There is a realm of time where the goal is not to have but to be, not to own but to give, not to control but to share, not to subdue but to be in accord. Life goes wrong when the control of space, the acquisition of things of space, becomes our sole concern.

Wonder rather than doubt is the root of all knowledge.

For many of us the march from Selma to Montgomery was about protest and prayer. Legs are not lips and walking is not kneeling. And yet our legs uttered songs. Even without words, our march was worship. I felt my legs were praying.

In the midst of our applauding the feats of civilization, the Bible flings itself like a knife slashing our complacency; remind us that God, too, has a voice in history.

The hour calls for moral grandeur and spiritual audacity.

Solitude is a necessary protest to the incursions and the false alarms of society's hysteria, a period of cure and recovery.

All events are secretly interrelated; the sweep of all we are doing reaches beyond the horizon of our comprehension.