Imperfection is the prerequisite for grace. Light only gets in through the cracks.

When I pray for another person, I am praying for God to open my eyes so that I can see that person as God does, and then enter into the stream of love that God already directs toward that person.

I have learned that faith means trusting in advance what will make sense only in reverse.

Yet as I read the birth stories about Jesus I cannot help but conclude that though the world may be tilted toward the rich and powerful, God is tilted toward the underdog.

In a nutshell, the Bible from Genesis 3 to Revelation 22 tells the story of a God reckless with desire to get his family back.

Grace, like water, flows to the lowest part.

The proof of spiritual maturity is not how pure you are but awareness of your impurity. That very awareness opens the door to grace.

Any discussion of how pain and suffering fit into God's scheme ultimately leads back to the cross.

No one ever converted to Christianity because they lost the argument.

In the stories of extravagant grace given to us by Jesus, there are no loopholes disqualifying us from God's love.

I doubt God keeps track of how many arguments we win; God may indeed keep track of how well we love.

Gone, but only until we get there

Being able to read a book in another language is a source of ego-stroking pride.

I'm a hopeless 19th-century romantic.

I'm dealing with my drinking problem and I have a reputation for getting things done.

A man's strength is ultimately born of his knowledge of his own weakness.

We have employments assigned to us for every circumstance in life. When we are alone, we have our thoughts to watch; in the family, our tempers; and in company, our tongues.

When you live in hysteria, people start thinking emotionally.

Each year, several million people are looking for new clothes. The fashion they are looking at cannot be too expensive, but it has to be stylish.

I have always considered it despicable to grovel for your life as if life were a favor. If you cannot live the way you want, there is no point in living

Oh, good gigantic smile o' the brown old earth, This autumn morning! How he sets his bones To bask i' the sun, and thrusts out knees and feet. From the ripple to run over in its mirth