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One of the most amazing and perplexing features of mainstream Christianity is that seminarians who learn the historical-critical method in their Bible classes appear to forget all about it when it comes time for them to be pastors. They are taught critical approaches to Scripture, they learn about the discrepancies and contradictions, they discover all sorts of historical errors and mistakes, they come to realize that it is difficult to know whether Moses existed or what Jesus actually said and did, they find that there are other books that were at one time considered canonical but that ultimately did not become part of Scripture (for example, other Gospels and Apocalypses), they come to recognize that a good number of the books of the Bible are pseudonymous (for example, written in the name of an apostle by someone else), that in fact we don't have the original copies of any of the biblical books but only copies made centuries later, all of which have been altered. They learn all of this, and yet when they enter church ministry they appear to put it back on the shelf. For reasons I will explore in the conclusion, pastors are, as a rule, reluctant to teach what they learned about the Bible in seminary. ↗
It rains And rains And rains. But there is a sky above the rain, Nothing can rot the sky. Earth has turned to mud. What of it? The heart of the planet is made of fire, of ardent sun. (from "A Rainy Day") ↗
#fire #rain #sun #poetry-quotes
Another power I don't have," said Lissa ruefully. I grinned. "Hey, I have yet to meet any spirit user who can throw a punch like you can. That was poetry in motion, Liss." She groaned. ↗
يا حزين يا قـُـمـقـُم تحت بحر الضياع حزين أنا زيـَّك و إيه مستطاع ؟! الحزن ما بقالهوش جلال يا جدع ! الحزن زي البرد ... زي الصداع عجبي !!!! ↗
There is such a thing as the poetry of a mistake, and when you say, "Mistakes were made," you deprive an action of its poetry, and you sound like a weasel. ↗
I will meet you on the nape of your neck one day, on the surface of intention, word becoming act. We will breathe into each other the high mountain tales, where the snows come from, where the waters begin.” -In the yellow time of pollen ↗
أنا الذي مشيت أدوَّر باشتياق و حنين ... على مصر ، و المشي خَدني من سنين لسنين لحد ما سنيـنهـا و سنـيني بـَقـُم واحد و عاصرتها يوم بــِـيـوم ، لم فاتني يوم واحد و حضرت شاهد عيان مَوْلـِد و موت ملايين ما زعلت من كلمة قـَدّ .....: " البـَركة في الجايين " ! مين هم دول يا جدع .. ما توحد الواحد ، البركة فينا و في السامعين بالواحد أنا قلتها بنرفزة ..، من غيرة الواحد على اسم مصر . ↗
