saints

loving your neighbor is all very fine when you have nice neighbors. this is why people choose the town they live in. we all want nice neighbors. It's the folks in the NEXT town who are the bad guys. You'd be amazed at how citified folks hate the people in the suburbs. not the suburbs, the people in them. but would they want us living next door? i ask you.

& joan of arc was noisy. she must have made a lousy neighbor. & jesus, giving everything away – & ghandi, a walking guilt trip. some people make nicer neighbors than others. but there you have it. city planning.

funny how essays on politics, on war & peace, seem to talk about love.

All of the places of our lives are sanctuaries; some of them just happen to have steeples. And all of the people in our lives are saints; it is just that some of them have day jobs and most will never have feast days named for them.

Saint George killed the last dragon, and he was called a hero for it. I've never seen a dragon, and I wish he would have left at least one. Saint Patrick made a name for himself by running the snakes out of Ireland, leaving the place vulnerable to rodent infestation. This business of making saints out of men who exterminate their fellow creatures has got to stop. All I'm saying is, it's starting to get a little lonely up here at the top of the food chain.

Seeking the ideal has a long history, it produces many saints but few paradigm changes.

I do not seek to follow in the footsteps of the men of old; I seek the things they sought.

The sword of reality is the saint's protection.

There are no perfect human beings! Persons can be found who are good, very good indeed, in fact, great. There do in fact exist creators, seers, sages, saints, shakers, and movers...even if they are uncommon and do not come by the dozen. And yet these very same people can at times be boring, irritating, petulant, selfish, angry, or depressed. To avoid disillusionment with human nature, we must first give up our illusions about it.

The And thus I clothe my naked villany With odd old ends stol'n forth of holy writ, And seem a saint when most I play the devil.

God moves in a mysterious way His wonders to perform; He plants his footsteps in the sea, And rides upon the storm. Deep in unfathomable mines Of never failing skill He treasures up his bright designs, And works his sovereign will. Ye fearful saints fresh courage take, The clouds ye so much dread Are big with mercy, and shall break In blessings on your head. Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, But trust him for his grace; Behind a frowning providence He hides a smiling face.

But what is Whiggery? A leveling, rancorous, rational sort of mind That never looked out of the eye of a saint Or out of a drunkard's eye.