Sunday Sermon

“I don’t pity any man who does hard work worth doing. I admire him. I pity the creature who does not work, at whichever end of the social scale he may regard himself as being.”

 

 

 

 

–Teddy Roosevelt

Sunday Sermon

“Those who contemplate the beauty of the earth find reserves of strength that will endure as long as life lasts. There is something infinitely healing in the repeated refrains of nature —the assurance that dawn comes after night, and spring after winter.”

Rachel Carson

 

 

 

 

 

–Rachel Carson

Sunday Sermon

“I need solitude. I need space. I need air. I need the empty fields round me; and my legs pounding along roads; and sleep; and animal existence.”

Virginia Woolf

 

 

 

–Virginia Woolf

Sunday Sermon

“I think it an invaluable advantage to be born and brought up in the neighborhood of some grand and noble object in nature: a river, a lake, or a mountain. We make a friendship with it; we in a manner ally ourselves with it for life.”

Washington Irving

 

 

 

 

–Washington Irving

Sunday Sermon

“When we contemplate the whole globe as one great dewdrop, striped and dotted with continents and islands, flying through space with other stars singing and shining together as one, the whole universe appears as an infinite storm of beauty.”

John Muir

 

 

 

 

–John Muir

Sunday Sermon

“We’re all a little weird and life’s a little weird, and when we meet someone whose weirdness is compatible with ours, we join up with them and fall in mutual weirdness and call it love.”

Dr. Seuss Theodore Geisel

 

 

 

 

 

–Theodore Geisel aka Dr. Seuss

Sunday Sermon

I stretched my back and started two lists. What does it mean to love a person? What does it mean to love a place? Before long, I had discovered I had made two copies of the same list. To love–a person and a place–means at least this:

One. To want to be near it, physically.

Number two. To want to know everything about it–its story, its moods, what it looks like by moonlight.

Number three. To rejoice in the fact of it.

Number four. To fear its loss, and grieve for its injuries.

Five. To protect it–fiercely, mindlessly, futilely, and maybe tragically, but be helpless to do otherwise.

Six. To be transformed in its presence–lifted, lighter on your feet, transparent, open to everything beautiful and new.

Number seven. To want to be joined with it, taken in by it, lost in it.

Number eight. To want the best for it.

Number nine. Desperately.

Number ten, I wrote in my notebook, To love a person or a place is to accept moral responsibility for its well-being.

Kathleen Dean Moore

 

 

 

 

–Kathleen Dean Moore, The Pine Island Paradox

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