In college, one of my creative writing professors regularly gave us this advice: Show, don’t tell.

That is, don’t tell the reader that your character is in grief—talk the gray clouds overhead and lines furrowing her brow. Don’t tell your reader that it was a beautiful day—describe what you saw, the way the sunlight felt on your skin, the scents that wafted through the air. Don’t write a poem telling the reader how joyful you felt on your first date—paint a picture of the candle-lit restaurant and the glint in your crush’s eyes.

Images invite the reader into the meaning. The more vividly their imagination is sparked, the more deeply what you are communicating will go.

Is essential to every good story. That dull story that you never retell? People already know what’s going to happen as soon as you begin. That boring novel that you wish you never read? You already knew what was going to happen. It doesn’t have to be a drama; even a good comedy or biography has an element of suspense.

The wonder of what’s coming next is what pulls us to the edge of our seats. The surprise is what makes us feel alive. The unexpected is what we really long for. The mystery is what keeps us coming back for more.

Is often easier than trying to understand it. To call someone “mad” or “crazy” when their point of view is out of alignment with our own. When something doesn’t fit into my paradigm, the common human reflex is to assume the worst. To assume that there is something far more nefarious and dangerous going on. To jump to the darkest conclusion rather than seek to understand what we do not understand.

It’s easy in the West to scoff at cultures who see demons behind every sneeze or headache or seizure. The truth is that they may not be far off. The other truth is that we fail to see the demons behind our every anxiety or angry outburst or fear of “those people.” In our increasingly polarized and vitriolic society, the demons of our age are preventing us from seeing the true humanity in the other, and we are self-congratulatory for our “standing up for what’s right.”

Will not be the same life that you pick up again. Which, I suspect, is something that we all know deep down, which then explains why so few of us actually do it.

No. We hold onto our lives for dear life. Because even in our discomfort we are comfortable. We prefer familiarity over change. The status quo might not be living the dream, but at least it’s a known non-dream.

Is the great Divine project: One flock. One shepherd. One loaf. One cup. One body. One faith. One baptism. One new creation.

Oneness is the great Divine project because it is the very essence of God: One God. One Spirit. One Mediator. One Lord.

What God has joined together, let no one separate. What God is still working to join together, let no one work to divide.

ecause, after all, they are not the Good Shepherd. Nor will they ever be. Even the bravest may one day decide that the danger is too much for their heart. Or that their heart has run out of caring. Or that their life is not worth laying down for yours. Or that the opportunity cost is not worth the paycheck.

No one can ever match up to the Good Shepherd himself—that is the point. If you expect any hired hand to be equal with the Good Shepherd, it is not their sub-par performance that is the issue, but your own misplaced expectations.

When you think of Christianity, do you think of it more in terms of fences or gates?

A fence exists for two reasons: To keep something in and/or to keep something else out. It is protective. We have small dog that we don’t want to escape, so we build a fence with small enough spaces between the pickets so that it cannot slip through. Or we have a garden full of plants enticing to deer, so we build a fence higher than they can jump.

Fences are good when they serve good purposes. They probably even have a place as a metaphor within Christianity.

But fences can also be bad when they serve bad purposes. Especially when they begin to be overly restrictive of those on the inside, which can happen quite easily in any religion.

You can bank on Jesus repeating himself. He is easily misunderstood—a fact which he seems to accept, often with greater patience than you or I might.

“I’m not going to repeat myself!” is a common refrain from exasperated parents. But not from Jesus.

A lot of attention gets paid to Jesus’ antagonism towards the Pharisees. He often seems quite easily perturbed by them, in all their arrogant religiosity. But if you read carefully, there are also times when Jesus seems to slow down, take a breath, and then give them another chance to catch on.

Are everywhere. They exist between you and the movies you watch (or don’t), the music you listen to (or don’t), the foods you eat (or don’t), the books you read (or don’t), the friends you keep (or don’t), the prayers you pray (or don’t).

I say this without judgment. Gatekeepers are simply a part of human culture. They are unavoidable, and possibly in many cases essential. Mediation is necessary because none of us can relate to everyone or everything on our own. We cannot produce or create everything on our own. We cannot connect to or consume everything on our own. Gatekeepers are the bridges that keep us connected.

Sometimes it’s helpful to acknowledge the gatekeepers.

It will come at you from every which way. It wants to get into your head, into your soul, through any means possible. It will attempt to seduce your eyes, bombard your ears, dominate your thoughts, manipulate your heart. And it’s opportunistic, creeping in at any time of its choosing, day or night, during work or rest, alone or with others.

When the world ignores your boundaries, it never comes to give (although that is often the promise), but rather to take. Thieves and robbers.