ok so i borrowed a book from the library, and it's basically full of quotes from this guy called C.S. Lewis. he's prob one of the most famous Christian writers and BROOKE FRASER reads his stuff. so he's good. 

in fact i'm experiencing it firsthand. i've only finished the 2nd chapter or so, and he's quite masterful at manipulating mere words. 

by the way, are you guys feeling worried about me after hearing the 'flour power' sermon? haha

ok go put what you have learnt into practice (IF YOU CAN).

'... a Christian can lose the Christ-life which has been put into him, and he has to make efforts to keep it. But even the best Christian that ever lived is not acting on his own steam-he is only nourishing or protecting a life he could never have acquired by his own efforts. And that has practical consequences. As long as the natural life is in your body, it will do a lot towards repairing that body. Cut it, and up to a point it will heal, as a dead body would not. A live body is not one that never gets hurt, but one that can to some extent repair itself. In the same way a Christian is not a man who never goes wrong, but a man who is enabled to repent and pick himself up and begin over again after each stumble-because the Christ-life is inside him, repairing him all the time, enabling him(in some degree) the kind of voluntary death which Christ Himself carried out'

Mere Christianity, p. 52

I am beginning to feel that we need a preliminary act of submission not only towards possible future afflictions but also towards possible future blessings. I know it sounds fantastic; but think it over. It seems to me that we often, almost sulkily, reject the good that God offers us because, at that moment, we expected some other good. Do you know what I mean? On every level of our life-in our religious experience, in our gastronomic, erotic, aesthetic and social experience-we are always harking back to some occasion which seemed to us to reach perfection, setting that up as a norm, and depreciating all other occasions by comparison. But these other occasions, I now suspect, are often full of their own new blessings if only we would lay ourselves open to it. God shows us a new facet of the glory, and we refuse to look at it because we're still looking for the old one. And of course we don't get that.

Letters to Malcolm: Chiefly on Prayer, p. 24

A man who was merely a man and said the sort of things Jesus said would not be a great moral teacher. He would be a lunatic-on a level with a man who says he is a poached egg-or else he would be the devil of Hell. You must make a choice. Either this man was, and is, the Son of God or else a madman or something worse. You can shut Him up for a fool, you can spit at Him and kill Him as a demon; or You can fall at his feet and call Him Lord and God. But let us not come up with any patronizing nonsense about His being a great human teacher. He has not left that open to us. He did not intend to.

Mere Christianity, p. 43

We are told that Christ was killed for us, that His death has washed out our sins, and that by dying He disabled death itself. That is the formula. That is Christianity. That is what has to be believed.

Mere Christianity, p. 46

I believe in Christianity as I believe that the Sun has risen, not only because I see it but because by it I see everything else

'Is Theology Poetry?' in Screwtape Proposes a Toast, p. 50

You must picture me alone in that room in Magdalen, night after night, feeling, whenever my mind lifted even for a second from my work, the steady, unrelenting approach of him whom I so earnestly desired not to meet. That which I greatly feared had at last come upon me. In the Trinity Term of 1929, I gave in and admitted that God was God and knelt and prayed: perhaps that night, the most dejected and reluctant convert in all England. i did not then see what is now the most shining and obvious thing, the divine humility which will accept the convert on even such terms. The prodigal son at least walked home on his own feet. But who can not duly adore that Love which will open the high gates to a prodigal who is brought in kicking, struggling, resentful, and darting his eyes in every direction for a chance to escape? These words, compelle intrare, compel them to come in, have been so abused by wicked men that we shudder at them; but. properly understood, they plumb the depth of the divine mercy. The hardness of God is kinder than the softness of men, and his compulsion is our liberation.

Surprised by Joy, p. 17