Bookish Quote of the Week #13

"No book is really worth reading at the age of ten which is not equally--and often far more--worth reading at the age of fifty and beyond." ~CS Lewis

FWW-Story 5

This is my final full story for Fiction Writing. And...it has a title, but the titles are really quite bleh. So if you have a title idea, I'd love to hear it in the comments below. :]

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Arthur watched a drop of paint fall onto Michelangelo’s nose. They were in the Sistine Chapel, Michelangelo on the scaffolding and Arthur on the floor. In Arthur’s lap was a pocket-size, leather-bound journal. It was opened to a page of small sketches, copies of what Michelangelo was painting on the ceiling.

The sound of a door shutting echoed through the chapel. “Drat,” Arthur said. He dropped to his hands and knees and crawled through one of the wall panels into blackness.

His stomach flipped and he felt like he would throw up, but he held it down. Soon the feeling went away, and Arthur poked his head out of the top of an old washing machine.

Breathing in the dry Texas air, he looked around the laundromat. Faded blue paint, poking out from behind washing machines and driers, flaked from the walls. The windows that took up most of the front wall had been blacked out, and the door boarded up. Arthur crawled out of the washing machine and picked up an old lantern from the bench in the middle of the room. By the light of the lantern, he studied his sketches.

He had found the laundromat on his way home from school three years ago, a week or so before his parent’s divorce. Not wanting to go home, he had found a way inside the laundromat. The other kids at school had said it was haunted. Arthur didn’t believe in ghosts, but, once inside, he had an eerie feeling that his dad was in there with him and had hidden inside one of the driers.

Arthur shut his journal and stood up. In the right back corner, by a rusty loudspeaker, was a ladder. Arthur clambered up it and into the ceiling. Stooped low, he crept even further back until he came to a hole in the roof.

Once in the sunlight on the roof, he checked his watch. 5:30. “Supper” would be ready soon. By supper, he meant the cans of Spaghetti-Os his mom fixed for him every evening. After turning out the lamp and hiding it under a tarp, he climbed down a rope and dropped to the ground. As he did, his leg buckled and he stumbled, scraping his hand on the rough brick wall.

 “What were you doing in that old laundromat? It’s closed.”

Standing a few feet away, eating sunflower seeds, was a girl of about twelve. She had curly brown hair and a denim jacket over an aqua tank top. Arthur hurriedly shoved his journal into his pocket.

“That’s none of your business,” he said.

“What’s that behind your back?”

“Umm—it’s mine.”

The girl spat a mouthful of seed husks off to her side and shrugged. “You going to tend to that incision on your hand? I know first aid.”

Arthur looked at his hand. It was bleeding. “Yeah, well, so do I. But it’s nothing.”

 “My parents named me Jillian, but I’m Jill to you. What’s your name?”

“I’m late for supper.” He shoved his hands into his pockets and ran off down the street.

Jill spat out another mouthful of husks and watched them land in the dust. A few feet from where they landed, she saw a journal.

“Hey, Late for Supper! Wait!”

            Arthur stepped through the already half-open door to his home and shut it behind him. As he walked through the entry way and living room he picked up the scattered trash and dirty clothes. Sighing, he dumped the trash into the wastebasket and the laundry into their washing machine before tiptoeing into the kitchen.

            His mom was sitting at the table, rubbing her temples and staring at a piece of paper. The microwave was buzzing. Arthur could see the bowl of Spaghetti-Os slowly revolving inside. The microwave beeped, but his mom didn’t notice. Arthur took the bowl out, grabbed a spoon, and sat down at the table.

            The Spaghetti-Os were too hot to eat, so he reached for his journal. It wasn’t in his pocket. I must’ve left it in the laundry room. I’ll get it later. He grabbed a pencil and an empty envelope and started drawing. He thought back to inside the Sistine Chapel and tried to remember how  For now, though, he decided to do a quick sketch of his mom. She still hadn’t looked up.

            When he flipped the envelope over to draw on the back, he noticed the return address. It was from some legal office.

            “What’s this about?” he asked his mom.

            She looked up. “That’s…it’s from your dad’s attorney. He’s—he’s been put in jail.”

            “So he won’t be sending us any more money.”

“How’d you know about that?”

“I saw the checks,” Arthur said.

His mom’s voice broke. “But it’ll be ok. I’ll just have to get another job.”

“No, I want you to stay here with me.” You’re already gone almost all the time.

He heard a knock on the door.

“I’ll get it,” Arthur said. He grabbed his bowl and ran to the entryway.

He opened the door and found Jill chewing her seeds.

“Your doorbell’s broke,” Jill said.

“We don’t need a doorbell. What do you want?”

She held out the journal. “You left this at the laundromat, Late for Supper.”

He snatched at the journal, but Jill shoved it into her belt in the back.

“My name’s not ‘Late for Supper.’ It’s Arthur. And give me my journal.”

“Hey now, don’t get tetchy. I saw that word in a book, by the way. Anyways, I’d like to offer a trade.”

He glared at her and tried to devise a way to get the journal back. He set his bowl down on a small nightstand in the entryway. “What kind of trade?”

“You show me what you were doing in the laundromat and I’ll give it back to you.”

“Ok. Let’s shake on it,” Arthur said, sticking out his hand.

Jill grinned and took his hand. As she did, Arthur reached around her back with his left hand and grabbed for the journal, but Jill twisted away. She laughed. Arthur’s face flushed crimson.

“Fine,” Arthur grunted.  “I’ll show you. Be there tomorrow at 3:15.”

“Oh, I have to go somewhere tomorrow. And nighttime’s cooler anyhow. I’ll be there at midnight tonight.” With that, she winked at him and ran off.

Arthur slammed the door and stormed off to his room, his supper forgotten on the nightstand.

Thirty minutes until I have to be at the laundromat.

He was on his bed, fiddling with his camera and staring through the darkness at his ceiling. It wasn’t just a journal. It was his sketches, his diary, his life for the past three years. He had to get it back, but he couldn’t bring himself to reveal the secret of the laundromat to Jill. He wouldn’t. But he had to.

Like the laundromat, he found the journal around the time of his parent’s divorce. He had found it among his dad’s leftover things after he moved out. Whenever he explored a new place in the laundromat, he made a note in the journal of what number it was and where it led to. He needed it.

He sat up and put his bare feet on the floor. Loosely knotting his shoelaces together, he hung them around his neck and tiptoed out into the living room. His mom was asleep on the couch. The TV was playing a late-night soap opera. Arthur stepped around the furniture and to the front door. He was about to go out when he saw his bowl from earlier. He picked it up and shuffled into the kitchen and put it in the near-empty fridge before quietly stepping outside.

The cool night wind blew energy into his skin as he sat down and put on his shoes. His watch said 11:48. He needed to hurry.

He ran the whole way and arrived three minutes early. Jill was already sitting by the back wall. When she saw him, she held out a bag of sunflower seeds.

“Salutations, Art. Seeds?”

Arthur clenched his fist. “Don’t call me Art. And no—thank you,” he added grudgingly.

Jill shrugged. “I’m ready when you are. I brought a penlight.”

“Whatever. I hope you can climb a rope. If not, tough luck,” he said and started scaling the wall. When he was at the top, Jill clambered up after him.

“I think I was faster than you,” she said.

Arthur didn’t answer, but pulled his lantern out from underneath the tarp and found the hole in the roof and crawled down. Jill followed immediately behind him.

Within two minutes they were inside the laundromat and Arthur flicked on his lantern, filling the room with light. “See? There’s nothing here.”

Jill ignored him and looked around. “Ooh, it’s kinda spooky. Told you nighttime was better.” She winked. “Anyway, if it’s nothing, why do you spend so much time in here?”

“I like to be alone,” he said, but he could tell she didn’t believe him. If I can’t convince her it’s nothing, maybe I can scare her. The Roman Coliseum is pretty gross—it should scare her off. He scanned the washers and driers, trying to remember which one was the Coliseum. “Can I have my journal now?”

Jill straightened up from inspecting one of the machines. “Nope, not until you tell me the truth. What are you hiding in here?”

Arthur rolled his eyes. There’s no way she’ll believe me.  “All right. Each of the laundry machines is a portal to another time and place.”

Jill squinted, unsure if he was being serious. “Ok. Take me through one.”

Arthur racked his brain. Which one, which one? Was it 12? 15? 3? He definitely didn’t want to take her to the Sistine Chapel. She’d never leave. He scanned the walls until his eyes came to rest on one just to the left of the center machine on the right wall. #4. I’m pretty sure that’s it.

He walked over to the machine, a drier, and turned the dial to thirty. “This means the drier’ll be open for thirty minutes. We have to get out before that dial hits zero or we’ll be stuck. Sure you want to go?”

Jill’s eyes shone in the lantern light. “Of course.”

“Fine. Just crawl through, and try not to puke.”

Jill stared at him for several seconds before stooping down. Then, she crawled through. Arthur waited a bit longer before following.

As he stepped out the other side, he stopped. They weren’t in Ancient Rome. They had come out from behind a garbage bin into an alley. Snow speckled the ground. Through a thin mist, he could see old cars rushing along the street several yards away. At the end of the alley was Jill, gawking at everything around her.

Oh, drat. I’ve never been here before. Rome must’ve been #6. He ran over to Jill. She spun around and practically yelled, “It really was a time machine!”

Arthur grunted. He looked up and down the street, trying to figure out where they were. At the nearest street corner, 7^th Avenue and Park Place, he saw a newspaper stand. Well, they do it in all the movies. I’ve always wanted to check a newspaper for the day and year.

He ran to the newspaper stand and checked one of the display papers. Jill ran up behind him.

“When are we?” she asked, still gawking.

Arthur set the newspaper down. “December 16^th, 1960.” His heart was pounding. He hadn’t been to a “modern” city before. As far as h could tell from his past experiences, each laundry machine led to a historical event, like the painting of the Sistine Chapel, the signing of the Declaration of Independence, or the Battle of Hastings. So what were they doing in 1960’s Brooklyn?

She was walking down 7^th Avenue, arms akimbo, spinning in the mist. Compared to hot, dry Texas, cold, drizzly New York was heaven. Arthur chased after her. The wind bit into his skin and the mist soaked his hair. Jill was equally wet and had to have been freezing, despite her denim jacket, but seemed unbothered by it.

“Come on, Jill, we should get home. I showed you what I do, now give me my journal, and let’s get out of here. It’s cold.”

“But isn’t this great? We’ve never had snow back home.”

“I’m serious, we need to leave. I’ve—well, I’ve actually never been here before, and”—he checked his watch—“we only have about 20 minutes left.”

She stopped spinning and flashed her teeth at him. “What a great reason to go exploring. I’m going to find a coffee shop.”

“No, come back or I’ll go without you,” he said, but she had already dashed around the buildings on the street corner. “No, Jill! Oh, you’re kidding me.”

He found her standing outside of a church. The sign out front said “Pillar of Fire Church.” Brick apartments, double-storied, lined the other side of the street. A mother and two of her children were sitting on the steps of one of the apartments. Jill was beginning to shiver now.

“That’s an odd name, don’t you think?” she asked.

“I don’t think there are many coffee shops around here,” Arthur said, pulling his arms into the body of his shirt.

“Maybe they have some hot chocolate inside or something.”

“Didn’t I tell you that we only have fifteen minutes before the washing machine closes?” Wow, come to think of it, that sounds really stupid.

She tossed him the journal. “You kept your end of the deal, Artie.”

“Are you even listening to me?” Arthur asked, warily checking their surroundings. He still had no idea what was going to happen, and it unnerved him. Then again, he reminded himself, it could be a famous baseball game or something.

Jill chuckled. “Fifteen minutes is plenty of time to have a snowball fight.” She quickly scooped together a rough ball of slush threw it at Arthur, hitting him squarely in the chest.

Gasping with the cold, Arthur hugged himself even tighter inside his shirt before shoving his arms back out. With several unpleasant words on the tip of his tongue, he scooped up his own snowball and flung it at Jill. It broke on her face, speckling her hair with dirty white. She laughed and chased after him.

Arthur started to crack a smile when he heard the sound of a plane zooming through the air. But the plane was low, way too low, and orange and red and black was flashing from the windows. The roar of the engines filled his ears as he yelled for Jill to get back. Jill was only a few feet away and needed no such warning. They ran for barely a second before they were knocked onto their faces as an explosion shook the earth.

When Arthur came to, he could feel blood running down his neck, but couldn’t tell if it was from his ears or nose. Dim screams echoed in his mind and his vision was fuzzy. He struggled to his hands and knees and turned around.

Fire, metal and brick were everywhere. Scattered among the wreckage were—no. He wouldn’t think about that. Jill was already up and running unsteadily towards the mother and children they had seen in front of the apartments. Arthur and Jill were far enough away from the blast that he knew they were not seriously injured, but the small family hadn’t had much time to get away.

Arthur wasn’t cold anymore, but an odd numbness filled his limbs and made it hard to stand. He had no idea how Jill was moving, but he had to get to her and make her leave. Their time was almost up. He pushed himself to his feet and stumbled over to her, shielding his eyes from the wreckage.

Jill was on her knees, with two fingers on the mother’s neck. The mother had several large burns and cuts on her arms and blood was pooling beneath her. Her back must be really cut up. The two children, a boy and girl, had several minor scratches and scorch marks, but were largely unharmed. Passersby were flocking to the scene, staring in horror at the mess.

“Help me roll her over,” Jill said. “We have to stop the bleeding.”

Arthur complied. When they did, he immediately closed his eyes. The lady’s back was even more burnt and bleeding than he had thought. Jill started sobbing.

“Oh, gosh, I don’t know what to do now,” she said, looking up.

“Give me your jacket,” Arthur said and opened his eyes. “Take care of the kids.”

Jill quickly pulled her jacket off and turned to the boy and girl. Steeling himself, Arthur placed the jacket on the woman’s back and pressed hard, trying to staunch the blood. It wasn’t enough, so Arthur ripped off his own t-shirt and put it on her.

A voice in his head was screaming at him, Ten minutes left! Only ten before you’re stuck here!

He screwed up his eyes and pressed harder when he noticed blood seeping through her hair. He didn’t have any other clothing to use. Continuing to apply pressure on the jacket and t-shirt with one hand, he reached into his back pocket with the other and pulled out his journal. The paper wasn’t much, but it was something. Ripping the last few blank pages from the back, he pressed them to the woman’s head. He looked back and saw Jill tending to the crying siblings.

Soon, several EMTs ran over to Arthur and took over. He stepped out of the way and watched them put the woman on a stretcher. An older lady, presumably a neighbor, scooped up the two children. Jill was no longer sobbing, but her eyes were still wet. She ran to Arthur and buried her face in his shoulder.

Three minutes.

“Come on, Jill.” Arthur grabbed her hand and dashed back down the street. Jill stumbled along in her boots and tripped. Arthur pulled her back up and continued running.

As they rounded the final corner, he checked his watch. One minute left.

They turned into the alley. Arthur slipped on a patch of slush but regained his balance. The trash bin was only a few feet away. Sliding behind the bin, he saw the hole and dove through it, pulling Jill along with him.

He hit the tile floor of the laundromat hard. Jill landed on top of him. The drier beeped as the dial turned to zero.

Bookish Quote of the Week #12

"So many books, so little time." ~Frank Zappa

Rainy Date

Kylie stepped out of the hair salon and under the awning over the door. The rain, which had been a light drizzle when she went into the salon, was now falling so heavily that it blurred the lights running along the street. Gritting her teeth, Kylie pulled her pink umbrella out of her Louis Vuitton handbag and struggled with the small button. A chipped thumbnail and several curse words later, the umbrella popped open. Kylie stepped out onto the street.

Brushing her freshly-permed hair out of her eyes, she checked the time on her iPhone. 5:43. Two minutes until she was supposed to meet David. That’s the last time I go to that hair stylist.

Kylie walked faster, heels dully clicking on the drenched sidewalk. The restaurant was a good eight minutes away walking, and she had taken the bus to the salon.  She had wanted to exercise more.  Stupid, stupid.

Three minutes later, she stood at a street crossing, glaring at the fuzzy red hand across the street. As she punched the button to make it green, she happened to look behind her. An old man—no, he couldn’t have been more than thirty—huddled next to one of the shops in ripped jeans and a shirt so soaked that it was nearly transparent. Kylie looked away quickly.

The hand changed to a green man, but Kylie hesitated a few seconds before crossing. When she did, her head was bowed and she stepped in a particularly large puddle, splashing her leg with muddy water, but didn’t notice. She was toying with the handle of her umbrella.

She was halfway down the block when she looked back. She could just make out the red hand again.

I’ll be even later and soaked through.

It’s just makeup and hairspray.

She turned around. 

Bookish Quote of the Week #11

"A room without books is like a body without a soul." ~Cicero

My Mom is the Bomb

My mother is the best.

She's one of my best friends. I can talk to her about the book I'm reading. I can spazz out about how awesome such-and-such character from a movie or book is. I can tell her about any problems I'm having, and she understands because she's an introvert like me. And, one of my favorites, I can discuss theology with her.

She's my teacher. She's homeschooled me all of my life and I guess I've turned out all right so far, haha. That's a credit to her and my dad for raising me up in the way I should go. And she worked through all those math problems and memory verses and history lessons and science labs and essays with me. Even now, I give my papers to her to edit before I turn them in.

She's my encourager. All my life, no matter what I've been doing (save all the bad things, of course), be it sports, music, photography, school assignments, she's told me "Great job" and kept me going, even when I might not have wanted to. And, if I messed up, she'd tell me what I did wrong and how to make it better.

I could keep talking/writing/whatever, but the list might never end. So I'll end with this: my mother is awesome. (And see my earlier post on "Le Mot Juste." I really mean it.) I do love thee so very much, Momma.

You're the bomb. :)

A Sacramental Disquisition

I wrote this for my Omnibus class. It's a brief (well, about 1500 words) comparison/contrast of my beliefs, Calvin's beliefs, and my pastor's beliefs on the sacrament of baptism. 

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Reformed theologian John Calvin’s Institutes of the Christian Religion was one of the most influential books of Western Culture. In this work, Calvin challenges many of the theological views of his contemporaries, including Luther, the Anabaptists, and the Roman Catholics. In Book 4 of his Institutes, Calvin deals with many issues, including the organization of the Church, civil government, and the Sacraments. 

Calvin defines a sacrament as “a testimony of the divine favor toward us, confirmed by an external sign, with a corresponding attestation of our faith towards Him.”[1] To Calvin, and to all Protestants, there are two sacraments: the Lord’s Supper and baptism. While most Protestants would agree with this definition of sacraments, many would disagree with Calvin’s view of baptism itself: its definition and purpose, who should baptize, and who should be baptized.

Calvin says, “Baptism is the initiatory sign by which we are admitted to the fellowship of the Church, that being ingrafted into Christ we may be accounted children of God.”[2] He doesn’t mean that baptism saves us—that he clarifies in the next paragraph. “[T]he only purification which baptism promises is by means of the sprinkling of the blood of Christ, who is figured by water from the resemblance to cleansing and washing.”[3] In other words, baptism is a picture of what Christ has done for us.

I recently interviewed my pastor, Kirt Dauphin, about Calvin’s ideas on baptism. He said that he disagreed with Calvin’s definition because, he said, “It is salvation that admits us into the Church, not baptism.” I would agree with Pastor Kirt. As soon as someone accepts Christ as Lord and Savior of his life, that person is “ingrafted into Christ.” He is not excluded from the Church until after he is baptized. Although it is a symbol of your salvation, baptism is not necessary for salvation, nor is it necessary for Church membership.

In the first few paragraphs of Institutes 4.15, Calvin outlines what he believes are the three purposes of baptism: 1) to be a sign and evidence of our purification, 2) to show us our death in Christ and new life in him, and 3) to assure us that we are united with Christ to be partakers of all his blessings. My pastor and I agree with Calvin on the first two points, that baptism is a sign of our purification and of our death to our old selves and new life. When a believer is baptized in our church, the phrase used is “Buried in the likeness of Christ’s death, raised to walk in newness of life.”

On the third point, however, Pastor Kirt slightly differed with Calvin. As it is possible to be baptized but not a Christian, he said, you cannot say that baptism assures us of unity with Christ. I would add that our assurance of salvation does not come through baptism, but through faith and the work of Christ. “Therefore, brothers, since we have confidence to enter the holy places by the blood of Jesus, by the new and living way that he opened for us through the curtain, that is, through his flesh, and since we have a great priest over the house of God, let us draw near with a true heart in full assurance of faith.”[4]

On the question of who could baptize, Calvin was very firm in his belief that it was only proper for ordained clergy to baptize. “It is improper for private individuals to take upon themselves the administration of baptism; for it… is part of the ministerial office.”[5] Because Christ didn’t command ordinary men and women to baptize, only the eleven disciples (Matthew 28:16-20), Calvin believed that the power to baptize passed through them to their successors, the ordained ministers of the Church. If a layman baptized, it would be a usurpation of the ministerial office’s duty.

Now, Calvin did not mean that ministers could baptize because they were holier than “normal” Christians. On the contrary, he says that the efficacy of baptism does not depend on the righteousness of the baptizer. Because it is really Christ who performs the baptism through the minister, and Christ is righteous, it matters not if the minister is unrighteous. Calvin uses the example of a messenger: “[W]hen a letter has been sent, if the hand and seal is recognized, it is not of the least consequence who or what the messenger was; so it ought to be sufficient for us to recognize the hand and seal of our Lord in his sacraments.”[6] Calvin’s objection to baptism by laymen was, as stated above, more to do with the fact that he believed Christ had given that task to the clergy alone. Like Paul says in 1 Corinthians 12, after giving the allegory of the body of Christ, “The eye cannot say to the hand, ‘I have no need of you,’ nor again the head to the feet, ‘I have no need of you’” (v. 21). In other words, each member has his own job, and it is improper for the eye to feel, or the head to walk.

I don’t necessarily disagree with Calvin, but I would extend the term “ordained minister” to include fathers, at least in this case. For, are not the fathers responsible for the spiritual well-being of their family (see Deuteronomy 6:1-9, 20-25)? Like a pastor is the shepherd of his congregation, a father is (or, at least, is called to be) the shepherd of his family. But I would not go so far as to say that any father can baptize his children. As my pastor said in our interview, baptism should be done by someone who is recognized as a mature believer in the community or congregation. Therefore, as long as a father is doing his duty in regards to shepherding his family, I would say that it would be wholly proper for him to baptize his children.

Speaking of the baptism of children, Calvin was a staunch Paedobaptist. It was his opinion that, just like circumcision was a sign of the old covenant, baptism is a sign of the new covenant. And, as the Jews in the Old Testament circumcised their children, Christians should baptize their infant children.

When I asked my pastor about this, he brought up Romans 4:9-11: “Is this blessing then only for the circumcised, or also for the uncircumcised? We say that faith was counted to Abraham as righteousness. How then was it counted to him? Was it before or after he had been circumcised? It was not after, but before he was circumcised. He received the sign of circumcision as a seal of the righteousness that he had by faith while he was still uncircumcised.” Abraham’s circumcision set him apart from those around him; it showed that he was different. In the same way, baptism shows those around us that we are now different—a new creation. But circumcision was not given to Abraham until after he was credited righteous by faith. For this reason, I believe baptism should not be given until after a confession of faith has been made.

One may very well challenge this by saying that Abraham circumcised his children, even though they were not “counted as righteous,” so we should do the same to our children. I would respond to this by saying that  in the Old Testament, the infants had to be circumcised by others, because it is impossible for them to physically circumcise themselves. Under the new covenant, however, “circumcision is a matter of the heart, by the Spirit, not by the letter.”[7] A parent cannot “circumcise” the heart of their child; the Spirit must work in the child and renew his heart.

Calvin does give a counterargument in his Institutes. When Credobaptists deny paedobaptism on the grounds that it is never explicitly mentioned in the Bible, Calvin comes back and says that neither does the Bible explicitly give an account of women partaking of the Lord’s Supper. By the same reasoning, he says, ought not women be prohibited from taking Communion?

Though this may seem sound reasoning at first, it really is not. When the Bible says that entire households were baptized (Acts 16:33), it may very well have meant only the consenting adults. Or, there may not have been any infants at all in the household. On the other hand, there are very clearly women in the church of Corinth. In 1 Corinthians, Paul admonishes the Corinthians multiple times regarding the Lord’s Supper (see 1 Corinthians 11:17-34). In addition, he gives them several guidelines concerning women, including marriage and head coverings, showing that there were indeed women in the Corinthian church and, by association, they participated in the Lord’s Supper.

The topic of baptism has always been one of heavy debate among Christians, and I believe it will continue to be until Christ returns. Though we may disagree with some of John Calvin’s beliefs, we should not completely disregard his work, for it is still full of biblical truth. Without a doubt, Calvin is one of the greatest Christian theologians, and his Institutes of the Christian Religion is one of the greatest works of Christian theology ever written.

Works Cited

The Holy Bible, English Standard Version. Good News Publishers, Wheaton, IL, 2001.

Calvin, John. Institutes of the Christian Religion. 26 April 2013. PDF file.

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[1] Institutes, 4.14.1

[2] Institutes, 4.15.1

[3] Institutes, 4.15.2

[4] Hebrews 10:19-22

[5] Institutes, 4.15.20

[6] Institutes, 4.15.16

[7] Romans 2:29

Bookish Quote of the Week #10

"I declare after all there is no enjoyment like reading! How much sooner one tires of any thing than of a book! -- When I have a house of my own, I shall be miserable if I have not an excellent library." ~ Jane Austen