I am deep in my willed habits. From the outside, I suppose I look like an unoccupied house with one unconvincing night-light left on. Any burglar could look through my curtains and conclude I am empty. But he would be mistaken. Under that one light unstirred by movement or shadows there is a man at work, and as long as I am at work I am not a candidate for Menlo Park, or that terminal facility they cynically call a convalescent hospital, or a pine box. My habits and the unchanging season sustain me. Evil is what questions and disrupts.
Spontaneities offer one kind of pleasure and taste of sanctity, repetitions another equally pleasurable and holy.
Tell It Slant: A Conversation on the Language of Jesus in His Stories and Prayers
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Spontaneities offer one kind of pleasure and taste of sanctity, repetitions another equally pleasurable and holy.
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