I wanted to win, even in practice.
The Spirit is the reason we can build a church and have confidence that we will get it at least a little bit right.
Some days I am not sure if my faith is riddled with doubt, or whether, graciously, my doubt is riddled with faith. And yet I continue to live in a world the way a religious person lives in the world; I keep living in a world that I know to be enchanted, and not left alone. I doubt; I am uncertain; I am restless, prone to wander. And yet glimmers of holy keep interrupting my gaze.
God is a novelist. He uses all sorts of literary devices: alliteration, assonance, rhyme, synecdoche, onomatopoeia. But of all of these, His favorite is foreshadowing. And that is what God was doing at the Cloisters and with Eudora Welty. He was foreshadowing. He was laying traps, leaving clues, clues I could have seen had I been perceptive enough.
I doubt; I am uncertain; I am restless, prone to wander. And yet glimmers of holy keep interrupting my gaze.
I am not a saint. I am, however, beginning to learn that I am a small character in a story that is always fundamentally about God.
Sometimes, as in a great novel, you cannot see until you get to the end that God was leaving clues for you all along.
I still think as a painter - especially in terms of structuring a picture. . . I carefully choose the models, costumes, requisites, and backdrops of my photographs.
I really respond to diversity, a broader landscape, with actors of different ages and races and backgrounds.
There is no talent so ardently supported, nor generously rewarded, as the ability to convince parasites they are victims.
He whose pride oppresses the humble may perhaps be humbled, but will never be humble.