We are not the playwright, we are not the producer, we are not even the audience. We are on the stage.

We can rest contentedly in our sins and in our stupidities, and anyone who has watched gluttons shoveling down the most exquisite foods as if they did not know what they were eating will admit that we can ignore even pleasure. But pain insists upon being attended to. God whispers to us in our pleasures, speaks in our consciences, but shouts in our pains. It is his megaphone to rouse a deaf world.

He died not for men, but for each man. If each man had been the only man made, He would have done no less.

Miracles are for beginners.

We have had enough, once and for all, of Hedonism--the gloomy philosophy which says that Pleasure is the only good.

I know now, Lord, why you utter no answer. You are yourself the answer. Before your face questions die away. What other answer would suffice?

We come to Scripture not to learn a subject but to steep ourselves in a person.