A Church (n.) is the inquisitorial environment for the guilty — as the examining magistrate seats the murderer beside the murdered: there one is tempted to regard the matter eternally, and eternally one can tell the truth.
A Church (n.) that removes the possibility of offense, or forgiveness without the anxious debate of conscience, might as well be locked — or made into a recreation center open all day.
A Church (n.) is where one gets an impression of a congregation, yet each feels isolated — strangers united again only by a long detour.
The Church (n.) is not qualitatively different in idea from the State; a sacrifice it demands makes only a tragic hero, understood by everyone, even his own mother.
The Church (n.) soothes with its thick walls, carved stone and gold-stitched velvet, all made in long years of peace, and there is great danger in that security.
The Church (n.) is a more dreadful place than any horror one flees from into it, for there the danger the world does not know is spoken of: sin, and the horror that the race crucified God.
The Church (n.) is next door to the young; as one grows older the way gets long, the church is cold in winter, and in summer, when the birds sing, it lies in the wrong direction.
The Church (n.) tries to get as many as possible in without asking whether it is Christianity they enter; the honest tactic makes the requirement clear even if no one comes.