We think the world is ours forever, but we are little more than squatters.
If our god's work is to be done in our time, we must do it ourselves.
This is every writer's nightmare - the sudden breakdown of meaning in the language that sustains and supports us.
The truth is, it's not a great career move to create a readership and then, in effect, abandon them.
There were reprints of American editorials. Liberals saw it as a resurgence of social protest and decried the discrimination, poverty, and hunger that had provoked it. Conservative columnists acidly pointed out that hungry people don't steal stereo systems first and called for a crackdown in law enforcement. All of the reasoned editorials sounded hollow in light of the perverse randomness of the event. It was as if only a thin wall of electric lighting protected the great cities of the world from total barbarism.
What, after all, is more real to us than the geography of our childhoods?
God is found in this Life. . . to wait for another is folly.
Wake up! If you knew for certain you had a terminal illness--if you had little time left to live--you would waste precious little of it! Well, I'm telling you. . . you do have a terminal illness: It's called birth. You don't have more than a few years left. No one does! So be happy now, without reason--or you will never be at all.
Writing's about getting up, getting well, and getting over. Getting happy, okay? Getting happy.
Plots are. . . what the writer sees with.
Justice and beauty are central to God's new world and should be central to our work. Together they frame the good news of Jesus.