Love

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

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• From The Selected Works of Audre Lorde

  Frances, Beth and Jonathan, Helen, Blanche and Clare, our loving circle. I hold now to what I know and have always known in my heart ever since I first knew what loving was—that when it truly exists it is the most potent and lasting force in life, even if certainly not the fastest. But without it nothing else is worth a damn. After Frances went back to the hotel I washed my hair (wishing I had some white flowers to put in the water for a blessing), listened to Bob Marley, and went to bed. January 1, 1986 Arlesheim Today Frances and I hiked to the top of a mountain to see the Dornach ruins, and the whole Rhine valley spread out beneath us. It felt so good to be moving my body again. My mother always used to say that whatever you do on New Year’s Day you will do all year round, and I’d certainly like to believe that’s true. It was very cold and sunny and bright, three miles up and back. The ruins rang with that historical echo and the presence of trials labored and past, although not as profoundly as the stones of El Morro in Cuba, and certainly not as desperately as the walls of Elmina Castle in Ghana, from whence so many Black women and children and men were sent to hell—slavery. February 20, 1986 Anguilla, British West Indies I am here seeking sun on my bones. A dry little island with outlandishly beautiful beaches, and soft-voiced West Indian people living their lives by the sea. Anguilla’s primary source of income is from import duties, second comes fishing. I go out at dawn to see the fishermen put out from Crocus Bay, and when they return they sometimes give Gloria and me fish. An intricate network of ownership and shares governs the dividing up of each catch. Fossilized sand dollars wash out of the sand banks onto the beaches of Anguilla and out of the claystone bluffs that grade downward toward the beach. I spend hours wandering the beaches and searching for them, or collecting shells that I rinse at the water’s green edge. I would never have known about this island except for Gloria. Anguilla feels like a piece of home, a very healing, restful place, but with the rich essences of life. The sun and the sea here are helping me save my life. They are a far softer cry from the East River, Spuyten Duyvil, and the lower New York Bay.

• From Barclay's Guide to the New Testament (2008)

  But there is something essential here. To say that Jesus is from the beginning and that he is the Son of God is to preserve his connection with eternity; to say that he is the Messiah is to preserve his connection with history. It is to see his coming as the event towards which God's plan, working itself out in his chosen people, was moving. (4) Jesus was most truly and fully human. To deny that Jesus came in the flesh is to be moved by the spirit of antichrist (4:2-3). It is John's witness that Jesus was so truly human that he himself had known and touched him with his own hands (t:1-3). No writer in the New Testament holds with greater intensity the full reality of the incarnation. Not only did Jesus become a man, he also suffered for men and women. It was by water and blood that he came (5:6); and he laid down his life for us (3:16). (5) The coming of Jesus, his incarnation, his life, his death, his resurrection and his ascension all combine to deal with human sin. Jesus was without sin (3:5); and human beings are essentially sinners, even though in our arrogance we may claim to be without sin (r:8-ro); and yet the sinless one came to take away the sin of sinning humanity (3:5). In regard to our sin, Jesus is two things. (a) He is our advocate with the Father (2:1). The word is parakletos. A parakletos is someone who is called in to help. The word could be used of a physician; it was often used of a witness called in to give evidence in favour of someone on trial, or of a defending lawyer called in to defend someone accused of an offence. Jesus pleads our case with God; he, the sinless one, is the defender of sinning men and women. (b) But Jesus is more than that. Twice, John calls him the expiation for our sins (2:2, 4:10). When we sin, the relationship which should exist between us and God is broken. An expiatory sacrifice is one which restores that relationship; or, rather, it is a sacrifice through which that relationship is restored. It is an atoning sacrifice, a sacrifice which once again puts us at one with God. So, through what Jesus was and did, the relationship between God and all people, broken by sin, is restored. Jesus does not only plead the case of sinners; he sets them at one with God. The blood of Jesus Christ cleanses us from all sin (1:7). (6) As a result of all this, through Jesus Christ, all who believe have life (4:9, 5:11-12). This is true in a double sense. Believers have life in the sense that they are saved from death; and they have life in the sense that living has ceased to be mere existence and has become life in its fullest sense.

• From Saint Thomas Aquinas Collection (22 Books) (2016)

  On the other hand, the wicked have no wish to be preserved in the integrity of the inward man, nor do they desire spiritual goods for him, nor do they work for that end, nor do they take pleasure in their own company by entering into their own hearts, because whatever they find there, present, past and future, is evil and horrible; nor do they agree with themselves, on account of the gnawings of conscience, according to Ps. 49:21: “I will reprove thee and set before thy face.” In the same manner it may be shown that the wicked love themselves, as regards the corruption of the outward man, whereas the good do not love themselves thus. Reply to Objection 1: The love of self which is the principle of sin is that which is proper to the wicked, and reaches “to the contempt of God,” as stated in the passage quoted, because the wicked so desire external goods as to despise spiritual goods. Reply to Objection 2: Although natural love is not altogether forfeited by wicked men, yet it is perverted in them, as explained above. Reply to Objection 3: The wicked have some share of self-love, in so far as they think themselves good. Yet such love of self is not true but apparent: and even this is not possible in those who are very wicked. Whether charity requires that we should love our enemies?Objection 1: It would seem that charity does not require us to love our enemies. For Augustine says (Enchiridion lxxiii) that “this great good,” namely, the love of our enemies, is “not so universal in its application, as the object of our petition when we say: Forgive us our trespasses.” Now no one is forgiven sin without he have charity, because, according to Prov. 10:12, “charity covereth all sins.” Therefore charity does not require that we should love our enemies. Objection 2: Further, charity does not do away with nature. Now everything, even an irrational being, naturally hates its contrary, as a lamb hates a wolf, and water fire. Therefore charity does not make us love our enemies. Objection 3: Further, charity “doth nothing perversely” (1 Cor. 13:4). Now it seems perverse to love one’s enemies, as it would be to hate one’s friends: hence Joab upbraided David by saying (2 Kings 19:6): “Thou lovest them that hate thee, and thou hatest them that love thee.” Therefore charity does not make us love our enemies. On the contrary, Our Lord said (Mat. 4:44): “Love your enemies.” I answer that, Love of one’s enemies may be understood in three ways. First, as though we were to love our enemies as such: this is perverse, and contrary to charity, since it implies love of that which is evil in another.

• From I'm Not a Mourning Person (2023)

  And when it comes to healing, there’s a bigger picture at play. Humans are interconnected beings, different but bound by our shared experience of being alive. As such, our healing can have a ripple effect on others, too. As we forgive, and unlock and release our pain, we create an opening for others to do the same. But it doesn’t stop there. Our healing even has the power to contribute to the healing of ancestral wounds carried down the genetic line. Yet another reason this work is so important. Grief cracks you open and teaches you priceless, heartexpanding, and healing lessons, too. It certainly has done that for me. It can be used as a catalyst to take inventory of your life, figure out what matters most versus what you can let go of, and allow you to reset, breathing into the next phase of brave, courageous, and utterly unique you. YOU ARE NOT ALONE Since the onset of the pandemic, the grief, shock, depression, and trauma of the last few years have been astounding. For many of us, this disorientation has prompted some deep soul-searching. Everywhere people are reassessing their values and priorities as a result of losses that will affect us for generations to come. Because of what we’ve all been through, we may be more likely to consider the person we walk by in the grocery store, who, like us, might be quietly carrying the burden of their own pain. Loss is the one thing we all have in common. We’ll get dumped or do the dumping, we’ll quit or get fired, we’ll lose our connection to self and wonder why we’re here in the first place, and we’ll get sick and better and sick again. Our hearts will shatter and swell with fullness. And our resilience is the only thing that allows us to be brave enough to continue loving. Our mere existence requires us to strengthen our heart muscle through the back-and-forth of love and loss—two experiences that may feel like polar opposites but are actually two sides of the same coin. You can’t have one without the other. The kind of love I’m talking about here is messy and honest. It guides us when we have the courage to follow it. It asks us to do very beautiful and difficult things, like stand up for someone else, or ourselves, or choose what feels right instead of what looks good. The fierceness of this love invites us to heal old wounds that keep playing out in our day-to-day lives. And most of all, it reminds us that mortality is its price of admission. This kind of love never dies, even when chapters in our lives close or relationships end. Now, if someone had said this stuff to me before my dad died, I might have wanted to believe it, while also thinking, Suuuure. So, if you’re having a similar response, I get it.

• From I'm Not a Mourning Person (2023)

  I wanted Dad to feel every ounce of my love until his last breath. So for better or worse, I had to try to accept what was happening—even though I didn’t want to and wasn’t ready for it. Fighting reality, which includes pain, was only causing more suffering (which is hard to see when you’re in the vortex of loss). Surrendering to reality was clearly the way forward, but to do so I had to remember the medicine inherent in that action. Many of us equate surrender or acceptance with quitting or giving up, but I’ve come to learn that through the power of surrender we’re able to lay down the stress, anxiety, and heavy burdens that keep us running in the opposite direction of love. In the end, Dad didn’t just make peace with death, he made peace with himself, and in the process, he showed me a majestic picture window of what’s possible in my own life. Death and mortality will do that—reveal a hidden guide for life and healing. No matter how ferocious life can be, there’s always a way back home to ourselves, the safe place where we can find peace and be calmed by the presence of love. This may sound weird, but the more Dad did this work on himself, the more he started to literally shine. It wasn’t just the natural changes in the pallor of his skin as he got closer to the end; it was that he was filled with light, emanating a radiance that truly felt otherworldly. If we were strangers at a bar, I might have seen his glow and said to the bartender: “I’ll have whatever that guy’s having.” But we were not strangers. He was, in so many ways, my person. TOM SELLECK MUSTACHE While Dad wasn’t my biological father, he was my rock, and I was his “sweet pea.” Essential to our father-daughter bond was this simple fact: we chose each other. I met him when I was nine years old, at my maternal grandfather’s funeral. My mother and I were walking toward the front of the church when this tall man with a slightly receding hairline stood up and gave her a kiss on the cheek. My mother blushed. She was smitten, clearly. Which made hypervigilant me very suspicious. Who the heck is this dude? I thought. Up until then, it had always been me, my mom, and my grandma. Three generations of fiery women, all under one broken roof. I fancied myself the top dog in the family, so while the rest of the people sang hymns and mourned my dear grandpa’s passing, I gave Ken my best stink eye. He didn’t even blink. Apparently, I wasn’t as scary as I’d hoped. In fact, the more I cast darts his way, the more he struggled to contain a smile.

• From Saint Thomas Aquinas Collection (22 Books) (2016)

  Objection 3: Further, a man imperils that which he loves less for the sake of what he loves more. Now every man is not bound to imperil his own body for his neighbor’s safety: this belongs to the perfect, according to Jn. 15:13: “Greater love than this no man hath, that a man lay down his life for his friends.” Therefore a man is not bound, out of charity, to love his neighbor more than his own body. On the contrary, Augustine says (De Doctr. Christ. i, 27) that “we ought to love our neighbor more than our own body.” I answer that, Out of charity we ought to love more that which has more fully the reason for being loved out of charity, as stated above [2558](A[2]; Q[25], A[12]). Now fellowship in the full participation of happiness which is the reason for loving one’s neighbor, is a greater reason for loving, than the participation of happiness by way of overflow, which is the reason for loving one’s own body. Therefore, as regards the welfare of the soul we ought to love our neighbor more than our own body. Reply to Objection 1: According to the Philosopher (Ethic. ix, 8) a thing seems to be that which is predominant in it: so that when we say that we ought to love our neighbor more than our own body, this refers to his soul, which is his predominant part. Reply to Objection 2: Our body is nearer to our soul than our neighbor, as regards the constitution of our own nature: but as regards the participation of happiness, our neighbor’s soul is more closely associated with our own soul, than even our own body is. Reply to Objection 3: Every man is immediately concerned with the care of his own body, but not with his neighbor’s welfare, except perhaps in cases of urgency: wherefore charity does not necessarily require a man to imperil his own body for his neighbor’s welfare, except in a case where he is under obligation to do so and if a man of his own accord offer himself for that purpose, this belongs to the perfection of charity. Whether we ought to love one neighbor more than another?Objection 1: It would seem that we ought not to love one neighbor more than another. For Augustine says (De Doctr. Christ. i, 28): “One ought to love all men equally. Since, however, one cannot do good to all, we ought to consider those chiefly who by reason of place, time or any other circumstance, by a kind of chance, are more closely united to us.” Therefore one neighbor ought not to be loved more than another.

• From Saint Thomas Aquinas Collection (22 Books) (2016)

  Reply to Objection 1: A thing is a cause of love in two ways: first, as being the reason for loving. In this way good is the cause of love, since each thing is loved according to its measure of goodness. Secondly, a thing causes love, as being a way to acquire love. It is in this way that seeing is the cause of loving, not as though a thing were lovable according as it is visible, but because by seeing a thing we are led to love it. Hence it does not follow that what is more visible is more lovable, but that as an object of love we meet with it before others: and that is the sense of the Apostle’s argument. For, since our neighbor is more visible to us, he is the first lovable object we meet with, because “the soul learns, from those things it knows, to love what it knows not,” as Gregory says in a homily (In Evang. xi). Hence it can be argued that, if any man loves not his neighbor, neither does he love God, not because his neighbor is more lovable, but because he is the first thing to demand our love: and God is more lovable by reason of His greater goodness. Reply to Objection 2: The likeness we have to God precedes and causes the likeness we have to our neighbor: because from the very fact that we share along with our neighbor in something received from God, we become like to our neighbor. Hence by reason of this likeness we ought to love God more than we love our neighbor. Reply to Objection 3: Considered in His substance, God is equally in all, in whomsoever He may be, for He is not lessened by being in anything. And yet our neighbor does not possess God’s goodness equally with God, for God has it essentially, and our neighbor by participation. Whether out of charity, man is bound to love God more than himself?Objection 1: It would seem that man is not bound, out of charity, to love God more than himself. For the Philosopher says (Ethic. ix, 8) that “a man’s friendly relations with others arise from his friendly relations with himself.” Now the cause is stronger than its effect. Therefore man’s friendship towards himself is greater than his friendship for anyone else. Therefore he ought to love himself more than God. Objection 2: Further, one loves a thing in so far as it is one’s own good. Now the reason for loving a thing is more loved than the thing itself which is loved for that reason, even as the principles which are the reason for knowing a thing are more known. Therefore man loves himself more than any other good loved by him. Therefore he does not love God more than himself.

• From Barclay's Guide to the New Testament (2008)

  These were their catchphrases. They had no intention of destroying the Church and the faith; by their way of thinking, they were going to cleanse the Church of dead wood and make Christianity an intellectually respectable philosophy, fit to stand beside the great systems of the day. But the effect of their teaching was to deny the incarnation, to eliminate the Christian ethic and to make fellowship within the Church impossible. It is little wonder that John seeks, with such fervent pastoral devotion, to defend the churches he loved from such an insidious attack from within. This was a threat far more perilous than any persecution from outside; the very existence of the Christian faith was at stake. The Message of John The First Letter of John is a short letter, and we cannot look within it for a systematic exposition of the Christian faith. Nonetheless, it will be of the greatest interest to examine the basic underlying beliefs with which John confronts those threatening to wreck the Christian faith. The Object of Writing John's object in writing is twofold; yet the two aspects are one and the same. He writes that the joy of his people may be completed (1:4), and that they may not sin (2:1). He sees clearly that, however attractive the wrong way may be, it is not in its nature to bring happiness. To bring his people joy and to preserve them from sin are one and the same thing. The Idea of God John has two great things to say about God. God is light, and in him there is no darkness at all (r:5). God is love, and that made him love us before we loved him, and made him send his Son as a remedy for our sins (4:7-To, i6). John's conviction is that God is self-revealing and self-giving. He is light, and not darkness; he is love, and not hate. The Idea of Jesus Because the main attack of the false teachers was on the person of Christ, this letter, which is concerned to answer them, is specially rich and helpful in what it has to say about him. (i) Jesus is the one who was from the beginning (i : i, 2:14). When we are confronted with Jesus, we are confronted with the eternal. (2) Another way of putting this is to say that Jesus is the Son of God, and for John it is essential to be convinced of that (4:15, 5:5). The relationship of Jesus to God is unique, and in him is seen God's ever-seeking and ever-forgiving heart. (3) Jesus is the Christ, the Messiah (2:22, 5:1). That again, for him, is an essential article of belief. It may seem that here we come into a region of ideas which is much narrower and, in fact, specifically Jewish.

• From Barclay's Guide to the New Testament (2008)

  In the congregation, he saw a tall and exceptionally fine-looking young man. He turned to the elder in charge of the congregation and said to him: `I commit that young man into your charge and into your care, and I call this congregation to witness that I do so.' The elder took the young man into his own house and cared for him and instructed him, and the day came when he was baptized and received into the Church. But very soon afterwards, he fell in with evil friends and embarked on such a career of crime that he ended up by becoming the leader of a band of murdering and pillaging brigands. Some time afterwards, John returned to the congregation. He said to the elder: `Restore to me the trust which I and the Lord committed to you and to the church of which you are in charge.' At first the elder did not understand of what John was speaking. `I mean', said John, `that I am asking you for the soul of the young man whom I entrusted to you.' `Alas!' said the elder, `he is dead.' `Dead?' said John. `He is dead to God,' said the elder. `He fell from grace; he was forced to flee from the city for his crimes and now he is a bandit in the mountains.' Immediately John went to the mountains. Deliberately he allowed himself to be captured by the robber band. They brought him before the young man, who was now the chief of the band; and, in his shame, the young man tried to run away from him. John, though an old man, pursued him. `My son,' he cried, `are you running away from your father? I am feeble and far advanced in age; have pity on me, my son; fear not; there is yet hope of salvation for you. I will stand for you before the Lord Christ. If need be, I will gladly die for you as he died for me. Stop, stay, believe! It is Christ who has sent me to you.' The appeal broke the heart of the young man. He stopped, threw away his weapons, and wept. Together he and John came down the mountainside and he was brought back into the Church and into the Christian way. There we see the love and the courage of John still in operation.

• From Another Country (1962)

  He associated the act with the humiliation and the debasement of one male by another, the inferior male of less importance than the crumpled, cast-off handkerchief; but he did not feel this way toward Eric; and therefore he did not know what he felt. This tormented self-consciousness caused Vivaldo to fear that their moment might, after all, come to nothing. He did not want this to happen, he knew his need to be too great, and they had come too far, and Eric had risked too much. He was afraid of what might happen if they failed. Yet, his lust remained, and rose, chafing within and battering against the labyrinth of his bewilderment; his lust was unaccustomedly arrogant and cruel and irresponsible, and yet there was mingled in it a deep and incomprehensible tenderness: he did not want to cause Eric pain. The physical pain he had sometimes brought to vanished, phantom girls had been necessary for them, he had been unlocking, for them, the door to life; but he was now involved in another mystery, at once blacker and more pure. He tried to will himself back into his adolescence, grasping Eric’s strange body and stroking that strange sex. At the same time, he tried to think of a woman. (But he did not want to think of Ida.) And they lay together in this antique attitude, the hand of each on the sex of the other, and with their limbs entangled, and Eric’s breath trembling against Vivaldo’s chest. This childish and trustful tremor returned to Vivaldo a sense of his own power. He held Eric very tightly and covered Eric’s body with his own, as though he were shielding him from the falling heavens. But it was also as though he were, at the same instant, being shielded—by Eric’s love. It was strangely and insistently double-edged, it was like making love in the midst of mirrors, or it was like death by drowning. But it was also like music, the highest, sweetest, loneliest reeds, and it was like the rain. He kissed Eric again and again, wondering how they would finally come together. The male body was not mysterious, he had never thought about it at all, but it was the most impenetrable of mysteries now; and this wonder made him think of his own body, of its possibilities and its imminent and absolute decay, in a way that he had never thought of it before. Eric moved against him and beneath him, as thirsty as the sand. He wondered what moved in Eric’s body which drove him, like a bird or a leaf in a storm, against the wall of Vivaldo’s flesh; and he wondered what moved in his own body: what virtue were they seeking, now, to share? what was he doing here? This was as far removed as anything could be from the necessary war one underwent with women.

• From Another Country (1962)

  And Eric had waited, attentive and utterly chaste. The change in him was like the change in a spendthrift when his attention is captured by something worth more than all his gold, worth more than all the baubles he has ever purchased; then, instead of scattering, he begins to assess and hoard and gather up; all that he has becomes valuable because all that he has may prove to be an unacceptable sacrifice. So Eric waited, praying that this violated urchin would learn to love and trust him. And he knew that the only way he could hope to bring this about was to cease violating himself: if he did not love himself, then Yves would never be able to love him, either. So he did what he alone could do, purified, as well as he could, his house, and opened his doors; established a precarious order in the heart of his chaos; and waited for his guest. Yves shifted and sat up and lit a cigarette, then lit one for Eric. “I am beginning to be quite hungry.” “So am I. But we’ll be eating soon.” The kitten wandered in and leapt into Eric’s lap. He stroked it with one hand. “Do you remember how we met?” “I will never forget it. I owe a great deal to Beethoven.” Eric smiled. “And to the wonders of modern science.” He had been walking along the Rue des St. Pères on a spring evening, and his thoughts had not been pretty. Paris seemed, and had seemed for a long time, the loneliest city under heaven. And whoever prolongs his sojourn in that city—who tries, that is, to make a home there—is doomed to discover that there is no one to be blamed for whatever happens to him. Contrary to its legend, Paris does not offer many distractions; or, those distractions that it offers are like French pastry, vivid and insubstantial, sweet on the tongue and sour in the belly. Then the discontented wanderer is thrown back on himself—if his life is to become bearable, only he can make it so. And, on that spring evening, walking up the long, dark, murmuring street toward the Boulevard, Eric was in despair. He knew that he had a life to make, but he did not seem to have the tools.

• From Barclay's Guide to the New Testament (2008)

  The fourth-century Church historian Eusebius dismisses him as `a man of very limited intelligence'; but he does transmit to us some most interesting information. He became Bishop of Hierapolis, but he had a close connection with Ephesus, and he tells us of his own methods of acquiring information. He frequently uses elder in the sense of one of the fathers of the Church, and he mentions a particularly distinguished elder whose name was John. `I shall not hesitate', he writes, `to put down for you, along with my own interpretations, whatsoever things I have at any time learned carefully from the elders, and carefully remembered, guaranteeing their truth. For I did not, like the multitude, take pleasure in those that speak much, but in those that teach the truth; not in those who relate strange commandments, but in those who deliver the commandments given by the Lord to faith, and springing from the truth itself. If, then, anyone came who had been a follower of the elders, I questioned him in regard to the words of the elders - what Andrew, or what Peter, had said, or what was said by Philip, or by Thomas, or by James, or by John, or by Matthew, or by any other of the disciples of the Lord; and what things Aristion, or the Elder John say. For I did not think that what was to be learned from books would profit me as much as what came from the living and abiding voice.' Clearly, the Elder John, John who had reached a great age, was a notable figure in Ephesus, although he is clearly distinguished from John the apostle. It must be this John who wrote these two little letters. By this time, he was an old man, one of the last surviving links with Jesus and his disciples. He was a man who had the authority of a bishop in Ephesus and in the places around it; and, when he saw that a church was threatened with trouble and heresy, he wrote with gracious and loving correction to his people. Here are the letters of one of the last of the first generation of Christians, a man whom all loved and respected. Common Authorship That the two letters are from the one hand there is no doubt. Short as they are, they have a great deal in common. Second John begins: `The elder to the elect lady and her children, whom I love in the truth.' Third John begins: `The elder to the beloved Gaius, whom I love in truth.' Second John goes on: `I was overjoyed to find some of your children walking in the truth' (verse 4); and 3 John goes on: `I have no greater joy than this, to hear that my children are walking in the truth' (verse 4).

• From I'm Not a Mourning Person (2023)

  As Buddy’s disease progressed and he started to lose his ability to walk, we got him a wheelie cart (complete with trucker mud flaps), which he often flipped while chasing his little sister, Lola. When he stopped being able to relieve himself without assistance, we learned how to express his bladder and bowels. To say I’d be a good proctologist is an understatement. We didn’t think it was gross (OK, sometimes we thought it was really gross!), and neither did he. Right before each bowel expression, I’d sing, “Someone’s knocking on the door, let me in, let me in.” He’d dance, and I’d tickle a poop out. Sorry, I know this is really graphic, describing how I put my gloved finger in our dog’s ass to stimulate a bowel movement, but this is a chapter about the unsung kinds of love—yours and mine. The shitty, totally embodied side of love that isn’t always pretty, but is still very real. (And you thought my life was glamorous.) But we also looked for signs from Buddy. Was this the life he wanted to live? The shitty thing about DM is that animals who have it are still fully themselves, even as their bodies are dying. Even though he was bedbound, he continued to take his job as mayor of the porch very seriously. He was still full of life and love and possibility—but his body was failing, and his time was slowly coming to an end. We checked in with our vet, who reassured us that he didn’t think it was time yet. He also praised our efforts and reassured us that it was OK to let go if we couldn’t handle the care anymore. No, we told him, we could. Then one day, he was ready. Though we had some damn good times in those last months, Buddy started letting go. I watched as he retreated back to the internal cocoon-like state he was in when we first found him. His spark was replaced by anxiety and frustration. He had had enough. It was time. That afternoon we made a love fort out of pillows in the middle of the living room. We held Buddy close and told him how much we loved him. Right before he passed, with the help of our wonderful vet, he popped his head up and looked straight into my eyes. In that moment, I felt his immense love, gratitude, and full presence. Then he peacefully left his body. In the end, Buddy lived a year and a half longer than the vets expected, a year and a half of more love. He was a light when we grappled with our own big questions and made peace with our answers. Loving Buddy was some of the best loving I’ve had the opportunity to experience. He helped us create our unique pack. He reminded us to champion our sensitivity and let our personalities shine—at our own pace.

• From The Selected Works of Audre Lorde

  To not settle for the safety of pretended sameness and the false security that sameness seems to offer. To feel the consequences of who you wish to be, lest you bring nothing of lasting worth because you have withheld some piece of the essential, which is you. And make no mistake; you will be paid well not to feel, not to scrutinize the function of your differences and their meaning, until it will be too late to feel at all. You will be paid in insularity, in poisonous creature comforts, false securities, in the spurious belief that the midnight knock will always be upon somebody else’s door. But there is no separate survival. POETRY from The First Cities (1968) For Genevieve, Miriam, Clem, no more words For Marian, Neal, Ed, different ones. A Family Resemblance My sister has my hair my mouth my eyes And I presume her trustless. When she was young, and open to any fever Wearing gold like a veil of fortune on her face, She waited through each rain a dream of light. But the sun came up Burning our eyes like crystal Bleaching the sky of promise and My sister stood Black, unblessed and unbelieving Shivering in the first cold show of love. I saw her gold become an arch Where nightmare hunted Down the porches Of her restless nights. Now through the echoes of denial She walks a bleached side of reason Secret now My sister never waits, Nor mourns the gold that wandered from her bed. My sister has my tongue And all my flesh unanswered And I presume her trustless as a stone. Coal I Is the total black, being spoken From the earth’s inside. There are many kinds of open. How a diamond comes into a knot of flame How a sound comes into a word, coloured By who pays what for speaking. Some words are open Like a diamond on glass windows Singing out within the crash of passing sun Then there are words like stapled wagers In a perforated book—buy and sign and tear apart— And come whatever wills all chances The stub remains An ill-pulled tooth with a ragged edge. Some words live in my throat Breeding like adders. Others know sun Seeking like gypsies over my tongue To explode through my lips Like young sparrows bursting from shell. Some words Bedevil me. Love is a word another kind of open— As a diamond comes into a knot of flame I am black because I come from the earth’s inside Take my word for jewel in your open light.

• From Barclay's Guide to the New Testament (2008)

  (d) He quite often gives us the very Aramaic words which Jesus used. To Jairus' daughter, Jesus said, `Talitha cumi' (5:41)• To the deaf man with the impediment in his speech, he said, `Ephphatha' (7:34). The dedicated gift is `Corban' ('7:11). In the garden, he says, `Abba, Father' (14:36). On the cross, he cries, `Eloi, Eloi, lema sabachthani?' (15:34). There were times when Peter could hear again the very sound of Jesus' voice and could not help passing it on to Mark in the very words that Jesus spoke. The Essential Gospel It would not be unfair to call Mark the essential gospel. We will do well to study with loving care the earliest gospel we possess, the gospel where we hear again the preaching of Peter himself. 3 Luke The Universal Gospel A Lovely Book and its Author The Gospel according to St Luke has been called the loveliest book in the world. When once an American asked him if he could recommend a good life of Christ, the theologian James Denney answered, `Have you tried the one that Luke wrote?' There is a legend that Luke was a skilled painter; there is even a painting of Mary in a Spanish cathedral to this day which purports to be by him. Certainly he had an eye for vivid things. It would not be far wrong to say that the third gospel is the best life of Christ ever written. Tradition has always believed that Luke was the author and we need have no qualms in accepting that tradition. In the ancient world it was the regular thing to attach books to famous names; no one thought it wrong. But Luke was never one of the famous figures of the early Church. If he had not written the gospel no one would have attached it to his name. Luke was a Gentile; and he has the unique distinction of being the only New Testament writer who was not a Jew. He was a medical man, a doctor by profession (Colossians 4:14), and maybe that very fact gave him the wide sympathy he possessed. It has been said that a minister sees men and women at their best; a lawyer sees them at their worst; and a doctor sees them as they are. Luke saw men and women and loved them all. The book was written to a man called Theophilus. He is called most excellent Theophilus and the title given him is the normal title for a high official in the Roman government.

• From Barclay's Guide to the New Testament (2008)

  It is to know that the important thing is not what we can do for God but what he has done for us. For Paul, the centre of the Christian faith was that we can never earn or deserve the favour of God, nor do we need to. The whole matter is one of grace, and all that we can do is to accept in wondering love and gratitude and trust what God has done for us. That does not free us, however, from obligations or entitle us to do as we like; it means that we must forever try to be worthy of the love which does so much for us. But we are no longer trying to fulfil the demands of stern and austere and condemnatory law; we are no longer like criminals before a judge; we are men and women who give and receive love and who have given all life in love to the one who first loved us. (2) The problem of the Jews was a torturing one. In a real sense, they were God's chosen people; and yet, when his Son had come into the world, they had rejected him. What possible explanation could there be for this heartbreaking fact? The only explanation that Paul could find was that, in the end, it was all God's doing. Somehow the hearts of the Jews had been hardened; but it was not all failure, for there had always been a faithful remnant. Nor was it for nothing, for the very fact that the Jews had rejected Christ opened the door to the Gentiles. Nor was it the end of the matter, for in the end the Gentiles would bring in the Jews and all would be saved. Paul goes further. Every Jew had always claimed to be a member of the chosen people by virtue of being Jewish by birth. It was solely a matter of pure racial descent from Abraham. But Paul insists that the real Jew is not someone whose flesh-and-blood descent can be traced to Abraham but someone who has made the same decision of complete submission to God in loving faith that Abraham made. Therefore, Paul argues, there are many pure-blooded Jews who are not Jews in the real sense of the term at all; and there are many people of other nations who are really Jews in the true meaning of that word. The new Israel was not dependent on race at all; it was composed of those who had the same faith as Abraham had had. (3) Chapter 12 of Romans is so great an ethical statement that it must always be set alongside the Sermon on the Mount. In it, Paul lays down the ethical character of the Christian faith.

• From The Selected Works of Audre Lorde

  When Blanche had her mastectomy last year, it was the first time that I had to face, in a woman I loved, feelings and fears I had faced within my own self, but never dealt with externally. Now I had to speak to these feelings in some way that was meaningful and urgent in the name of my love. Somehow I had known for the past eight years that someday it would be this way, that personal salvation of whatever kind is never just personal. I talked with Blanchie today over the phone about this feeling I have that I must rally everything I know, made alive and immediate with the fire of what is. I have always been haunted by the fear of not being able to reach the women I am closest to, of not being able to make available to the women I love most dearly what I can make available to so many others. The women in my family, my closest friends. If what I know to be true cannot be of use to them, can it ever have been said to be true at all? On the other hand, that lays a terrible burden on all of us concerned, doesn’t it? It is a matter of learning languages, or of learning to use them with precision to do what needs to be done with them, and it is the Blanchie in myself to whom I need to speak with such urgency. It’s one of the great things friends are for each other when you’ve been very close for a long time. And of course cancer is political—look at how many of our comrades have died of it during the last ten years! As warriors, our job is to actively and consciously survive it for as long as possible, remembering that in order to win, the aggressor must conquer, but the resisters need only survive. Our battle is to define survival in ways that are acceptable and nourishing to us, meaning with substance and style. Substance. Our work. Style. True to our selves. What would it be like to be living in a place where the pursuit of definition within this crucial part of our lives was not circumscribed and fractionalized by the economics of disease in america? Here the first consideration concerning cancer is not what does this mean in my living, but how much is this going to cost? April 22, 1986 St. Croix I got a letter from Ellen Kuzwayo this morning. Her sister in Botswana has died. I wish I were in Soweto to put my arms around her and rest her head on my shoulder. She sounds so strong and sanguine in her unshakable faith, yet so much alone.

• From The Selected Works of Audre Lorde

  News reminding us we are still at war and not with each other “give us 22 minutes and we will give you the world . . .” and still we dare to say we are committed sometimes without relish. Ten blocks down the street a cross is burning we are a Black woman and a white woman with two Black children you talk with our next-door neighbors I register for a shotgun we secure the tender perennials against an early frost reconstructing a future we fuel from our livingdifferent precisions In the next room a canvas chair whispers beneath your weight a breath of you between laundered towels the flinty places that do not give. V Your face upon my shoulder a crescent of freckle over bone what we shareilluminates what we do not the rest is a burden of history we challenge bearing each bitter piece to the light we hone ourselves upon each other’s courage loving as we cross the mined bridgefury tuned like a Geiger counter to the softest place. One straight light hair on the washbasin’s rim difference intimate as a borrowed scarf the children arrogant as mirrors our pillows’ mingled scent this grain of our particular days keeps a fine sharp edge to which I cling like a banner in a choice of winds seeking an emotional language in which to abbreviate time. I trace the curve of your jaw with a lover’s finger knowing the hardest battle is only the first how to do what we need for our living with honor and in love we have chosen each other and the edge of each other’s battles the war is the same if we lose someday women’s blood will congeal upon a dead planet if we win there is no telling. Equal Opportunity The american deputy assistant secretary of defense for Equal Opportunity and safety is a home girl. Blindness slashes our tapestry to shreds. The moss-green military tailoring sets off her color beautifully she says “when I stand up to speak in uniform you can believe everyone takes notice!”

• From The Selected Works of Audre Lorde

  And Frances. Martha I am in love again. Listen, Frances, I said on the Solstice our summer has started. Today we are witches and with enough energy to move mountains back. Think of Martha. Back in my hideous city I saw you today. Your hair has grown and your armpits are scented by some careful attendant. Your Testing testing testing explosive syllables warning me Of The mountain has fallen into dung— no Martha remember remember Martha— Warning Dead flowers will not come to your bed again. The sun has started south our season is over. Today you opened your eyes, giving a blue-filmed history to your mangled words. They help me understand how you are teaching yourself to learn again. I need you need me le suis Martha I do not speak french kissing oh Wow, Black and Black . . . Black and . . . beautiful? Black and becoming somebody else maybe Erica maybe who sat in the fourth row behind us in high school but I never took French with you Martha and who is this Madame Erudite who is not me? I find you today in a womb full of patients blue-robed in various convalescences. Your eyes are closed you are propped Into a wheelchair, cornered, in a parody of resting. The bright glue of tragedy plasters all eyes to a television set in the opposite corner where a man is dying step by step in the american ritual going. Someone has covered you for this first public appearance in a hospital gown, a badge of your next step. Evocative voices flow from the set and the horror is thick in this room full of broken and mending receptions. But no one has told you what it’s all about Martha someone has shot Robert Kennedy we are drifting closer to what you predicted and your darkness is indeed speaking Robert Kennedy is dying Martha but not you not you not you he has a bullet in his brain Martha surgery was never considered for you since there was no place to start and no one intended to run you down on a highway being driven home at 7.30 on a low summer evening I gave a reading in Harlem that night and who shall we try for this shaven head now in the courts of heart Martha where his murder is televised over and over with residuals they have caught the man who shot Robert Kennedy who was another one of difficult journeys— he has a bullet in his brain Martha and much less of a chance than you.

• From The Selected Works of Audre Lorde

  as moon fires set in my throat I love you flesh into blossom I made you and take you made into me. Artisan In workshops without light we have made birds that do not sing kites that shine but cannot fly with the speed by which light falls in the throat of delicate working fire I thought I had discovered a survival kit buried in the moon’s heart flat and resilient as turtles a case of tortoise shell hung in the mouth of darkness precise unlikely markings carved into the carapace sweet meat beneath. I did not recognize the shape of my own name. Our bed spread is a midnight flower coming all the way down to the floor there your craft shows. Contact Lenses Lacking what they want to see makes my eyes hungry and eyes can feel only pain. Once I lived behind thick walls of glass and my eyes belonged to a different ethic timidly rubbing the edges of whatever turned them on. Seeing usually was a matter of what was in front of my eyes matching what was behind my brain. Now my eyes have become a part of me exposed quick risky and open to all the same dangers. I see much better now and my eyes hurt. But What Can You Teach My Daughter What do you mean no no no no you don’t have the right to know how often have we built each other as shelters against the cold and even my daughter knows what you know can hurt you she says her nos and it hurts she says when she talks of liberation she means freedom from that pain she knows what you know can hurt but what you do not know can kill. From Inside an Empty Purse Money cannot buy you what you want standing flatfooted and lying like a grounded chestnut unlovable and suspect I am trying to reach you on whatever levels you flow from treacherous growing water in a blind tongueless pond. I am the thread of your woman’s cloth the sexy prison that protects you deep and unspoken flesh around your freedom I am your enemy’s face. The money doesn’t matter so much as the lie telling you don’t know why in a dream I am trying to reach you before you fall in to me. A Small Slaughter Day breaks without thanks or caution past a night without satisfaction or pain. My words are blind children I have armed against the casual insolence of morning without you I am scarred and marketed like a streetcorner in Harlem a woman whose face in the tiles your feet have not yet regarded I am the stream past which you will never step the woman you can not deal with I am the mouth of your scorn. Sister Outsider We were born in a poor time never touching each other’s hunger never sharing our crusts in fear the bread became enemy. Now we raise our children