Tenderness

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 Cults Inside Out: How People Get In and Can Get Out (2014)

  It isn’t wrong for a family or concerned friends to feel that personal considerations outweigh the need for public education and greater awareness. But in some cultic situations, family and friends may feel they have nothing to lose. Anyone considering such action should first consult trusted professionals, such as a family physician or attorney. Making such a critical decision quickly or without additional input from a professional perspective is unwise and needlessly risky. Former Cult Members Families and friends of cult members often suffer in relative silence for years, waiting for a loved one to leave a destructive group. This can be a long, painful journey. Some cult members may eventually decide to walk away from their respective groups. Leaders may ask some to leave due to some infraction or simply because they are no longer seen as useful or are somehow seen as a liability. Sadly, this exit may take place after years of exploitation. Some cult refugees leave with little more than clothing and few personal effects despite years of devotion and personal sacrifices. Many cult members have experienced psychological, emotional, physical, and sexual abuse. Often cult members may also have lost relationships, been neglected, or ignored education or career opportunities. The problems of leaving a destructive cult are also compounded when children are involved. When dealing with former cult members, unconditional love must be expressed when at all possible. Never say, “I told you so” or act in a punitive, guilt-inducing manner. When someone leaves a cult, that exit isn’t the signal to begin attacking the group and its members. It’s important to understand that a cult experience isn’t usually completely negative. The member’s time in the group may have resulted in some positive changes and realizations. He or she may have ceased some self-destructive behavior or given up some form of substance abuse. It’s important to scrupulously avoid sweeping generalizations and judgmental statements about the group and his or her experience. Again, be a good listener and try to be as positive as possible. Remember, cult leaders may be deeply destructive, but the people who follow them are most often decent, well intentioned, and idealistic. Leaving a cult often means abruptly ending significant and close relationships, and that loss can be very difficult for the departing member. Don’t make the situation any more difficult than it already is.

• From The Letter to the Hebrews (The New Daily Study Bible) (2002)

  He awaits the final overcoming of his enemies; in the end, there must come a universe in which he is supreme. How that will come is not ours to know; but it may be that this final overcoming will consist not in the extinction of his enemies but in their submission to his love. It is not so much the power but the love of God which must conquer in the end. Finally, as is his habit, the writer to the Hebrews clinches his argument with a quotation from Scripture. Jeremiah, speaking of the new covenant which will not be imposed from outside but which will be written on the heart, ends: ‘I will ... remember their sin no more’ (Jeremiah 31:34). Because of Jesus, the barrier of sin is taken away forever. THE MEANING OF CHRIST FOR US Hebrews 10:19–25 Since then, brothers, in virtue of what the blood of Jesus has done for us, we can confidently enter into the Holy Place by the new and living way which Jesus inaugurated for us through the veil – that is, through his flesh – and, since we have a great high priest who is over the house of God, let us approach the presence of God with a heart wherein the truth dwells and with the full conviction of faith, with our hearts so sprinkled that they are cleansed from all consciousness of evil and with our bodies washed with pure water. Let us hold fast to the undeviating hope of our creed, for we can rely absolutely on him who made the promises; and let us put our minds to the task of spurring each other on in love and fine deeds. Let us not abandon our meeting together – as some habitually do – but let us encourage one another, and all the more so as we see the day approaching. THE writer to the Hebrews now comes to the practical implication of all that he has been saying. From theology, he turns to practical exhortation. He is one of the most profound theologians in the New Testament, but all his theology is governed by the pastoral instinct. He does not think merely for the thrill of intellectual satisfaction, but only that he may more forcibly appeal to men and women to enter into the presence of God. He begins by saying three things about Jesus. (1) Jesus is the living way to the presence of God. We enter into the presence of God by means of the veil, that is, by the flesh of Jesus. That is a difficult thought, but what he means is this. In front of the Holy of Holies in the tabernacle, there hung the veil to screen off the presence of God. For anyone to enter into that presence, the veil would have to be torn apart. Jesus’ flesh is what veiled his godhead.

• From Tropic of Cancer (1934)

  I know him, the innocent little devil, with his round, frightened eyes of a rabbit. And I know what a devil’s street is the Faubourg Montmartre with its brass plates and rubber goods, the lights twinkling all night and sex running through the street like a sewer. To walk from the Rue Lafayette to the boulevard is like running the gauntlet; they attach themselves to you like barnacles, they eat into you like ants, they coax, wheedle, cajole, implore, beseech, they try it out in German, English, Spanish, they show you their torn hearts and their busted shoes, and long after you’ve chopped the tentacles away, long after the fizz and sizzle has died out, the fragrance of the lavabo clings to your nostrils—it is the odor of the Parfum de Danse whose effectiveness is guaranteed only for a distance of twenty centimeters. One could piss away a whole lifetime in that little stretch between the boulevard and the Rue Lafayette. Every bar is alive, throbbing, the dice loaded; the cashiers are perched like vultures on their high stools and the money they handle has a human stink to it. There is no equivalent in the Banque de France for the blood money that passes currency here, the money that glistens with human sweat, that passes like a forest fire from hand to hand and leaves behind it a smoke and stench. A man who can walk through the Faubourg Montmartre at night without panting or sweating, without a prayer or a curse on his lips, a man like that has no balls, and if he has, then he ought to be castrated. Supposing the timid little rabbit does spend fifty francs of an evening while waiting for his Lucienne? Supposing he does get hungry and buy a sandwich and a glass of beer, or stop and chat with somebody else’s trollop? You think he ought to be weary of that round night after night? You think it ought to weigh on him, oppress him, bore him to death? You don’t think that a pimp is inhuman, I hope? A pimp has his private grief and misery too, don’t you forget. Perhaps he would like nothing better than to stand on the corner every night with a pair of white dogs and watch them piddle. Perhaps he would like it if, when he opened the door, he would see her there reading the Paris-Soir, her eyes already a little heavy with sleep. Perhaps it isn’t so wonderful, when he bends over his Lucienne, to taste another man’s breath.

• From The Letter to the Hebrews (The New Daily Study Bible) (2002)

  In short, Moses was the servant ; but Jesus was the Son . Moses knew a little about God; Jesus was God. Therein lies the secret of his superiority. Now, the writer to the Hebrews uses another picture. True, the whole world is God’s house; but in a special sense the Church is God’s house, for in a special sense God brought it into being. That is a picture the New Testament loves (cf. 1 Peter 4:17; 1 Timothy 3:15; and especially 1 Peter 2:5). That building of the Church will stand and be indestructible only when every stone is firm; that is to say, when every member is strong in the proud and confident hope that he or she has in Jesus Christ. Each one of us is like a stone in the Church; if one stone is weak, the whole structure is endangered. The Church stands firm only when each living stone in it is rooted and grounded in faith in Jesus Christ. WHILE TODAY STILL LASTS Hebrews 3:7–19 So then, as the Holy Spirit says, ‘If today you will hear my voice, do not harden your hearts, as in the Provocation, as happened on the day of the Temptation in the wilderness, where your fathers tried to test me, and, in consequence, experienced for forty years what I could do. So my anger was kindled against that generation, and I said: “Always they wander in their hearts; they do not know my ways.” So I swore in my anger: “Very certainly they shall not enter into my rest.”’ Have a care, brothers, lest that evil and disobedient heart be in any of you in a state of rebellion against the living God. But keep on exhorting each other day by day, so long as the term ‘today’ can be used, lest any among you be hardened in heart by the seductiveness of sin; for you have become participators in Christ, if indeed you hold fast the beginning of your confidence firm to the end. While it is still possible to hear it being said, ‘If today you will hear my voice,’ do not harden your hearts as at the Provocation. For who heard and provoked God? Was it not all who came forth from Egypt under the leadership of Moses? Against whom was God’s anger kindled for forty years? Was it not against those who had sinned and whose bones lay in the desert? To whom did he swear that they should not enter into his rest, if not to those who were disobedient? Thus we see that it was through disobedience that they could not enter in. T HE writer to the Hebrews has just been attempting to prove the unique supremacy of Jesus, and now he replaces argument with exhortation. He presses upon his hearers the inevitable consequence of this unique supremacy. If Jesus is so uniquely great, it follows that complete trust and complete obedience must be given to him.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  For that Christmas none save Mary might know of the bitterness that was in Stephen’s heart, least of all the impulsive, erratic Wanda. Wanda needed no second invitation to talk, and very soon her eyes were aglow with the fire of the born religious fanatic as she told of the little town in Poland, with its churches, its bells that were always chiming—the Mass bells beginning at early dawn, the Angelus bells, the Vesper bells—always calling, calling they were, said Wanda. Through the years of persecution and strife, of wars and the endless rumours of wars that had ravaged her most unhappy country, her people had clung to their ancient faith like true children of Mother Church, said Wanda. She herself had three brothers, and all of them priests; her parents had been very pious people, they were both dead now, had been dead for some years; and Wanda signed her breast with the Cross, having regard for the souls of her parents. Then she tried to explain the meaning of her faith, but this she did exceedingly badly, finding that words are not always easy when they must encompass the things of the spirit, the things that she herself knew by instinct; and then, too, these days her brain was not clear, thanks to brandy, even when she was quite sober. The details of her coming to Paris she omitted, but Stephen thought she could easily guess them, for Wanda declared with a curious pride that her brothers were men of stone and of iron. Saints they all were, according to Wanda, uncompromising, fierce and relentless, seeing only the straight and narrow path on each side of which yawned the fiery chasm. ‘I was not as they were, ah, no!’ she declared, ‘Nor was I as my father and mother; I was—I was . . .’She stopped speaking abruptly, gazing at Stephen with her burning eyes which said quite plainly: ‘You know what I was, you understand.’ And Stephen nodded, divining the reason of Wanda’s exile. But suddenly Mary began to grow restless, putting an end to this dissertation by starting the large, new gramophone which Stephen had given her for Christmas. The gramophone blared out the latest foxtrot, and jumping up Barbara and Jamie started dancing, while Stephen and Wanda moved chairs and tables, rolled back rugs and explained to the barking David that he could not join in, but might, if he chose, sit and watch them dance from the divan. Then Wanda slipped an arm around Mary and they glided off, an incongruous couple, the one clad as sombrely as any priest, the other in her soft evening dress of blue chiffon. Mary lay gently against Wanda’s arm, and she seemed to Stephen a very perfect dancer—lighting a cigarette, she watched them.

• From The Letter to the Hebrews (The New Daily Study Bible) (2002)

  It is a wonderful word. It means the ability to put up with people without getting irritated; it means the ability not to lose one’s temper with people when they are foolish and will not learn and do the same thing over and over again. It describes the attitude which does not get angry at the faults of others and which does not condone them, but which to the end of the day devotes itself to offering gentle yet powerful sympathy which by its very patience directs people back to the right way. We can never deal with others unless we have this strong and patient, God-given metriopatheia . (3) The third essential characteristic of a priest is this: people do not appoint themselves to the priesthood; their appointment is from God. The priesthood is not an office which is taken; it is a privilege and a glory to which people are called. The ministry of God is neither a job nor a career but a calling. Those who are called to the priesthood ought to be able to look back and say not: ‘I chose this work’ but rather: ‘God chose me and gave me this work to do.’ The writer to the Hebrews goes on to show how Jesus Christ fulfils the great conditions of the priesthood. (1) He takes the last one first. Jesus did not choose his task; God chose him for it. At his baptism, there came to Jesus the voice which said: ‘You are my son; today I have begotten you’ (Psalm 2:7). (2) Jesus has gone through the most bitter human experiences and understands what it is to be human with all its strength and weakness. The writer to the Hebrews has four great thoughts about him. (a) He remembers Jesus in Gethsemane. That is what he is thinking of when he speaks of Jesus’ prayers and entreaties, his tears and his cry. The word he uses for cry (kraugē) is very significant. It is an involuntary sound, a cry that is uttered in the stress of some tremendous tension or searing pain. So, the writer to the Hebrews says that there is no agony of the human spirit through which Jesus has not come. The Rabbis had a saying: ‘There are three kinds of prayers, each loftier than the preceding – prayer, crying and tears. Prayer is made in silence; crying with raised voice; but tears overcome all things.’ Jesus knew even the desperate prayer of tears. (b) Jesus learned from all his experiences because he met them all with reverence. The Greek phrase for ‘He learned from what he suffered’ is a linguistic jingle – emathen aph’ hōn epathen.

• From The Letter to the Hebrews (The New Daily Study Bible) (2002)

  He knows our problems because he has come through them. The best person to give you advice and help on a journey is someone who has already travelled that way. God can help because he knows it all. Jesus is the perfect high priest because he is perfectly God, and perfectly one with us. Because he has known our life, he can give us sympathy, mercy and power. He brought God to men and women, and he can bring them to God. AT HOME WITH THE WORLD AND WITH GOD Hebrews 5:1–10 Every high priest who is chosen from among men is appointed on men’s behalf to deal with the things which concern God. His task is to offer gifts and sacrifices for sins, in that he himself is able to feel gently to the ignorant and to the wandering because he himself wears the garment of human weakness. By reason of this very weakness it is incumbent upon him, just as he makes sacrifice for the people, so to make sacrifice for sins on his own behalf also. No one takes this honourable position to himself, but he is called by God to it, just as Aaron was. So it was not Christ who gave himself the glory of becoming high priest; but it was God who said to him: ‘You are my beloved Son; today I have begotten you.’ Just so, he says also in another passage: ‘You are a priest forever according to the order of Melchizedek.’ In the days when he lived this human life of ours, he offered prayers and entreaties to him who was able to bring him safely through death with strong crying and with tears. And when he had been heard because of his reverence, although he was a Son, he learned obedience from the sufferings through which he passed. When he had been made fully fit for his appointed task, he became the author of eternal salvation to all who obey him, for he had been designated by God a high priest after the order of Melchizedek. NOW, Hebrews comes to work out the doctrine which is its special contribution to Christian thought – the doctrine of the high priesthood of Jesus Christ. This passage sets out three essential qualifications of the priest in any age and in any generation. (1) Priests are appointed on behalf of others to deal with the things concerning God. Professor A. J.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  And she actually tried to stop them herself, though the parasol broke at the first encounter. But Tony, while yelling, was as game as a ferret, and, moreover, the Airedale had him by the back, so Stephen got hastily out of the car—it seemed only a matter of moments for Tony. She grabbed the old rip by the scruff of his neck, while the butcher dashed off for a bucket of water. The desperate young woman seized her dog by a leg; she pulled, Stephen pulled, they both pulled together. Then Stephen gave a punishing twist which distracted the Airedale, he wanted to bite her; having only one mouth he must let go of Tony, who was instantly clasped to his owner’s bosom. The butcher arrived on the scene with his bucket while Stephen was still clinging to the Airedale’s collar. ‘I’m so sorry, Miss Gordon, I do hope you’re not hurt?’ ‘I’m all right. Here, take this grey devil and thrash him; he’s no business to eat up a dog half his size.’ Meanwhile, Tony was dripping all over with gore, and his mistress, it seemed, had got herself bitten. She alternately struggled to staunch Tony’s wounds and to suck her own hand which was bleeding freely. ‘Better give me your dog and come across to the chemist, your hand will want dressing,’ remarked Stephen. Tony was instantly put into her arms, with a rather pale smile that suggested a breakdown. ‘It’s quite all right now,’ said Stephen quickly, very much afraid the young woman meant to cry. ‘Will he live, do you think?’ inquired a weak voice. ‘Yes, of course; but your hand—come along to the chemist.’ ‘Oh, never mind that, I’m thinking of Tony!’ ‘He’s all right. We’ll take him straight off to the vet when your hand’s been seen to; there’s quite a good one.’ The chemist applied fairly strong carbolic; the hand had been bitten on two of the fingers, and Stephen was impressed by the pluck of this stranger, who set her small teeth and endured in silence. The hand bandaged they drove along to the vet, who was fortunately in and could sew up poor Tony. Stephen held his front paws, while his mistress held his head as best she could in her own maimed condition. She kept pressing his face against her shoulder, presumably so that he should not see the needle. ‘Don’t look, darling—you mustn’t look at it, honey!’ Stephen heard her whispering to Tony.

• From Austerlitz (2001)

  All the time, said Austerlitz, in every free moment he had, he was rearranging the things he had brought from home in his tuck box, and once, not long after he became my fag, I found him at the end of a corridor one dreary Saturday afternoon, with the autumn rain pouring down outside, trying to set fire to a pile of newspapers stacked on the stone floor beside the open door which led into a back yard. I saw his small, crouched figure in the gray light behind him, and the little flames licking around the edges of the newspaper, but the fire would not burn properly. When I asked what he thought he was doing, he said he wanted to make a huge blaze, and would not mind if the whole school were reduced to a pile of rubble and ashes. After that I kept an eye on Gerald. I let him off tidying my room and cleaning my boots, and I made the tea myself and shared it with him, a breach of regulations regarded with disapproval by most of my fellow pupils and my housemaster himself, rather as if it were against the natural order of things. In the evenings Gerald often accompanied me to the darkroom where, at this time, I was making my first experiments with photography. This little cubbyhole behind the chemistry lab had not been used for years, but the wall cupboards and drawers still held several boxes with rolls of film, a large supply of photographic paper, and a miscellaneous collection of cameras, including an Ensign such as I myself owned later. From the outset my main concern was with the shape and the self-contained nature of discrete things, the curve of banisters on a Staircase, the molding of a stone arch over a gateway, the tangled precision of the blades in a tussock of dried grass.

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  He selects discourses and parables, which exhibit God’s mercy to Samaritans and Gentiles1006 Yet there is no contradiction, for some of the strongest passages which exhibit Christ’s mercy to the Gentiles and humble the Jewish pride are found in Matthew, the Jewish Evangelist.1007 The assertion that the third Gospel is a glorification of the Gentile (Pauline) apostolate, and a covert attack on the Twelve, especially Peter, is a pure fiction of modern hypercriticism. 3. It is the Gospel of the genuine and full humanity of Christ.1008 It gives us the key-note for the construction of a real history of Jesus from infancy to boyhood and manhood. Luke represents him as the purest and fairest among the children of men, who became like unto us in all things except sin and error. He follows him through the stages of his growth. He alone tells us that the child Jesus "grew and waxed strong," not only physically, but also in "wisdom" (Luke 2:40); he alone reports the remarkable scene in the temple, informing us that Jesus, when twelve years old, sat as a learner "in the midst of the doctors, both hearing them and asking questions;" and that, even after that time, He "advanced in wisdom and stature, and in favor with God and men" (2:46, 52). All the Synoptists narrate the temptation in the wilderness, and Mark adds horror to the scene by the remark that Christ was "with the wild beasts" (Mark 1:12, meta; tw'n qhrivwn); but Luke has the peculiar notice that the devil departed from Jesus only "for a season." He alone mentions the tears of Jesus over Jerusalem, and "the bloody sweat" and the strengthening angel in the agony of Gethsemane. As he brings out the gradual growth of Jesus, and the progress of the gospel from Nazareth to Capernaum, from Capernaum to Jerusalem, so afterwards, in the Acts, he traces the growth of the church from Jerusalem to Antioch, from Antioch to Ephesus and Corinth, from Greece to Rome. His is the Gospel of historical development. To him we are indebted for nearly all the hints that link the gospel facts with the contemporary history of the world. 4. It is the Gospel of universal humanity. It breathes the genuine spirit of charity, liberty, equality, which emanate from the Saviour of mankind, but are so often counterfeited by his great antagonist, the devil. It touches the tenderest chords of human sympathy. It delights in recording Christ’s love and compassion for the sick, the lowly, the despised, even the harlot and the prodigal. It mentions the beatitudes pronounced on the poor and the hungry, his invitation to the maimed, the halt, and the blind, his prayer on the cross for pardon of the wicked murderers, his promise to the dying robber. It rebukes the spirit of bigotry and intolerance of the Jews against Samaritans, in the parable of the good Samaritan.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  Maman, dressed in tartan for some strange reason, but in tartan that had never hob-nobbed with the Highlands—a present this portrait had been from a cousin who had wished to become an artist. Julie extended a white, groping hand. She was like her sister only very much thinner, and her face had the closed rather blank expression that is sometimes associated with blindness. ‘Which is Stévenne?’ she inquired in an anxious voice; ‘I have heard so much about Stévenne!’ Stephen said: ‘Here I am,’ and she grasped the hand, pitiful of this woman’s affliction. But Julie smiled broadly. ‘Yes, I know it is you from the feel,’—she had started to stroke Stephen’s coat-sleeve—‘my eyes have gone into my fingers these days. It is strange, but I seem to see through my fingers.’ Then she turned and found Puddle whom she also stroked. ‘And now I know both of you,’ declared Julie. The tea when it came was that straw-coloured liquid which may even now be met with in Paris. ‘English tea bought especially for you, my Stévenne,’ remarked Mademoiselle proudly. ‘We drink only coffee, but I said to my sister, Stévenne likes the good tea, and so, no doubt, does Mademoiselle Puddle. At four o’clock they will not want coffee—you observe how well I remember your England!’ However, the cakes proved worthy of France, and Mademoiselle ate them as though she enjoyed them. Julie ate very little and did not talk much. She just sat there and listened, quietly smiling; and while she listened she crocheted lace as though, as she said, she could see through her fingers. Then Mademoiselle Duphot explained how it was that those delicate hands had become so skilful, replacing the eyes which their ceaseless labour had robbed of the blessèd privilege of sight—explained so simply yet with such conviction, that Stephen must marvel to hear her. ‘It is all our little Thérèse,’ she told Stephen. ‘You have heard of her? No? Ah, but what a pity! Our Thérèse was a nun at the Carmel at Lisieux, and she said: “I will let fall a shower of roses when I die.” She died not so long ago, but already her Cause has been presented at Rome by the Very Reverend Father Rodrigo! That is very wonderful, is it not, Stévenne? But she does not wait to become a saint; ah, but no, she is young and therefore impatient. She cannot wait, she has started already to do miracles for all those who ask her. I asked that Julie should not be unhappy through the loss of her eyes—for when she is idle she is always unhappy—so our little Thérèse has put a pair of new eyes in her fingers.’ Julie nodded. ‘It is true,’ she said very gravely; ‘before that I was stupid because of my blindness. Everything felt very strange, and I stumbled about like an old blind horse. I was terribly stupid, far more so than many.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  Sometimes Stephen must tug at her mother’s sleeve sharply—intolerable to bear that thick fragrance alone! One day she had said: ‘Stand still or you’ll hurt it—it’s all round us—it’s a white smell, it reminds me of you!’ And then she had flushed, and had glanced up quickly, rather frightened in case she should find Anna laughing. But her mother had looked at her curiously, gravely, puzzled by this creature who seemed all contradictions—at one moment so hard, at another so gentle, gentle to tenderness, even. Anna had been stirred, as her child had been stirred, by the breath of the meadowsweet under the hedges; for in this they were one, the mother and daughter, having each in her veins the warm Celtic blood that takes note of such things —could they only have divined it, such simple things might have formed a link between them. A great will to loving had suddenly possessed Anna Gordon, there in that sunlit meadow—had possessed them both as they stood together, bridging the gulf between maturity and childhood. They had gazed at each other as though asking for something, as though seeking for something, the one from the other; then the moment had passed—they had walked on in silence, no nearer in spirit than before. 3 Sometimes Anna would drive Stephen into Great Malvern, to the shops, with lunch at the Abbey Hotel on cold beef and wholesome rice pudding. Stephen loathed these excursions, which meant dressing up, but she bore them because of the honour which she felt to be hers when escorting her mother through the streets, especially Church Street with its long, busy hill, because every one saw you in Church Street. Hats would be lifted with obvious respect, while a humbler finger might fly to a forelock; women would bow, and a few even curtsy to the lady of Morton—women in from the country with speckled sunbonnets that looked like their hens, and kind faces like brown, wrinkled apples. Then Anna must stop to inquire about calves and babies and foals, indeed all such young creatures as prosper on farms, and her voice would be gentle because she loved such young creatures. Stephen would stand just a little behind her, thinking how gracious and lovely she was; comparing her slim and elegant shoulders with the toil-thickened back of old Mrs. Bennett, with the ugly, bent spine of young Mrs. Thompson who coughed when she spoke and then said: ‘I beg pardon!’ as though she were conscious that one did not cough in front of a goddess like Anna. Presently Anna would look round for Stephen: ‘Oh, there you are, darling! We must go into Jackson’s and change mother’s books’; or, ‘Nanny wants some more saucers; let’s walk on and get them at Langley’s.’

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  Stephen bent over him. ‘Williams, I’m Stephen—don’t you know me? It’s Miss Stephen. You must go straight home and get back to bed—it’s still rather cold on these early spring mornings—to please me, Williams, you must go straight home. Why, your hands are frozen!’ But Williams shook his head and began to remember. ‘Raftery,’ he mumbled, ‘something’s ’appened to Raftery.’ And his sobs and his tears broke out with fresh vigour, so that his niece, frightened, tried to stop him. ‘Now uncle be qui-et I do be-seech ’e! It’s so bad for ’e carryin’ on in this wise. What will auntie say when she sees ’e all mucked up with weepin’, and yer poor nose all red and dir-ty? I’ll be takin’ ’e ’ome as Miss Stephen ’ere says. Now, uncle dear, do be qui-et!’ She lugged the bath-chair round with a jolt and trundled it, lurching, towards the cottage. All the way back down the big north paddock Williams wept and wailed and tried to get out, but his niece put one hefty young hand on his shoulder; with the other she guided the lurching bath-chair. Stephen watched them go, then she turned to the groom. ‘Bury him here,’ she said briefly. 4Before she left Morton that same afternoon, she went once more into the large, bare stables. The stables were now completely empty, for Anna had moved her carriage horses to new quarters nearer the coachman’s cottage. Over one loosebox was a warped oak board bearing Collins’ stud-book title, ‘Marcus,’ in red and blue letters; but the paint was dulled to a ghostly grey by encroaching mildew, while a spider had spun a large, purposeful web across one side of Collins’ manger. A cracked, sticky wine bottle lay on the floor; no doubt used at some time for drenching Collins, who had died in a fit of violent colic a few months after Stephen herself had left Morton. On the window-sill of the farthest loosebox stood a curry comb and a couple of brushes; the comb was being eaten by rust, the brushes had lost several clumps of bristles. A jam pot of hoof-polish, now hard as stone, clung tenaciously to a short stick of firewood which time had petrified into the polish. But Raftery’s loosebox smelt fresh and pleasant with the curious dry, clean smell of new straw. A deep depression towards the middle showed where his body had lain in sleep, and seeing this Stephen stooped down and touched it for a moment. Then she whispered: ‘Sleep peacefully, Raftery.’

• From Reading Biblical Literature: Genesis to Revelation (2016)

  Lecture 26—Luke on a World Upside Down 175 ‹ Against this backdrop of ethnic and religious tension, we come to chapter 10 and the parable of the Good Samaritan. Jesus is preaching during his travels, when a Jewish lawyer asks him, “T eacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?” In response, Jesus tells a parable that challenges the man to answer his own question. ‹ Jesus describes a man traveling from Jerusalem to Jericho, who is attacked by robbers and left for dead by the side of the road. A priest then walks by—a man of high social status—but he passes the victim without offering help. A Levite, who also has social status, does the same. A third figure, the Samaritan, comes along, tends the man’s injuries, and takes him to an inn to recover. The Samaritan is an outsider, yet he cares for a stranger, lying beside the road. ‹ The parable works through the interplay of several points of view. The lawyer who initially asked the question would most naturally identify with the priest The author of Luke is aware of the ethnic tensions around Samaria and even reminds us that the Samaritans refused to welcome Jesus, yet in the parable of the Good Samaritan, the ethnic and religious tensions become irrelevant.

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  The Schoolman’s spiritual reflections abound in glowing utterances from the inner tabernacle of his heart. Now he loses himself in the contemplation of the divine attributes, now he laments over the deadness and waywardness of man. Now he soars aloft in strains of praise and adoration, now he whispers low the pleadings for mercy and pardon. At one moment he surveys the tragedy of the cross or the joys of the redeemed; at another the terrors of the judgment and hopeless estate of the lost. Such a blending of mellow sentiment with high speculations is seldom found. No one of the greater personages of the Middle Ages, except Bernard, excels him in the mystical element; and he often reminds us of Bernard, as when he exclaims, "O good Jesus, how sweet thou art to the heart of him who thinks of thee and loves thee."1348 Or again, when he exclaims in his tenth meditation, "O benign Jesus, condescending Lord, holy Master, sweet in mouth, sweet in heart, sweet in ear, inscrutably, unutterably gentle, self-sacrificing, merciful, wise, mighty, most sweet and lovely"—valde dulcis et suavis. The soaring grandeur of Anselm’s thoughts may be likened to the mountains of the land of his birth, and the pure abundance of his spiritual feeling to the brooks and meadows of its valleys. He quotes again and again from Scripture, and its language constitutes the chief vehicle of his thoughts. In the first meditation, Anselm makes the famous comparison of human life to the passage over a slender bridge, spanning a deep, dark abyss whose bed is full of all kinds of foul and ghastly things.1349 The bridge is a single foot in width. What anguish would not take hold of one obliged to cross over it, with eyes bandaged and arms tied, so as not to be able even to use a staff to feel one’s way! And how greatly would not the anguish be increased, if great birds were flying in the air, intent on swooping down and defeating the purpose of the traveller! And how much more anguish would be added if at every step a tile should fall away from behind him! The ravine is hell, measureless in its depth, horribly dark with black, dismal vapors!1350 And the perilous bridge is the present life. Whosoever lives ill falls into the abyss. The tiles are the single days of a man’s existence here below. The birds are malign spirits. We, the travellers, are blinded with ignorance and bound with the iron difficulty of doing well. Shall we not turn our eyes unto the Lord "who is our light and our salvation, of whom shall we be afraid?" Ps. 27:1. The Prayers are addressed to the Son and Spirit as well as to the Father. To these are added petitions to the Virgin, on whom Anselm bestows the most fulsome titles, and to the saints. In this Anselm was fully the child of his age.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  Stephen motioned to the servants and they went away slowly with bowed heads, for Sir Philip had been a good friend; they loved him, each in his or her way, each according to his or her capacity for loving. And always that terrible voice went on speaking, terrible because it was quite unlike Anna’s—it was toneless, and it asked and re-asked the same question: ‘Try to tell me where it hurts most, belovèd.’ But Sir Philip was fighting the battle of pain; of intense, irresistible, unmanning pain. He lay silent, not answering Anna. Then she coaxed him in words soft with memories of her country. ‘And you the loveliest man,’ she whispered, ‘and you with the light of God in your eyes.’ But he lay there unable to answer. And now she seemed to forget Stephen’s presence, for she spoke as one lover will speak with another—foolishly, fondly, inventing small names, as one lover will do for another. And watching them Stephen beheld a great marvel, for he opened his eyes and his eyes met her mother’s, and a light seemed to shine over both their poor faces, transfiguring them with something triumphant, with love—thus those two rekindled the beacon for their child in the shadow of the valley of death. 2 It was late afternoon before the doctor arrived; he had been out all day and the roads were heavy. He had come the moment he received the news, come as fast as a car clogged with snow could bring him. He did what he could, which was very little, for Sir Philip was conscious and wished to remain so; he would not permit them to ease his pain by administering drugs. He could speak very slowly. ‘No—not that—something urgent—I want—to say. No drugs—I know I’m—dying—Evans.’ The doctor adjusted the slipping pillows, then turning he whispered carefully to Stephen. ‘Look after your mother. He’s going, I think—it can’t be long now. I’ll wait in the next room. If you need me you’ve only got to call me.’ ‘Thank you,’ she answered, ‘if I need you I’ll call you.’ Then Sir Philip paid even to the uttermost farthing, paid with stupendous physical courage for the sin of his anxious and pitiful heart; and he drove and he goaded his ebbing strength to the making of one great and terrible effort: ‘Anna—it’s Stephen—listen.’ They were holding his hands. ‘It’s—Stephen—our child—she’s, she’s—it’s Stephen—not like—’ His head fell back rather sharply, and then lay very still upon Anna’s bosom. Stephen released the hand she was holding, for Anna had stooped and was kissing his lips, desperately, passionately kissing his lips, as though to breathe back the life into his body.

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  The circumcision of Jesus, and his presentation in the Temple, 2:21–38. The visit of Jesus in his twelfth year to the passover in Jerusalem, and his conversation with the Jewish doctors in the Temple, 2:41–52. To this must be added the genealogy of Christ from Abraham up to Adam; while Matthew begins, in the inverse order, with Abraham, and presents in the parallel section several differences which show their mutual independence, Luke 3:23–38; comp. Matt. 1:1–17. II. In the Public Life of our Lord a whole group of important events, discourses, and incidents which occurred at different periods, but mostly on a circuitous journey from Capernaum to Jerusalem through Samaria and Peraea (9:51–18:14). This section includes— 1. The following miracles and incidents: The miraculous draught of fishes, 5:4–11. The raising of the widow’s son at Nain, 7:11–18. The pardoning of the sinful woman who wept at the feet of Jesus, 7:36–50. The support of Christ by devout women who are named, 8:2, 3. The rebuke of the Sons of Thunder in a Samaritan village, 9:51–56. The Mission and Instruction of the Seventy, 10:1–6. Entertainment at the house of Martha and Mary; the one thing needful, 10:38–42. The woman who exclaimed: "Blessed is the womb that bare thee," 11:27. The man with the dropsy, 14:1–6. The ten lepers, 17:11–19. The visit to Zacchaeus, 19:1–10. The tears of Jesus over Jerusalem, 19:41–44. The sifting of Peter, 22:31, 32. The healing of Malchus, 22:50, 51. 2. Original Parables: The two Debtors, 7:41–43. The good Samaritan, 10:25–37. The importunate Friend, 11:5–8. The rich Fool, 12:16–21. The barren Fig-tree, 13:6–9. The lost Drachma, 15:8–10. The prodigal Son, 15:11–32. The unjust Steward, 16:1–13. Dives and Lazarus, 16:19–31. The importunate Widow, and the unjust Judge, 18:1–8. The Pharisee and the Publican 18:10–14. The ten Pounds, 19:11–28 (not to be identified with the Parable of the Talents in Matt. 25:14–30). III. In the history of the Crucifixion and Resurrection The lament of the women on the way to the cross, Luke 23:27–30. The prayer of Christ for his murderers, 23:3 His conversation with the penitent malefactor and promise of a place in paradise, 23:39–43. The appearance of the risen Lord to the two Disciples on the way to Emmaus, 24:13–25; briefly mentioned also in the disputed conclusion of Mark, 16:12, 13. The account of the ascension, Luke 24:50–53; comp. Mark 16:19, 20; and Acts 1:3–12.

• From The Letter to the Hebrews (The New Daily Study Bible) (2002)

  (2) He shows us the actual human condition – the frustration instead of the control, the failure instead of the glory. (3) He shows us how the actual can be changed into the ideal through Christ. The writer to the Hebrews sees in Christ the one who by his sufferings and his glory can make us what we were meant to be and what, without him, we could never be. THE ESSENTIAL SUFFERING Hebrews 2:10–18 For, in his work of bringing many sons to glory, it was fitting that he for whom everything exists and through whom everything exists should make the pioneer of salvation fully adequate for his destined work through suffering. For he who sanctifies and they who are sanctified must come of one stock. It is for this reason that he does not hesitate to call them brothers, as when he says: ‘I will tell your name to my brothers; I will sing hymns to you in the midst of the gathering of your people.’ And again: ‘I will put all my trust in him.’ And again: ‘Behold me and the children whom God gave to me.’ The children then have a common flesh and blood and he completely shared in them, so that, by that death of his, he might bring to nothing him who has the power of death, and might set free all those who, for fear of death, were all their lives liable to a slave’s existence. For I presume that it is not angels that he helps; but it is the seed of Abraham that he helps. So he had in all things to be made like his brothers, so that he might become a merciful and faithful high priest in the things which pertain to God, to win forgiveness for the sins of his people. For in that he himself was tried and suffered, he is able to help those who are undergoing trial. HERE, the writer to the Hebrews uses one of the great titles of Jesus. He calls him the pioneer (archēgos) of glory. The same word is used of Jesus in Acts 3:15, 5:31; Hebrews 12:2. At its simplest, it means head or chief. So, Zeus is the head of the gods and a general is the head of his army. It can mean a founder or originator. So, it is used of the founder of a city or of a family or of a philosophic school. It can be used in the sense of source or origin.

• From The Girls (2016)

  asked me that question. Whether I could have done it, too. Whether I almost had. Most assumed a base level of morality separated me, as if the girls had been a different species. Sasha was quiet. Her silence seemed like a kind of love. “I guess I do wonder, sometimes,” I said. “It seems like an accident that I didn’t.” “An accident?” The fire was getting weak and jumpy. “There wasn’t that much difference. Between me and the other girls.” It was strange to say this aloud. To edge, even vaguely, around the worry I had worked over all this time. Sasha didn’t seem disapproving or even wary. She simply looked at me, her watchful face on mine, as if she could take in my words and make a home for them. — We went to the one bar in town that had food. This seemed like a good idea, a goal we could aim toward. Sustenance. Movement. We’d talked until the fire had burned itself into a glowy mottle of newspaper. Sasha kicked sand over the mess, her scout’s diligence making me laugh. I was happy to be with someone, despite the provisional reprieve—Julian would come back, Sasha would be gone, and I’d be alone again. Even so, it was nice to be the subject of someone’s admiration. Because that’s what it was, mostly: Sasha seemed to respect the fourteen-year-old girl I had been, to think I was interesting, had been somehow brave. I tried to correct her, but an expansive comfort had spread in my chest, a reoccupation of my body, like I’d woken from the twilight of pharmaceutical sleep. We walked side by side on the shoulder of the road, along the aqueduct. The pointed trees were dense and dark, but I didn’t feel afraid. The night had taken on a strange, festive air, and Sasha had started calling me Vee for some reason. “Mama Vee,” she said. She seemed like a kitten, affable and mild, her warm shoulder bumping against mine. When I looked over, I saw that she was gnawing at her bottom lip, her face turned to the sky. But there was nothing to see—the

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  The general kissed each one in turn on both cheeks, while overhead hovered a fleet of Aces; troops presented arms, veteran troops tried in battle, and having the set look of war in their eyes—for the French have a very nice taste in such matters. And presently Stephen’s bronze Croix de Guerre would carry three miniature stars on its ribbon, and each star would stand for a mention in despatches. That evening she and Mary walked over the fields to a little town not very far from their billets. They paused for a moment to watch the sunset, and Mary stroked the new Croix de Guerre; then she looked straight up into Stephen’s eyes, her mouth shook, and Stephen saw that she was crying. After this they must walk hand in hand for a while. Why not? There was no one just then to see them. Mary said: ‘All my life I’ve been waiting for something.’ ‘What was it, my dear?’ Stephen asked her gently. And Mary answered: ‘I’ve been waiting for you, and it’s seemed such a dreadful long time, Stephen.’ The barely healed wound across Stephen’s cheek flushed darkly, for what could she find to answer? ‘For me?’ she stammered. Mary nodded gravely: ‘Yes, for you. I’ve always been waiting for you; and after the war you’ll send me away.’ Then she suddenly caught hold of Stephen’s sleeve: ‘Let me come with you—don’t send me away, I want to be near you. . . . I can’t explain . . . but I only want to be near you, Stephen. Stephen—say you won’t send me away. . . .’ Stephen’s hand closed over the Croix de Guerre, but the metal of valour felt cold to her fingers; dead and cold it felt at that moment, as the courage that had set it upon her breast. She stared straight ahead of her into the sunset, trembling because of what she would answer. Then she said very slowly: ‘After the war—no, I won’t send you away from me, Mary.’ CHAPTER 37 1 T he most stupendous and heart-breaking folly of our times drew towards its abrupt conclusion. By November the Unit was stationed at St. Quentin in a little hotel, which although very humble, seemed like paradise after the dug-outs. A morning came when a handful of the members were together in the coffee-room, huddled round a fire that was principally composed of damp brushwood. At one moment the guns could be heard distinctly, the next, something almost unnatural had happened—there was silence, as though death had turned on himself, smiting his own power of destruction.