I Have Found That The Characters In

The Assumption Behind Any Theology That I've Ever Been Familiar With Is That There Is A Profound Beauty In Being, Simply In Itself. Poetry, At Least Traditionally, Has Been An Educing Of The Beauty Of Language, The Beauty Of Experience, The Beauty Of The Working Of The Mind, And So On. The Pastor Does, Indeed, Appreciate It.

I Hated Waiting. If I Had One Particular Complaint, It Was That My Life Seemed Composed Entirely Of Expectation. I Expected — An Arrival, An Explanation, An Apology. There Had Never Been One, A Fact I Could Have Accepted, Were It Not True That, Just When I Had Got Used To The Limits And Dimensions Of One Moment, I Was Expelled Into The Next And Made To Wonder Again If Any Shapes Hid In Its Shadows.

I’m Writing This In Part To Tell You That If You Ever Wonder What You’ve Done In Your Life, And Everyone Does Wonder Sooner Or Later, You Have Been God’s Grace To Me, A Miracle, Something More Than A Miracle. You May Not Remember Me Very Well At All, And It May Seem To You To Be No Great Thing To Have Been The Good Child Of An Old Man In A Shabby Little Town You Will No Doubt Leave Behind. If Only I Had The Words To Tell You.

. . . There Is An Absolute Disjunction Between Our Father's Love And Our Deserving.

To Recognize Our Bias Toward Error Should Teach Us Modesty And Reflection, And To Forgive It Should Help Us Avoid The Inhumanity Of Thinking We Ourselves Are Not As Fallible As Those Who, In Any Instance, Seem Most At Fault. Science Can Give Us Knowledge, But It Cannot Give Us Wisdom. Nor Can Religion, Until It Puts Aside Nonsense And Distraction And Becomes Itself Again.