As then the Tulip for her morning sup Of Heav'nly Vintage from the soil looks up, Do you devoutly do the like, till Heav'n To Earth invert you — like an empty Cup. Perplext no more with Human or Divine, To-morrow's tangle to the winds resign, And lose your fingers in the tresses of The Cypress — slender Minister of Wine. And if the Wine you drink, the Lip you press End in what All begins and ends in — Yes; Think then you are To-day what Yesterday You were — To-morrow You shall not be less.

That day -- Monday, 25 February 1980 -- unfolded, in the context of British politics, much like any other day. Government, in those days, happened rather like a tree falling in a forest when there was no one there to witness it. For those among the Great British Public who wanted to believe that something was happening, the assumption was that something was indeed most probably happening, while for those who still needed to see it, or hear it, to believe it, there remained a high degree of doubt that anything was happening at all.

How many times have we heard an African official or a “black authority” saying, “We blacks, we are cursed, it is as if we were destined to remain inferior, retarded, to remain Negroes! Yes, we are cursed, we will never develop as the Asians or the whites do, we are not capable, mentally or intellectually, we are condemned to remain Negroes forever, always behind the others, cursed”! I have heard similar words coming from the mouth of ministers, ambassadors, African diplomats, some expressing themselves in front of their young children, who drank their words.

Humphrey Not another czar, please, Prime Minister. In the last three years we’ve appointed an Enterprise Czar, a Youth-Crime Czar, a Welfare Supremo, a Pre-School Supremo, an Unemployment Watchdog, a Banking Regulator, a Science and Technology Supremo and a Community Policing Czar. If you go on like this you won’t need a Cabinet. Jim Perfect! Humphrey Perfect? Prime Minister, we even have a Twitter Czar! Bernard His appointment was announced as a Tweet. Humphrey What’s he supposed to achieve? Jim The same as the others: at least twelve column inches in every paper.

The men who really believe in themselves are all in lunatic asylums.” He said mildly that there were a good many men after all who believed in themselves and who were not in lunatic asylums. “Yes, there are,” I retorted, “and you of all men ought to know them. That drunken poet from whom you would not take a dreary tragedy, he believed in himself. That elderly minister with an epic from whom you were hiding in a back room, he believed in himself. If you consulted your business experience instead of your ugly individualistic philosophy, you would know that believing in himself is one of the commonest signs of a rotter.

Tell me," he said, leaning forward with his elbows braced on his knees, "tell me how you were able to find peace about your situation. How did you forgive the man who hurt you?" She studied him. Apparently he'd been thinking long and hard about something that disturbed him. The corners of his mouth were tight, and his eyes slightly shiny. Had he been putting himself through this sort of stressful heart searching every night? "I struggled, yes." She closed her hands to resist the impulse to stroke his cheek. "But when I saw Buddy sitting there, I realized he had already paid a price. And I'm not his judge-I will never be. He has to answer to God, not only for what he did to me, but for how he treated everyone. Knowing that I'm only a tiny piece of the picture-knowing that, I could smile and let it go. I don't really think about him anymore, and I don't hate him. Truthfully, I mostly feel sorry for him." Erik hung his head. "It sounds so easy when you say it. So sensible." "I'm not saying what worked for me will for everyone-I mean, "I'm not much of an expert." Aren't you?" His mouth twisted in wry amusement. "Let me see-instead of being angry at that church for running me off, I need to realize they've paid a price? "They lost you as a minister. And who knows? Maybe what they did soured other people in town.

Page 92 "Of course, the Lord talks to you more as you talk to Him more. It's like most other relationships, the Lord loves to have you talk to Him! Several years ago I asked the Lord what I, insignificant speck that I am, could do to minister to His heart in some small way. I said 'Father, you have such terrible burdens. You have the whole world and all of its troubles to look after. Is it possible for me to do anything, to give you pleasure, or to minister to your heart?' His answer was 'Yes! Talk to Me child! Talk to me. Most people only ask Me for things. They aren't willing to talk to Meand make Me a part of their everyday life.' That's what He wants. God desires to have our fellowship.

DAKRTSI DIOISO POTMON ‘APOTMON. Oh! there are spirits of the air, And genii of the evening breeze, And gentle ghosts, with eyes as fair As star-beams among twilight trees: — Such lovely ministers to meet    5 Oft hast thou turned from men thy lonely feet. With mountain winds, and babbling springs, And moonlight seas, that are the voice Of these inexplicable things, Thou didst hold commune, and rejoice    10 When they did answer thee; but they Cast, like a worthless boon, thy love away. And thou hast sought in starry eyes Beams that were never meant for thine, Another’s wealth: — tame sacrifice To a fond faith! still dost thou pine?    15 Still dost thou hope that greeting hands, Voice, looks, or lips, may answer thy demands? Ah! wherefore didst thou build thine hope On the false earth’s inconstancy?    20 Did thine own mind afford no scope Of love, or moving thoughts to thee? That natural scenes or human smiles Could steal the power to wind thee in their wiles? Yes, all the faithless smiles are fled    25 Whose falsehood left thee broken-hearted; The glory of the moon is dead; Night’s ghosts and dreams have now departed; Thine own soul still is true to thee, But changed to a foul fiend through misery.    30 This fiend, whose ghastly presence ever Beside thee like thy shadow hangs, Dream not to chase; — the mad endeavour Would scourge thee to severer pangs. Be as thou art. Thy settled fate, Dark as it is, all change would aggravate.    35

Ben had the most expressive face I’d ever seen. When he told a story, he dove into it, re-enacting each character with a new set of his jaw and cast of his brow. His eyes shone vibrantly, and every time he laughed, it showed in his whole body. Just watching him made me smile. I felt warm around him, and happy, and comfortable. I felt like flannel pajamas, hot cocoa, a teddy bear, and my favorite comedy on DVD. I felt like home. I loved Ben, that’s what I felt. It popped into my head, and I didn’t doubt it for a second. I loved Ben. Well that was settled then, wasn’t it? Then my eyes darted to Sage, and I noticed he wasn’t focused on Ben’s story either. He was watching me. He was watching me watch Ben, to be precise, leaning back on his elbows and staring so fixedly that I could practically hear him scratching his way into my brain to listen to what I was thinking. And the minute I felt that, I was desperate to take back what I’d thought, and make sure he hadn’t understood. Especially since I had this strong feeling that if he believed I loved Ben, he’d disappear. Maybe not right away, but as soon as he could. And that would be the end of the world. “Okay, Sage, your turn,” Rayna said. “What’s the most embarrassing thing you’ve ever done in the middle of a social function?” Instantly Sage’s intense stare was gone, replaced by a relaxed pose and a charming smile. “Um, I would say doing a spit take in front of Clea’s mom, several senators, and the Israeli foreign minister would probably cover it.” “You did that?” I asked. “Oh yes, he did,” Rayna nodded. “And the minister still offered you his house in Tel Aviv for the honeymoon? That’s shocking.” “Rayna is particularly charming,” Sage noted. “Thank you, darling.” She batted her eyes at him like a Disney princess. “What happened?” Ben asked. “Piri spiked your drink with garlic?” “You say that like it’s a joke,” Sage said. “I’m pretty sure she did.” “She must really have it out for you,” Ben said. “Palinka’s Hungarian holy water. You don’t mess with that.” “Speaking of holy water, I so did not get that on our trip,” Rayna put in. “Clea and I were touring one of the cathedrals in Italy, and in front of the whole tour I go, “That’s too cute! Look, they have birdbaths in the church!

First Churchill and company went to the city’s Grand Hotel. The building had survived the night’s raid unscathed, but prior raids had inflicted considerable damage. “It had a sense of lean to it, as if it needed shoring up in order to stay in business,” wrote Inspector Thompson. Churchill requested a bath. “Yes, sir!” the desk manager said brightly, as if this posed no challenge whatsoever—when, in fact, prior raids had left the hotel with no hot water. “But somehow, somewhere, in but a few minutes,” Thompson said, “an amused procession of guests, clerks, cooks, maids, soldiers, and walking wounded materialized out of some mystery in the back part of the building, and went up the stairs with hot water in all types of containers, including a garden sprinkler, and filled the tub in the Prime Minister’s room.

Humphrey Well, Prime Minister … one hesitates to say this but there are times when circumstances conspire to create an inauspicious concatenation of events that necessitate a metamorphosis, as it were, of the situation such that what happened in the first instance to be of primary import fraught with hazard and menace can be relegated to a secondary or indeed tertiary position while a new and hitherto unforeseen or unappreciated element can and indeed should be introduced to support and supersede those prior concerns not by confronting them but by subordinating them to the over-arching imperatives and increased urgency of the previously unrealised predicament which may in fact now, ceteris paribus, only be susceptible to radical and remedial action such that you might feel forced to consider the currently intractable position in which you find yourself. Jim is nonplussed. Jim What does he mean, Bernard? Bernard I, um – I, er, think that he’s perhaps suggesting the possibility that you, um, consider your position. Resign, in fact, Prime Minister.

Bread!--Yes, I think it might honestly be called bread that Walter Drake had ministered. It had not been free from chalk or potatoes: bits of shell and peel might have been found in it, with an occasional bit of dirt, and a hair or two; yes, even a little alum, and that is _bad_, because it tends to destroy, not satisfy the hunger. There was sawdust in it, and parchment-dust, and lumber-dust; it was ill salted, badly baked, sad; sometimes it was blue-moldy, and sometimes even maggoty; but the mass of it was honest flour, and those who did not recoil from the look of it, or recognize the presence of the variety of foreign matter, could live upon it, in a sense, up to a certain pitch of life. But a great deal of it was not of his baking at all--he had been merely the distributor--crumbling down other bakers' loaves and making them up again in his own shapes. In his declining years, however, he had been really beginning to learn the business. Only, in his congregation were many who not merely preferred bad bread of certain kinds, but were incapable of digesting any of high quality.

Spill-what’s the deal with Hottie McDreamMan?” “Sage?” I laughed. “No, I mean Minister Sanders.” She threw a pillow at me. “Of course I mean Sage! He’s the one, right? The guy from your dreams. Oh my God-he’s real and he’s hot! Does he kiss as well in real life as he did in your dreams?” “I wouldn’t know,” I admitted. “We haven’t kissed.” “What are you waiting for?” “So the whole randomly-popping-up-in-pictures thing doesn’t bother you?” “Nope.” “The whole strange-cultists-chasing-after-him? That doesn’t bother you either?” “Nobody’s perfect, Clea.” “How about if I told you he might be a serial killer? Would that bother you?” “Debatable. Elaborate.” I told her about the nightmares and about what I’d seen in his house. As I unrolled the story, her expression went from flip and giddy to openmouthed and riveted. “Oh my God, Clea.” “Crazy, right? And I still have no idea how he got into all those pictures.” “That part’s easy.” “Really?” “Of course,” she said. “You’re soulmates. “Rayna…” “Fine, I know, you don’t like that word. But you can’t possibly deny that you have a deep, powerful soul connection. By definition you have that. You said yourself, he found you in four different countries and four different times. Out of all the people in the world at any given time, he found you. The only possible way he could have done that is if your souls were connected. He’s a soul-seeking missile.” “But he told me he wasn’t there for any of the pictures.” “Yes, he was! Don’t you get it, Clea? Your souls are connected-he’s always with you, whether he’s there physically or not. And you’re the one who told me about cameras capturing people’s souls, right? So that’s what it’s doing-capturing the soul that’s always with you, because you’re always connected. It’s very romantic.” I thought about what she said, ignoring the last sentence because I knew by now that everything was very romantic to Rayna. “Okay,” I ceded, “I’ll give you the connection. But what about the serial killer thing? What fi we’re connected because he tracks these women down, acts like he loves them, and then kills them?” “Kills you. You’re them.” “Yeah, thanks, that’s a much nicer way to put it,” I said, rolling my eyes.

The Greed of Faith A Run- up to the Smack- down of Paul T HERE IS a New Testament story in Acts 5 that is especially devoid of moral substance and bereft of any redeeming value. The ugly protagonist of the story–the heavy–is Peter. Yes, that Peter, the Rock upon which Jesus would build his church. According to Catholic piety, Peter was the first pope. Pretty high on the holiness scale, but, as it turns out, pretty low on the scale of human decency. Acts 5 presents a time when the church was proudly communistic: All members pooled their goods and cash so that everyone would have enough to get by. One couple, Ananias and Sapphira, were okay with giving their fair share but balked at turning over everything to the church. Ananias sold a field, with his wife’s consent, but “kept back some of the proceeds.” It seems that Peter could read people pretty well, and he was ready with his own theological spin on their deception: “Ananias,” Peter asked, “Why has Satan filled your heart to lie to the Holy Spirit and to keep back part of the proceeds of the land? . . . How is it that you have contrived this deed in your heart? You did not lie to us but to God!” Now when Ananias heard these words, he fell down and died. And great fear seized all who heard of it. The young men came and wrapped up his body, then carried him out and buried him. (Acts 5:3- 6) Instant death, for lying!

The easel had a cloth draped over it. Ideally, he shouldn’t look at the painting at all tonight. The gaslight flickered, its bluish tinge changing every color and tone in the room. No, no, it would be a complete waste of time. But the painting seemed to call to him. At last he could stand it no longer. He jumped up and pulled off the cloth. My God. It looked as if it had been painted by somebody else. That was his first thought. It had an authority that he didn’t associate with his stumbling, uncertain, inadequate self. It seemed to stand alone. Really, to have nothing much to do with him. He’d painted the worst aspect of his duties as an orderly: infusing hydrogen peroxide or carbolic acid into a gangrenous wound. Though the figure by the bed, carrying out this unpleasant task, was by no means a self-portrait. Indeed, it was so wrapped up in rubber and white cloth: gown, apron, cap, mask, gloves—ah, yes, the all-important gloves—that it had no individual features. Its anonymity, alone, made it appear threatening. No ministering angel, this. A white-swaddled mummy intent on causing pain. The patient was nothing: merely a blob of tortured nerves. It shook him. He stood back from it, looked, looked away, back again. It must be the gaslight that was so transforming his view of it. And he was no nearer knowing if it was finished, though at the moment he felt he wouldn’t dare do anything else.

He nodded yes. I acquiesced. Immediately, I was “sucked” out of my body and was taken up in the spirit. When I came into the presence of Jesus, He was smiling and happy to see me again, but no more than I. The Lord began to show me the ways that He would confirm and release me to activate the angel of provision He had assigned to me earlier. Somehow I understood that the time was fast approaching for me to begin to employ this angel in a greater degree. When this encounter was over, I returned to my tiny prayer room with a sovereign knowledge that some things were about to drastically change in my life. I had an understanding that the angel of provision would become very important to these upcoming events. In hindsight, I understand that the Lord was preparing me to take the next step of our journey and move me toward my personal metamorphosis. He was preparing me to go to the next level pertaining to angelic ministry and understanding how to work with God’s angels. The Lord is in the midst of releasing many angels of provision into the realm of earth at this hour. I believe that many people will be assigned angels of provision. These angels will work with you to release finances that will allow you to complete the things that are on your heart. For some it will be evangelism. For others it will be ministering to widows and orphans. Whatever God has placed upon your heart, He can empower angelic ministry to release the provision to accomplish the task. You can access this area of angelic ministry. You do not need to be a superstar or person of great faith. These angels are going to be released to ordinary people. Let’s shift our focus to Africa, and look at how Jesus is actually releasing angels to impact the earth on the African continent.

Almost as though this thought had fluttered through the open window, Vernon Dursley, Harry’s uncle, suddenly spoke. “Glad to see the boy’s stopped trying to butt in. Where is he anyway?” “I don’t know,” said Aunt Petunia unconcernedly. “Not in the house.” Uncle Vernon grunted. “Watching the news . . .” he said scathingly. “I’d like to know what he’s really up to. As if a normal boy cares what’s on the news — Dudley hasn’t got a clue what’s going on, doubt he knows who the Prime Minister is! Anyway, it’s not as if there’d be anything about his lot on our news —” “Vernon, shh!” said Aunt Petunia. “The window’s open!” “Oh — yes — sorry, dear . . .” The Dursleys fell silent. Harry listened to a jingle about Fruit ’N Bran breakfast cereal while he watched Mrs. Figg, a batty, cat-loving old lady from nearby Wisteria Walk, amble slowly past. She was frowning and muttering to herself. Harry was very pleased that he was concealed behind the bush; Mrs. Figg had recently taken to asking him around for tea whenever she met him in the street. She had rounded the corner and vanished from view before Uncle Vernon’s voice floated out of the window again. “Dudders out for tea?” “At the Polkisses’,” said Aunt Petunia fondly. “He’s got so many little friends, he’s so popular . . .” Harry repressed a snort with difficulty. The Dursleys really were astonishingly stupid about their son, Dudley; they had swallowed all his dim-witted lies about having tea with a different member of his gang every night of the summer holidays. Harry knew perfectly well that Dudley had not been to tea anywhere; he and his gang spent every evening vandalizing the play park, smoking on street corners, and throwing stones at passing cars and children. Harry had seen them at it during his evening walks around Little Whinging; he had spent most of the holidays wandering the streets, scavenging newspapers from bins along the way. The opening notes of the music that heralded the seven o’clock news reached Harry’s ears and his stomach turned over. Perhaps tonight — after a month of waiting — would be the night — “Record numbers of stranded holidaymakers fill airports as the Spanish baggage-handlers’ strike reaches its second week —” “Give ’em a lifelong siesta, I would,” snarled Uncle Vernon over the end of the newsreader’s sentence, but no matter: Outside in the flower bed, Harry’s stomach seemed to unclench.

But he said to his wife, sitting next to him on the couch in the TV room, that rarely had he seen a funeral at which it seemed like almost nobody in attendance had any idea why they were there. His wife, who had heard things like this from him before, reminded him of a ceremony he had presided over only a few months ago about which he had had the same reaction. 'Oh right,' the minister said. 'Yes. That one was much worse.' He leaned down to the coffee table and picked up the remote.

He was presented to her as Spencer Perceval, the Prime Minister of England. Kassandra stiffened as he bent over her hand. Mercifully, he released her swiftly but then proceeded to speak with exaggerated enunciation as though he presumed “foreign” and “slow” were synonymous. “I do hope your stay will be pleasant, Your Highness.” “Thank you, Prime Minister, I am quite assured that it will be. England is a delightful conjunction of seeming conflicts and contradictions, don’t you think?” Perceval frowned, taken by surprise and unsure how to respond. “Well, as to that-“ “After all, the culture that has produced that astonishing novel Sense and Sensibility and Lord Byron’s…ummm…affecting work within the space of just a few short months can hardly be considered merely> a self-aggrandizing island with delusions of empire, can it?” “I suppose not; that is to say?” “Do excuse us, Prime Minister,” Alex interjected smoothly. “I am sure you will understand there are so many waiting to meet Her Highness.” As he guided her toward the next eager greeter, Alex murmured, “Pray do try to remember we are not actually attempting to incite war with England.” Kassandra shrugged, feeling better since she had set down that vile Perceval. “Didn’t you suspect the Prime Minister of plotting an invasion of Akora just last year?” Her brother cast her a sharp look. “You weren’t supposed to know about that.” “For pity’s sake…” “All right, yes I did, but he was soundly discouraged by the Prince Regent himself. There is no reason to have any further concern in that regard.” Kassandra did not answer. She had her own thoughts on the subject and was not ye ready to share them. The introductions continued. Too soon, her head throbbed and the small of her back ached, but she kept her smile firmly in place. When the gong sounded for dinner, she resisted the urge to sag with relief.

Corruption ? Yes there is corruption in Civil Aviation Authorties and a lot of it is unspoken. For, starters, what do you call, issuing an airport pass to a royal house help, or a Ministers son with zero duties at the airport other than meeting his girlfriend on arrival ?

There was this new minister who went to the cemetery sorry, cemetery and he got his PhD and his DD and he’s got assign to his first church. I’ll never forget this. When he got there the church was a little lively but he was dead and he told the people now that am your new pastor we gonna do things a little different around here. He said, no more shouting, we’re going to do things in order. And theres going to be a quietness. He said I want you to follow my lead. He said I’ve graduated from the seminary and I’ve been educated and we’re going to do things in order and we’re going to take away this noise. It took him about 6 months to get things all tone down, he thought. He never even bothered to write his sermons out because some of the people were still shouting. But after 6 months he had everything under control and everything was dead. Dead quite. I mean quite. And finally he worked on his message all week long, had it all type written out on 15 pages, double space. Had everything perfect and now he is going to demonstrate his educational powers. Ready to wax eloquent and have them know they have an educated preacher/minister. He got into his message that he was reading. And he got to page 5, there was an ooooooooooooold fashion deacon in the back and let out one of them big old weeeeeeeeeeellllllllllllll gloryyyyyyyyyyyyyyy !!!!!. that was like an atom bomb that struck. And he became frustrated and all 15 pages of notes fell on the ground and he lost his place. He was never been so humiliated in all of his life. He could not finish his sermon. The only thing he could do is stop and pray and put the benediction on. He became so aggravated at the brother at the back. He said I did not know what I said to make him shout but he said am going to visit him in the morning and am going to found out what I said. And whatever I said am going to cut it out of my mind and I’ll never say it again so he won’t shout. Monday morning he headed out and he went to this brother who was a farmer. He didn’t even bother to go to the house. He wanted to handle this man to man. The brother offered a cup of coffee but the pastor refused it. He said I came out here to talk man to man sir. Do you remember when I first came to the church I said we were going to do things differently. He said yes sir I do remember. You remember I said nobody was going to make some noice. He said yes sir I remember that. He said yesterday you embarrassed me. I only got half way through my sermon. He said I want you to be honest with me brother. What was it that I said that made you shout because whatever it is am not going to say it no more. The brother breathed and said let get one thing straight pastor, you’ve been here six months. aint nothing you ever said made me shout. Nothing at all. But when I get to thinking how deep I was in sin and Jesus brought me out and cleaned me and wrote my name the book of life. How so good He’s been to me. When I was thinking of what He done for me, I couldn’t help but shoouuuuuuuuuuuuuuut to His gloryyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy. I don’t just shout in church, here with my mules thinking of Jesus, I feel another shouuuuuuuuuuuuut coming up.

You have heard of the old woman who lay dying. Her rector heard of it and called upon her. "They tell me," he said, "that you are dying." "Yes," she replied. "And have you made your peace with God?" "No," came the answer. "And are you not afraid to meet God without making your peace with Him?" "Not at all," was the answer and startled the minister. The minister grew earnest. "Woman, do you realize that you have but a short time to live and that you must soon meet a holy God?" "Yes, I realize it perfectly." "And you are not afraid?" "Not at all." "And you have not made your peace with God?" "No." "What do you mean?" cried the astonished rector. A smile passed over the features of the dying woman. "I have not made my peace with God because I do not need to. Christ made peace more than eighteen hundred years ago by the blood of His cross (Col. 1: 20), and I am simply resting in the peace he made.

We know Job's faith survived because his reaction to his devastating loss was to worship God: "Then Job arose and tore his robe and shaved his head, and he fell to the ground and worshiped. He said, 'Naked I came from my mother's womb, and naked I shall return there. The Lord gave and the Lord has taken away. Blessed be the name of the Lord'" (Job 1:20-21). Let me encourage you and your messed up man, should he be willing, to begin to worship God from your place of brokenness. Tina shares a dramatic story from her work as a music therapist for hospice. One day, as she prepared to leave the hospice floor at the hospital, a nurse called her back to work with a patient in respiratory arrest. Music therapists use music to match the beat of a patient's heart rate, and as the therapist slows down the beat of music, most of the time the heart rate follows, as well as the breathing. At the start of the process, the patient's wife shouted, "Sing 'Amazing Grace'?" Deciding to minister rather than work, Tina sang "Amazing Grace." The patient's distress was overwhelming. He could hardly take in air, and his chest heaved while his wife wept. Right in the middle of "Amazing Grace," The wife once more blurted out, "Sing 'Jesus Loves Me'!" Tina, switched gears and sang, "Yes, Jesus loves me." Tears streamed down the man's cheeks as he sang with her, "Yes, Jesus loves me." His words were broken and he could hardly say them, but in that moment, he worshiped the God who was about to take him home. Whatever you're facing . . . worship.

Drake looked down at his bride, pride nearly crushing him. She looked the picture of virtue in a gown the color of dark cream. Her hair sat atop her head in a shining red-gold mass of thick braids and curls. A band of small pink rosebuds haloed the curls, their stems a tightly intertwined crown. There was no cap now. Her face was pale and glowing, her neck as graceful as any swan's he had ever seen on the lakes of Northumberland, her delicate collarbones as elegant and stately as the jewels of a queen. What he wouldn't have done to give her the magnificent London wedding she deserved. He would relish seeing her in rich satin and jewels, the envy of the civilized world. But Serena would never be in London... would probably not 'wish' to be, he realized. Gazing at her beauty, her tranquility, he had a blinding realization that caused him to grasp more tightly to her hand and almost falter as he turned toward the minister: Had he not left all behind, he never would have found her. For the first time, he had something to be thankful for in the wake of his ruined existence. Had he stayed in London, he would have wed one of the haughty women of the ton, a woman in whose eyes he would have seen a hunger that was never satisfied. Instead, he was marrying a woman of quiet strength and faith, all of which gave the very air around her peace. Was she not worth a dukedom? Yes. A thousand times yes. That and more. She was worth all that he had gone through to have her.

Yes, Prime Minister,” said MacArthur, “it’s a warship. Sticking out of a mountain, thousands of feet above sea level.” Curtin

The PM's gaze swings around to where I'm sitting. "Ms. Montague. Would you step outside?" My immediate reaction is yes, of course. But that's the wrong answer. That's the woman inside me doing what a man has asked of her. Seriously? Fuck that noise. "I'd rather stay.

As Peregrine Worsthorne argued in the Sunday Telegraph, British democracy did not require governments always to do what the people wanted; it simply required them to face the judgement of the people for the decisions they had made. This, he argued, not only promoted more considered government – for ministers would take the blame for failed policies at an election, however popular they might have been at the time; it also protected democracy itself from opprobrium.

The danger was that referendums might promote irresponsible government, in which ministers promised referendums for party purposes while disclaiming responsibility for the results. ‘The new doctrine’, Thatcher complained, was ‘to pass the buck to the people’.

Yes, this is a memoir of a real experience. It is not fiction. I was on a search committee for a senior minister and this is my story of that search. Others might tell it differently.

[Former Australian Prime Minister John Howard] would not schedule any Cabinet meetings in the evening because he'd previously observed as a minister that any meeting after dinner and a couple of glasses of wine was an 'inefficient use of time'. ... Predictable? Most of the time, yes. But in Howard's view, a regular timetable was also a courtesy, as much for other people's benefit as his own. For his security detail, younger men and women who often had children. For his staff, who regularly had to be reminded to take a lunchbreak. And also for his ministers, obliged to attend endless public functions.

On a different note,” Helen said, “I’ve been getting calls from ministers who want to talk about the AUUCC job. And a few have said it’s not clear what exactly you’re looking for.” “We want what everyone wants: great preaching, a good manager. We’re hoping for a woman—but we can’t say that explicitly. An infusion of new energy.” “That’s all pretty vague.” “Are other churches more specific in what they want?” “Oh god, yes.

We just happen to know what a truly inspired ministry looks like,” Belinda said. “Most people never see it. In that sense, Sparlo spoiled us.” “It’s impressive that you’re still a fan after being his secretary for so long,” I said. “Sparlo and I understood each other. We both did our work and allowed other people to do theirs. Sparlo set the tone; he made us know that we could be a generous, healthy, well-run institution regardless of who was minister. Tom’s both more and less controlling than that. He’s a little lazy, so he likes that the church can mostly run itself, but he also likes and needs to be top dog.” “Yes, and he has a real fear of factions forming against him,” said Charlotte. “And maybe he should, because he does make enemies.” “Sparlo had his detractors,” said Belinda. “Someone was always furious with him. But he was gleeful about it. He loved adversaries. They energized him.

Mystery is the antagonist of truth. It is a fog of human invention, that obscures truth, and represents it in distortion. Truth never envelops itself in mystery, and the mystery in which it is at any time enveloped is the work of its antagonist, and never of itself. Thomas Paine

Sometimes old ministers grow bitter and sour. They started out brightly enough, but they saw so much of the evil of men's hearts, that they were disappointed in men they once trusted; they had the Spirit quenched within them, until they became human wet blankets, saying to every young enthusiast, "Yes, I used to feel that way; you'll get over it!

Well! This is one side of the story, to be sure, but I look at the other. Here is a sweet, fragrant mouth to kiss; here are two feet to make music with their pattering about my nursery. Here is a soul to train for God; and the body in which it dwells is worthy all it will cost, since it is the abode of a kingly tenant. I may see less of friends, but I have gained one dearer than them all, to whom, while I minister in Christ's name, I make a willing sacrifice of what little leisure for my own recreation my other darlings had left me. Yes, my precious baby, you are welcome to your mother's heart, welcome to her time, her strength, her health, her tenderest cares, to her lifelong prayers! Oh, how rich I am, how truly, wondrously blest!

Have you heard of the Mossad?” The gentle breeze seemed to still at his words as if the forest itself feared what he was about to say. “It’s a super-secret organization,” I offered, barely above a whisper. I sensed we were entering dangerous waters between his change in demeanor and what I could recall from my research of Krav Maga. “Its existence isn’t a secret, but its actions are. The Mossad is Israel’s chief intelligence agency, the same as other countries have, except the Mossad has near limitless autonomy. It reports only to the Prime Minister—no one else. Its actions and operatives are not subject to judicial inquiry, nor are its operations disclosed to the public. The institution is given absolute authority to act in the best interest of Israel.” “And you were a part of the Mossad?” “Yes. There are eight departments for purposes such as espionage, research, and technology. One of those departments contains a top secret unit called Kidon. I belonged to that unit.

Kalmar nodded. "I'm sorry, Papa. I wasn't strong enough." "None of us are, lad. Me least of all." Esben smiled and took a rattling breath. "But it's weakness that the Maker turns to strength. Your fur is why you alone loved a dying cloven. You alone in all the world knew my need and ministered to my wounds." Esben pulled Kalmar closer and kissed him on the head. "And in my weakness, I alone know your need. Hear me, son. I loved you when you were born. I loved you when I wept in the Deeps of Throg. I loved you even as you sang the song that broke you. And I love you now in the glory of your humility. You're more fit to be the king than I ever was. Do you understand?" Kalmar shook his head. Esben smiled and shuddered with pain. "A good answer, my boy. Then do you believe that I love you?" "Yes, sir. I believe you." Kalmar buried his face in his father's fur. "Remember that in the days to come. Nia, Janner, Leeli - help him to remember.

It is the law of Inverse Relevance: the less you intend to do about something, the more you have to keep talking about it.

The end justifies the means? If you are faced with tyranny, do not hesitate to say: Yes! Every end justifies the means? —No! The end justifies all the means? —No!  Every end justifies all the means? —No, never!” —Menachem Begin, Prime Minister of Israel

The parables he just taught on this very overlook of Gehenna carried the same message.” He concluded, “As if Jerusalem will be destroyed again.” She said, “I have always assumed his words were about the judgment of the nations.” He protested, “But he seems to be prophesying that our people will reject his kingship, rather than accept it. And they will be judged just like a pagan nation.” “How could that be?” she asked. “He has always said that he has come to minister to Israel.” “Yes. But remember the tenants in the parable? They kept rejecting the landlord’s plea to bring him the fruit of the vineyard. And when the landlord sent his son, they killed him too. They wanted to steal his inheritance.” “So, the son in the story is Jesus, and the tenants are his people, Israel?” Her voice was thoughtful. He nodded. “Do you remember what Jesus said the landlord would do to the tenants?” She nodded. “He would put those miserable wretches to a miserable death and let out the vineyard to other tenants.” He said, “And then he told the Pharisees and chief priests and their followers to their faces that the Kingdom of God would be taken away from them and given to a people producing its fruits.” “The only people other than the people of God are the Gentiles. But he said his ministry was to Israel.

• While Rommel was going to see Hitler to beg for more tanks and a tighter command structure, Eisenhower was visited by Churchill, who was coming to the supreme commander to beg a favor. He wanted to go along on the invasion, on HMS Belfast. (“Of course, no one likes to be shot at,” Eisenhower later remarked, “but I must say that more people wanted in than wanted out on this one.”) As Eisenhower related the story, “I told him he couldn’t do it. I was in command of this operation and I wasn’t going to risk losing him. He was worth too much to the Allied cause. “He thought a moment and said, ‘You have the operational command of all forces, but you are not responsible administratively for the makeup of the crews.’ “And I said, ‘Yes, that’s right.’ “He said, ‘Well, then I can sign on as a member of the crew of one of His Majesty’s ships, and there’s nothing you can do about it.’ “I said, ‘That’s correct. But, Prime Minister, you will make my burden a lot heavier if you do it.’ ” Churchill said he was going to do it anyway. Eisenhower had his chief of staff, General Smith, call King George VI to explain the problem. The king told Smith, “You boys leave Winston to me.” He called Churchill to say, “Well, as long as you feel that it is desirable to go along, I think it is my duty to go along with you.” Churchill gave up.

Jim Is there no other way? Claire We could just say no to him. Jim Can’t risk that. Collapse of conference, collapse of backbench support, collapse of Cabinet. Collapse of my career. The biggest disaster since Dunkirk. Humphrey I think not, Prime Minister. Jim Name a bigger one. Humphrey The Freedom of Information Act.

Had a bad one too, have you?’ asked the Prime Minister stiffly, hoping to convey by this that he had quite enough on his plate already without any extra helpings from Fudge. ‘Yes, of course,’ said Fudge,

(It was said that Vyacheslav Molotov, the Soviet foreign minister, spoke only four words of English: “Yes,” “No,” and “Second front.”) Moscow

What the fuck is that?” At the sound of V’s voice, John turned with the rest of them . . . and when he saw what was up at the head of the grand staircase, he blinked once. Twice. Twelve times. Lassiter was standing at the top of the carpeted steps, his blond-and-black hair styled in a pompadour, a heavy Bible under his armpit, piercings catching the light . . . But none of that was the real shocker. The fallen angel was dressed in a sparkling white Elvis costume. Complete with bell-bottoms, balloon sleeves, and lapels big enough to tent up the backyard. Oh, and rainbow wings that revealed themselves as he held his arms out, preacher style. “Time to get the party started,” he said as he jogged down, sequins winking and flashing. “And where the hell’s my pulpit?” V coughed out the smoke he’d just inhaled. “She’s having you do the service?” The angel popped his already mile-high collar. “She said she wanted the holiest thing in the house to do it.” “She got holey, all right,” somebody muttered. “Is that Butch’s Bible?” V asked. The angel flashed the goods. “Yup. And his BoC, he called it? I also got a sermon I did myself.” “Saints preserve us,” came from the opposite side of the crowd. “Wait, wait, wait.” V waved his hand-rolled around. “I’m the son of a deity and she picked you?” “You can call me Pastor—and before Mr. Sox Fan gets his panties in a wad, I want everyone to know I’m legit. I went online, took a minister’s course in under an hour, and I’m ordained, baby.” Rhage raised his hand. “Pastor Ass-hat, I have a question.” “Yes, my son, you are going to hell.” Lassiter made the sign of the cross and then looked around. “So where’s our bride? The groom? I’m ready to marry somebody.” “I didn’t bring enough tobacco for this,” V bitched. Rhage sighed. “There’s Goose in the bar, my brother—oh, wait. We don’t have a bar anymore.” “I think I’ll just run an IV of morphine.” “Can I put it in?” Lassiter asked. “That’s what she said,” somebody shot back

Kestrel set her cup on its saucer. “I didn’t ask to see you,” she said. “Too bad.” Arin claimed the chair across from her table in the library in a manner unbearably familiar to her. It was as if the chair had always been his. He slouched in his seat, tipped his head back, and looked at her from beneath lowered lids. The morning light fired his profile. “Worried, Lady Kestrel?” He spoke in Valorian, his accent roughening his voice. He always pronounced his r’s too low in his throat, so that when he spoke in her tongue everything came across as a soft growl. “Dreading what I’ll say…or do?” He smiled a grim little smile. “No need. I’ll be the perfect gentleman.” He tugged at his cuffs. It was only then that Kestrel noticed that they came too short on his arms and showed his wrists. It pained her to see his self-consciousness, the way it had suddenly revealed itself. In this light, his gray eyes were too clear. His posture had been confident. His words had had an edge. But his eyes were uncertain. Arin fidgeted again with his cuffs as if there was something wrong with them--with him. No, she would have said. You’re perfect, she wanted to say. She imagined it: how she would reach out to touch Arin’s bare wrist. That could lead nowhere good. She was nervous, she was cold. Her stomach was a flurry of snow. She dropped her hands to her lap. “No one’s here anyway,” Arin said, “and the librarians are in the stacks. You’re safe enough.” It was too early for courtiers to be in the library. Kestrel had counted on this, and on the fact that if anyone did turn up and saw her with the Herrani minister of agriculture, such a meeting would excite little interest. One with Arin, however, was an entirely different story. It was frustrating: his uncanny ability to unsettle her plans--and her very sense of self. She said, “Pressing where you’re not invited seems to be a habit with you.” “And yours is to put people in their place. But people aren’t gaming pieces. You can’t arrange them to suit yourself.” A librarian coughed. “Lower your voice,” Kestrel hissed at Arin. “Stop being so--” “Inconvenient?” “Frankly, yes.” His smile came: quick, true, surprised by itself. Then changing, and slow. “I could be worse.” “I am sure.” “I could tell you how.” “Arin, how is it for you here, in the capital?” He held her gaze. “I would rather talk about what we were talking about.” “Arin, how is it for you here, in the capital?” He held her gaze. “I would rather talk about what we were talking about.” She arranged her fingers along the studs that pinned green leather to the tabletop. She felt each cool, small, hard nail. The silence inside her was like those nails. What it held down was something sheer: a feeling like fragile silk, billowing up at the sound of his voice. If she and Arin were to talk about what they had been talking about, that silk could tear free. It would float up. It would catch the light, and cast a colored shadow. What color would it be, Kestrel wondered, the silk of what she felt? What would it be like to let it go, let it canopy above her?

George, I probably owe you an apology,” Maureen said. “I don’t think I was as friendly as I could have been when we ran into each other at Jack’s a week or so ago. The fact is, I do remember meeting you at Luke’s wedding. I don’t know why I was acting as if I couldn’t remember you. It isn’t like me to play coy like that.” “I knew that, Mrs. Riordan,” he said. She was stunned. “You knew?” He smiled gently. Kindly. “I saw it in your eyes,” he explained, then shifted his own back and forth, breaking eye contact, demonstrating what he saw. “And the moment I met you I knew you were more straightforward than that. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.” She was a little uncomfortable now, in fact. She felt vulnerable, being found out before she even had a chance to confess. “And I was widowed quite a while ago.” “Yes, I know that, too. Twelve years or so?” he asked. She put her hands on her hips. “And you know this how?” she asked, not trying too hard to keep the indignant tone from her voice. “Well, I asked,” he said with a shrug. “That’s what a man does when he has an interest in a woman. He asks about her.” “Is that so? Well, what else did you find out?” “Nothing embarrassing, I swear. Just that you’ve been widowed quite a while now, all five sons are in the military, you live in Phoenix and, as far as anyone knows, you’re not currently seeing anyone special.” Special? she thought. Not seeing anyone period with absolutely no intention of doing so. “Interesting,” she said. “Well, I don’t know a thing about you.” “Of course you do. I’m a friend of Noah’s. A teacher.” He chuckled. “And obviously I have time on my hands.” “That’s not very much information,” she said. He took a rag out of his back pocket and wiped some of the sawdust and sweat off his brow. “You’re welcome to ask me anything you like. I’m an open book.” “How long have you been a teacher?” she asked, starting with a safe subject. “Twenty years now, and I’m thinking of making some changes. I’m seventy and I always thought retirement would turn me into an old fuddy-duddy, but I’m rethinking that. I’d like to have more time to do the things I enjoy most and, fortunately, I have a small pension and some savings. Besides, I’m tired of keeping a rigid schedule.” “You would retire?” “Again.” He laughed. “I retired the first time at the age of fifty and, after twenty years at the university, I could retire again. There are so many young professors who’d love to see a tenured old goat like me leave an opening for them.” “And before you were a teacher?” “A Presbyterian minister,” he said. “Oh! You’re joking!” she said. “I’m afraid it’s the truth.” “I’m Catholic!” He laughed. “How nice for you.” “You’re making fun of me,” she accused. “I’m making fun of your shock,” he said. “Don’t you have any non-Catholic friends?” “Of course. Many. But—” “Because I have quite a few Catholic friends. And Jewish and Mormon and other faiths. I used to play golf with a priest friend every Thursday afternoon for years. I had to quit. He was a cheat.” “He was not!” “You’re right, he wasn’t. I just threw that in there to see if I could rile you up. No one riles quite as beautifully as a redhead.

We learn to be kind to ourselves. For me, by serving God, I serve the real me on the inside where Jesus lives in my heart. It is the healthy, courageous, growing part of my soul that gets ministered to by the Lord. I don’t need outside sources.” Alisa beamed. “I don’t beat myself up when I make mistakes now. My hope is in the Lord.” Annabelle pondered that for a moment. “How can you sustain that level of thinking?” “I have a devotional life. When I am alone, I pray and read my Bible. And then I feel God close to me.” Annabelle closed her eyes. “Alone? You do that alone?” “Yes, but I know I am not really alone. Jesus lives in my heart. The Bible says that I live and move in Him. I often tell myself that I am not really alone. God is with me. It works.” Alisa paused. “I know who I am in Christ.

He was presented to her as Spencer Perceval, the Prime Minister of England. Kassandra stiffened as he bent over her hand. Mercifully, he released her swiftly but then proceeded to speak with exaggerated enunciation as though he presumed “foreign” and “slow” were synonymous. “I do hope your stay will be pleasant, Your Highness.” “Thank you, Prime Minister, I am quite assured that it will be. England is a delightful conjunction of seeming conflicts and contradictions, don’t you think?” Perceval frowned, taken by surprise and unsure how to respond. “Well, as to that-“ “After all, the culture that has produced that astonishing novel Sense and Sensibility and Lord Byron’s…ummm…affecting work within the space of just a few short months can hardly be considered merely a self-aggrandizing island with delusions of empire, can it?” “I suppose not; that is to say?” “Do excuse us, Prime Minister,” Alex interjected smoothly. “I am sure you will understand there are so many waiting to meet Her Highness.” As he guided her toward the next eager greeter, Alex murmured, “Pray do try to remember we are not actually attempting to incite war with England.” Kassandra shrugged, feeling better since she had set down that vile Perceval. “Didn’t you suspect the Prime Minister of plotting an invasion of Akora just last year?” Her brother cast her a sharp look. “You weren’t supposed to know about that.” “For pity’s sake…” “All right, yes I did, but he was soundly discouraged by the Prince Regent himself. There is no reason to have any further concern in that regard.” Kassandra did not answer. She had her own thoughts on the subject and was not ye ready to share them. The introductions continued. Too soon, her head throbbed and the small of her back ached, but she kept her smile firmly in place. When the gong sounded for dinner, she resisted the urge to sag with relief.

Perhaps you’ve been in a similar situation: Asked at the last moment to cover for a colleague, you say yes only to realize that you’ve stepped into your worst nightmare. In this case, my colleague had to leave the office on a medical emergency and pleaded with me to cover for a speech he had to deliver the following day. I said yes, only to learn later that the speech was to take place in Sheffield, England (we were in New York), to an audience of educational experts appointed by the then-new British prime minister, Tony Blair. My colleague hadn’t told me what the topic was—something about the Internet—or where his materials (if there were any) were buried.

Many of you have been consumed by substances but I shall consume you with My New Wine. I will heal your broken heart. I will restore you to the way I wanted you to be. You shall be the Ministers of My Wine. Yes, I say now, everything that has hurt you shall not prosper and I will restore you. I see why you suffered from the substances and no, I don't judge you, no, I Am Compassion. I Am Mercy. I shall use you as a Minister of My New Wine - why? Because the enemy has hooked you on the things of this world when I, I want to hook you on Me. So, put the bottle at My Feet because I Am restoring you to Mercy

Andy Dietz, who is on the staff of a church in the panhandle of Texas, has been coordinating mission trips overseas for many years. On one particular trip with his young people, the project had been finished, and the kids had left for home, but Andy stayed over to visit with missionary friends in the area. He was coming back through a European city on his way home. Having an overnight transit, he went downtown for dinner, found himself in the wrong part of town, and was mugged and kidnapped. After taking all his money, and all he could get from the ATM machine, his captors had him wire his family to ask for $5,000 to secure his release. His family notified us, and we activated a prayer network and contacted our personnel in the city who were not even aware he was there. They notified the police, but before anything could be done, Andy was able to elude his captors and get away while they were eating and drinking. I called him after he got home to talk through the experience and seek to minister to him. I asked him, after such a traumatic experience, if he thought he would go on any more mission trips. He said, “Oh yes. It's the most gratifying thing I do to take these kids overseas.” He continued, “I was negligent and learned that I have got to be more vigilant about where I go.” He described what it was like to be beaten, tied up, put in the trunk of a car, and his life threatened. He said, “They didn't know me. Nobody knew where I was. I meant nothing to them. My life was worthless. I realized they wouldn't think twice about getting rid of me, and no one would know.” He continued, “You can imagine how desperate I was to get away. And all I could think of was God saying, 'Andy, this is how desperate you should be to know Me.'” I held the phone in disbelief. I can only imagine the extent of desperation to escape a situation where your life is threatened. Can you imagine being so desperate to know God in all of His fullness, to have a heart that is so passionate for Him and His holiness? I think that's the only thing that will be a fail-safe deterrent to immoral behavior. We are always vulnerable; Satan will see to that, but in Christ we have been given the capacity to walk in holiness and victory.

According to our minister, Mr. Cornelius Barker, presents were a pointless, expensive, pagan diversion. Yes, well, good luck explaining that to seven children.

There’s a story of a good man who dies and goes to heaven, and who is welcomed at the pearly gates, which are thrown open for him to enter. He goes through them in a daze of bliss, because it is everything he has been taught, golden streets, milk and alabaster and honey and golden harps. He wanders the streets lost in happiness, until after a while he realizes that he is all alone; he hasn’t seen anybody at all. He walks and walks, and he sees nobody. So he goes back to the gates, and asks, “Peter?” “Yes, my son?” “This really is heaven?” “Oh, yes, my son. Don’t you like it?” “Oh, it’s just wonderful! But where is everybody? Where are the prophets? Where is the Holy Family? Where are the saints?” Peter looks at him kindly. “Oh, them? They’re all down in hell, ministering to the damned. If you’d like to join them, I’ll show you the way.

My own list includes Allen Drury, Advise and Consent; Robert Penn Warren, All the King’s Men; Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird; George Orwell, 1984; Gore Vidal, Washington, D.C.; Sinclair Lewis, It Can’t Happen Here. I am also a big fan of the books and short stories of Ward Just. My son came of age watching The West Wing, and I loved both the riotously funny if cynical book and British TV series Yes, Minister. And, even if it is not a substitute for reading The Federalist Papers, you would be hard pressed to spend a more enjoyable evening than watching the musical Hamilton.

She stared across the room, apparently lost in thought, not even noticing Lavender tickling Ron. ‘How’s Lupin?’ ‘Not great,’ said Harry, and he told her all about Lupin’s mission among the werewolves and the difficulties he was facing. ‘Have you heard of this Fenrir Greyback?’ ‘Yes, I have!’ said Hermione, sounding startled. ‘And so have you, Harry!’ ‘When, History of Magic? You know full well I never listened …’ ‘No, no, not History of Magic – Malfoy threatened Borgin with him!’ said Hermione. ‘Back in Knockturn Alley, don’t you remember? He told Borgin that Greyback was an old family friend and that he’d be checking up on Borgin’s progress!’ Harry gaped at her. ‘I forgot! But this proves Malfoy’s a Death Eater, how else could he be in contact with Greyback and telling him what to do?’ ‘It is pretty suspicious,’ breathed Hermione. ‘Unless …’ ‘Oh, come on,’ said Harry in exasperation, ‘you can’t get round this one!’ ‘Well … there is the possibility it was an empty threat.’ ‘You’re unbelievable, you are,’ said Harry, shaking his head. ‘We’ll see who’s right … you’ll be eating your words, Hermione, just like the Ministry. Oh yeah, I had a row with Rufus Scrimgeour as well …’ And the rest of the evening passed amicably with both of them abusing the Minister for Magic, for Hermione, like Ron, thought that after all the Ministry had put Harry through the previous year, they had a great nerve asking him for help now. The new term started next morning with a pleasant surprise for the sixth-years: a large sign had been pinned to the common-room noticeboards overnight.

Mr. Johnson: Yes; that is true, because I know from my own experience in working in labor organizations, for example, that we had an organization with 10,000 members, and there were only about 60 or 70 Communists, and we controlled the organization. So with small minority of ministers who work in an organized manner, they can always win over and subvert and dupe the majority who are disorganized and are individualistic.

It is important to recognize that Blake was a troubled spirit, subject to deep psychic stresses, with what we would now call paranoid and schizoid tendencies that were sometimes overwhelming. During his life he was often accused of madness, but the artist Samuel Palmer, who knew him well, remembered him as ‘one of the sanest, if not the most thoroughly sane man I have ever known.’ And a Baptist minister replied, when asked if he thought Blake was cracked, ‘Yes, but his is a crack that lets in the light.

If it hadn't been for Cheryl, it wouldn't have occurred to me, but after that conversation, I did notice how heavily male our meetings often were. Once, during a meeting in Asia, the host foreign minister opened his remarks by saying, "Madam Secretary, I want you to take not that we have more women on our delegation than men. It is inspired by your leadership. We thought you might appreciate that." HRC smiled widely and said, "Yes, yes I do, indeed, Minister. That's wonderful." She then quickly jumped into her points, because on our side of the table sat mostly white men, with the exception of two women: HRC and me.

You said they were the ones who got him released.” “Yes.” Selassie exhaled.  “By leaning on the prime minister.  And now even he wants to know why.

Apple’s Steve Jobs believed that “focusing is about saying ‘no’ to things”. Oprah has emphasized that “no is a complete sentence.” Former UK Prime Minister Tony Blair opined that “the art of leadership is saying no.” And Berkshire Hathaway’s Warren Buffett has said, “We need to learn the slow ‘yes’ and the quick ‘no.

Yes, England's history is indeed rich in relief efforts and good deeds towards other peoples. We are reminded in a flash of the time England in 1704 got stuck in Gibraltar under the pretense of wanting to bring help to Spain. It gave its Spanish supporters on the boat at the first opportunity and stayed on Gibraltar and has since sat there to control the Mediterranean for itself and its interests. We remember how it has "helped" the Indians by siphoning off and plundering their land. One of the black spots in its history is Lord Clive's conquest of Calcutta from the Indians. He got the neighbor of Bengal's minister to betray the neighbor. Afterwards the minister himself became nabob in return for paying Clive £260,000 sterling. It cannot then surprise anyone that Lord Clive brought with him immense riches when he returned to England. Here he was honored for his exploits, being appointed baron. And England later prevented any freedom movement in India by systematically pitting Mohammedans and Hindus against each other. Some scattered attempts at freedom were held down by the most brutal terror we know. We remember another black mark, namely the time in 1919 when General Dyer fired with automatic weapons at a peaceful unarmed assembly of Indians who had gathered in a private square in the city of Amritsar. 500 were killed and 1,500 wounded, many of them women and children. Truly a great cultural nation!