Being our own god grants us the terrifying illusion that we possess sufficient power to bring the world around us to its knees, when in fact it will only serve to bring us to our grave. And sadly, the cemeteries seem quite full these days.

If I’m not living this life in conjunction with God, I’m not living this life. Rather, what I’m doing is living the lie that I’m living this life.

Because I claim to know where I am at does not mean that I am at the place that I claim to be. For quite frequently the 'claim' represents my attempt to be what I am not, while the 'place' represents my attempts to not be what I am.

I would wonder if the depravity in our world survives on the lie that our depth can’t overcome it.

Because we refuse to acknowledge something doesn’t mean that it’s not staring us right in the face.

The real promise in too many promises is a promise that I’m going to be disappointed.

I pretend to give gifts that people pretend to be gifts so that I can pretend that I gave something that actually cost me something. And what pretending of this sort gives me is the gift of a pretend life.

True evil is unlikely to receive an invitation from us, so it clothes itself in just enough truth to make itself look appealing and then it looks to unpeel us.

How often have I painted a splendid picture of a journey marked by courageous ascents and daring desert crossings when all along all I’ve really been doing is running?