"Ideas about God aren't God," she said. She dabbed at her forehead with a fluttery handkerchief that had appeared-- like a magician's dove-- from her cleavage.
"Furthermore, abstractions about God aren't God; theories about God aren't God; all these words about God aren't God."
Now she fanned herself with the handkerchief.
She looked around, made a circling gesture with the handkerchief: "Abstraction isn't life; experience is life. Experiencing yourself is life. Experiencing life is God. Experiencing yourself is God. Experiencing God is life."
She shook her head in annoyance: "And here we are talking again!"
"But how do we get there without talking?"
Silence for a bit, and then she said, "Let us move out of headquarters and into heartquarters."
Art is the shortest distance between your heart and the truth.
A song, a poem or a painting is the shortest distance between your heart and the truth.
Rational thought-- or any thought at all-- is most always the longest, a meandering, time-consuming and unnecessary detour, where you run out of gas on some rural back-road or in a dreary industrial park with inadequate signage...
Really, art is the shortest distance between your heart and the truth.
When he got the news-- cancer, inoperable, terminal-- whereas the rest of us would have reached for a chair, and fallen unsteadily back into it, he, because he was already sitting, rose slowly to his feet, as if into the room had just walked a visiting dignitary, a beloved instructor, a sovereign, because, in truth, death is all of these.
Had death a hand, he would have shaken it, a body, they would have embraced, silently, most likely, but intentionally, respectfully acknowledging their admiration for each other's contributions to faith, to relationships, and, ironically, to life.