Donald Trump has finally revealed his favourite Bible passage. “It’s from the Book of Job,” he told Fox & Friends (pronouncing the “o” as in “Hobbes”): “chapter 41: I see it as a kind of self-portrait.”
What’s the difference between a Wagner concert and a Trump rally? The music is better at a Trump rally.
Being born is overrated. It’s a start, that’s all.
The way of Jesus is the way of detours and digressions, following him in whatever direction he happens to stray.
What’s the difference between Jesus and a Zen master? The guy who asked Jesus, “What must I do to inherit eternal life?” – a Zen master would have whacked him with his keisaku. Come to think of it, that’s what Jesus did too. The parables of Jesus – consider them short narrative keisakus.
I just saw an episode of the cheerlessly hilarious British comedy Fleabag in which Fleabag’s boyfriend Harry says to her, “Don’t make me hate you. Love is painful enough already.” And I thought: that’ll pray.
Does any preacher – or any writer – ever really know whether they are giving their audience pearls or poop? If they do, it’s undoubtedly the latter.
You can choose your friends but not your family – with the notable exception of your library.
Modernity: Obsessive Compulsive Disorder
Postmodernity: Narcissism and sociopathy
(From A Dummy’s Guide to Epochal Personality Disorders in Western Civilisation)
“My reaction to the instruction that all the dioceses in the C of E coin 3-word vision statements is identical to a modest proposal: ‘For Christ's Sake!’.” (Letter to the Church Times – needless to say, unpublished)
I have always thought that the fourth little piggy gets a raw deal, and more recently that perhaps s/he is a victim of domestic abuse, or a tragic example of free market scarcity economics. I mean, the third little piggy has roast beef while the fourth little piggy has none? Not on my watch as a grandpa! So as I wiggle her fourth digit and say “… and this little piggy had …”, my munchkin Delilah gleefully exclaims: “a pizza!” (Obviously not pepperoni.)
The only way to write good non-fiction, particularly academic stuff, is to reads lots of good fiction.
Dogs or cats? Fool! You espouse a zoological version of double predestination. In the new creation, dogs and cats will lie down together. The cat on top of the dog.
I am a universalist-minus-one. That is to say, if hell exists, it has a population of me.
On second thought, I’m inclined to think that everlasting torment also awaits all who edit, publish, or read abridgements of Moby-Dick. (Mercifully, I will be in solitary confinement.)
My big problem with the divine omniscience is that people who think they know everything are such dicks.
Marriage is the great cure of loneliness. And the great cause.
Don’t shoot the messenger – unless, of course, it’s a cold call. Then make sure it’s a head shot.
The best way to make good use of one’s time is to waste it.
On a good day I remind me of myself. At least I think I will.
Old age is like a motorway on which you’re driving along in the slow lane while time flashes by in the fast lane.
When will I stop writing? Possibly when I am dead.
The Big Joke is that when you finally figure out that there’s nothing to figure out, it’s always too late.
The Communion of Saints – aka the Grateful Dead.