Mystery (n.) means rest and forgetting to the pagan, as in Goethe's calm over the hilltops; to the Jew, God's word sounds over every hill.
Mystery (n.) is not somewhere far off; it is where we are headed.
Mystery (n.) is not reached through curiosity or puzzlement; it seizes those who long for the unearthly and will holiness.
Mystery (n.) is where everything we hold dearest lives, beyond the reach of knowing.
Mystery (n.) is not the last word; past the darkness stands righteousness, and meaning outranks mystery.
Mystery (n.) is not a puzzle waiting at reasoning's end; it meets us everywhere, all the time.
Mystery (n.) is planted in the human heart by God himself, so we can never trace His work from start to end.
Mystery (n.) for Job and Ecclesiastes lies neither in the hidden nor the obvious, but in the hidden inside the obvious.
Mystery (n.) is not out there at a distance; we are inside it, and it is our destiny.
Mystery (n.) is no secret reserved for initiates; it is the startling fact that there are facts at all.
Mystery (n.) is something God has, not something God is; we worship Him, never the mystery.
Mystery (n.) offers two traps: give in to it and you are a fatalist, retreat into reason and you are a solipsist.
Mystery (n.) is not the enemy of knowledge but its soil; the tree of knowledge grows from it.
Mystery (n.) is not only out there: thinking itself baffles the one who thinks.
Mystery (n.) is not wishful thinking but a fact; the will can bury it but never manufacture it.
Mystery (n.) cannot be cracked by our categories; trying is like biting a wall.
Mystery (n.) is first noticed in things, though it hides most deeply in our own presence.
Mystery (n.) is not out there while we stand here; we are steeped in it, and partly made of it.
Mystery (n.) is the starting point that needs no presupposition, doctrine or dogma.
Mystery (n.) is no rare rainbow but the air around all being.