Best 314 quotes in «confession quotes» category

No matter how it seems now, I must confess: I loved him. I do not think that I will ever love anyone like that again. And this might be a great relief if I did not also know that, when the knife has fallen, Giovanni, if he feels anything will feel relief.

No one has expressed what is needed better than Abdel Rahman al-Rashed, the general manager of the London-based al-Arabiya news channel. One of the best-known and most respected Arab journalists working today, he wrote the following, in Al-Sharq Al-Awsat (September 6, 2004), after a series of violent incidents involving Muslim extremist groups from Chechnya to Saudi Arabia to Iraq: "Self-cure starts with self-realization and confession. We should then run after our terrorist sons, in the full knowledge that they are the sour grapes of a deformed culture... The mosque used to be a haven, and the voice of religion used to be that of peace and reconciliation. Religious sermons were warm behests for a moral order and an ethical life. Then came the neo-Muslims. An innocent and benevolent religion, whose verses prohibit the felling of trees in the absence of urgent necessity, that calls murder the most heinous of crimes, that says explicitly that if you kill one person you have killed humanity as a whole, has been turned into a global message of hate and a universal war cry... We cannot clear our names unless we own up to the shameful fact that terrorism has become an Islamic enterprise; an almost exclusive monopoly, implemented by Muslim men and women. We cannot redeem our extremist youth, who commit all these heinous crimes, without confronting the Sheikhs who thought it ennobling to reinvent themselves as revolutionary ideologues, sending other people's sons and daughters to certain death, while sending their own children to European and American schools and colleges.

No one wants to hear anything like the truth during these landmark times. It has to be one emotion, a positive one - unless it's a quiet, heartfelt confession of fear or nervousness that can utterly disarm listeners and give them the opportunity to be reassuring - just to keep the social wheels turning in the way that makes everyone feel secure.

No task is more important than for the Church to take the Bible out of the hands of individual Christians in North America.

Nothing, indeed, is more revolting to English feelings than the spectacle of a human being obtruding on our notice his moral ulcers or scars, and tearing away that “decent drapery” which time or indulgence to human frailty may have drawn over them; accordingly, the greater part of our confessions (that is, spontaneous and extra-judicial confessions) proceed from demireps, adventurers, or swindlers.

O miracle—thus to be able to give [peace] we ourselves do not possess, sweet miracle of our empty hands!

One trains the eye of confession most closely on what is hurting. If sin is present it will be aching. Confession begins where the raw anguish of conscience is rubbing against the primordial awareness of God's holiness.

Only acknowledged your sins, God is mercy to forgive you.

On the way home from church, I felt like I was walking on clouds, as pure as an angel. I wished a car would run me down at that very instant, so I could die and go straight to heaven before I had a chance to sin again.

. . .our whispered words, faintly in the darkness, dissolving within the trees—then, fleeting words of consolation would not suffice if feigned, and flippant words confessed reluctance—our words were meaningless uttered on the wind. . .

People who talk about their dreams are actually trying to tell you things about themselves they’d never admit in normal conversation.

Protestants at one time were confident that their free form of confession was a vast improvement upon Catholic private confession to a priest because it is voluntary, demystified, and not routinized. But amid the acids of modernity it has volunteered itself right out of existence. Demystification has dwindled into desacralization. The escape from routinization has become a convenient cover for the demise of repentance. The postmodern pastor is trying to learn anew to listen to the deeper range of feelings of others, without forgetfulness of the Word of God.

...remember after every autumn, the flora senses the rapturous kiss of cheerful spring. (Book-Love Vs Destiny)

Remember what I used to tel you when you were a little girl? ‘A fool and her money soon part.’ Current-day translation? Stop pissing away your assets at Bloomingdale’s.

Repentance is shockingly beautiful when we see it not as "I sinned again, I need to repent," but as "I sinned against my God again, but He is calling me back so He can lavish me with His love and forgiveness.

Repetition of a sin is no reason to abandon confession.

Once I am alive, I still have the chance to live rightly for the rest of my life.

She bit her lower lip, a habit the village gossip had once told her was unladylike and unattractive. Strange; all her life she'd striven to become a proper young woman, to make her family proud of her. These past few months, she'd spent doing the opposite. Trying to pass as a man, a soldier. Her worst fear had been that she'd be caught impersonating someone who didn't exist. She never imagined she'd tell anyone of her own free will. She swallowed. "So you... you should know it's true. I'm not... Ping." "If you're not Ping, then who are you?" Shang asked. "I'm..." Mulan sucked in her breath. Her voice shook, and she worried her heart might burst out of its armor. She set down her sword, rubbed the sweat off her palms onto her bare arm. Then she reached for her hair and undid the knot. The black sheet of hair tumbled down, brushing just against her shoulder blades. "My ancestors were right," she said, surprised by how calm her voice was. "My parents never had a son. There is no Ping." She raised her eyes to meet Shang's. "There is only- Mulan.

Only acknowledged your sins, God is merciful to forgive you.

She rubs my back and sighs. "Jesus Abby, I'm so sorry. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you're still hung up on him. Big time.

She wasn't my kind of woman and that's why, that night she was. This wine is the Blood of Christ. Brings the truth out of a woman sooner than any confession box does. Makes you trust a stranger with your life, your car keys, your best-guarded secret.

Since 1849 I have studied incessantly, under all its aspects, a question which was already in my mind since 1832. I confess that my scheme is still a mere dream, and I do not shut my eyes to the fact that so long as I alone believe it to be possible, it is virtually impossible. ... The scheme in question is the cutting of a canal through the Isthmus of Suez. This has been thought of from the earliest historical times, and for that very reason is looked upon as impracticable. Geographical dictionaries inform us indeed that the project would have been executed long ago but for insurmountable obstacles. [On his inspiration for the Suez Canal.]

So are we actually cooking Radiasure?" Carols asks as he plops on his brother's bed. "Because if Mom and Dad catch us we'll never see the outside of the confession bootha gain." Bea rolls her eyes. "Nothing new for you.

Some priests unfaithful to the "memory" of Jesus insist more on the festive aspect and the fraternal dimension of the Mass than on the bloody sacrifice of Christ on the Cross. The importance of interior dispositions and the necessity of reconciling ourselves with God by agreeing to let ourselves be purified by the sacrament of confession are no longer in fashion today.

Sometimes, too, when their spiritual masters, such as confessors and superiors, do not approve of their spirit and behavior (for they are anxious that all they do shall be esteemed and praised), they consider that they do not understand them, or that, because they do not approve of this and comply with that, their confessors are themselves not spiritual. And so they immediately desire and contrive to find some one else who will fit in with their tastes; for as a rule they desire to speak of spiritual matters with those who they think will praise and esteem what they do, and they flee, as they would from death, from those who disabuse them in order to lead them into a safe road—sometimes they even harbour ill-will against them. Presuming thus, they are wont to resolve much and accomplish very little. Sometimes they are anxious that others shall realize how spiritual and devout they are, to which end they occasionally give outward evidence thereof in movements, sighs and other ceremonies; and at times they are apt to fall into certain ecstasies, in public rather than in secret, wherein the devil aids them, and they are pleased that this should be noticed, and are often eager that it should be noticed more.

Sotto molti rispetti il contribuito del clero al benessere della comunità non è molto diverso da quello dello psichiatra nella società odierna ed è stato osservato che nei Paesi dove la gente ricorre meno al confessore finisce col ricorrere di più allo psichiatra.

...spoken confession releases us into forgiveness. Speaking enacts the attitude of repentance that is the precondition of healing and restoration. Like the naming of God's attributes and promises in praise, the particularity and specificity of what is named accounts for much of the psychological efficacy of confession.

Step ahead immediately and do what you have to do before it's too late.

Su modestia y su anhelo de agradar eran tan duraderos que muchas noches comenzó por defensa y acabó por confesión, siempre al servicio de las inclinaciones del pueblo.

Suicide is a confession of failure. And like divorce, it is shrouded in excuses and rationalizations spun endlessly to disguise the simple fact that all one's energy, passion, appetite and ambition have been aborted.

Taking responsibility for your circumstances. Take responsibility. Be strong enough to admit your wrongs, ask for forgiveness, and think of constructive solutions to solve your problems.

Right words make all of us feel falsely important. Right action keeps all of us forever beginners.

Telling the truth may cause a few seconds of pain, but there's no medicine that can manage the pain of keeping lies.

Tell me something about yourself no one else knows, something I can keep for myself.

The first time you kissed me? That moment when your lips touched mine? You stole a piece of my heart that night. The first time you told me you lived me because you weren't ready to tell me you loved me yet? Those words stole another piece of my heart. The night I found out I was Hope? I told you I wanted to be alone in my room. When I woke up and saw you in my bed I wanted to cry, Holder. I wanted to cry because I needed you there with me so bad. I knew in that moment that I was in love with you. I was in love with the way you loved me. When you wrapped your arms around me and held me, I knew that no matter what happened with my life, you were my home. You stole the biggest piece of my heart that night. Keep them open. I want you to keep them open...because I need you to watch me give you the very last piece of my heart

Tell me what you feel," he demanded. "Right now, in this moment." Her arms flexed as she pulled against the rope around her wrists, stopping just shy of loosening the restraint. She licked her lips, and her gaze fell to travel hotly over his bared chest and abdomen. And then lower to where his painful erection jutted fiercely from the shadow of his groin. His entire body tensed when her attention seemed to lock on that part of his body. "I am on fire from the inside out," she whispered in a husky tone. "I feel desperate and frantic. As though I am fighting for my life." She brought her gaze back to his face. "And only you have the power to save me." She arched her body, lifting her breasts and rolling her hips. "Please, my lord. Kiss me," she sighed in a quiet demand. Kiss her? He wanted to consume her. In that breathless moment, her gaze seemed to contain all the mysteries of life and death. Mysteries he wanted desperately to explore... until he acknowledged with an intense stab of regret that a woman like Lily would not reveal the depths of her heart unless she could expect reciprocation in kind. Avenell would never know the beautiful secrets she kept. But he could know this. The sigh she breathed as he lowered his head toward hers. The silken texture and lush softness of her lips beneath his. The sweetness of her tongue, the sharp edge of her teeth. The way he so quickly and easily lost himself in the languid exploration of her mouth. She arched more deeply toward him. The peaks of her breasts pressed into his chest. He tensed at the rise in sensations but did not pull away. The kiss took priority over all else. Her tongue played fiercely against his, and her teeth scraped along his lower lip, demanding more of him. Her body melted as her moans and sweet whimpers fanned the fire burning hot inside him. She strained beneath him, arching deeper, pressing harder toward him. It was the deepest pleasure.

That's really what all books are, isn't it? I mean, lists of secrets and things you only wish you’d done - a sort of deathbed confession where you're trying to get it all out while the lights are still on.

The change, I think, that conversion gradually effects on your heart is this: you come, over some stretched-out time, to want to do the things that God wants you to do, because you want to be close to Him.

The confessor can nullify the exquisitely seasonable moment of confession by talking instead of listening. When he sees pedagogy and advice as more important than simple listening, he diverts the stream of confession.

The flame of testimony burns brightly when fed with the oil of grace.

There is always something. That is confession’s nature.

The secret which that confession discloses should be told with little effort, for it has indirectly escaped me already. The poor weak words, which have failed to describe Miss Fairlie, have succeeded in betraying the sensations she awakened in me. It is so with us all. Our words are giants when they do us an injury, and dwarfs when they do us a service. I loved her.

The sense of sin is the first step towards salvation.

These pastries are gorgeous colors," she said. "I didn't even know I liked green, but I do. It reminds me of her. I keep thinking of her grandparents' house in India. My mother and aunt grew up in the city, but their grandparents grew coffee on a plantation a few hours away. Have you ever heard of Coorg? It's this region in the south of India where people grow tea and coffee, and they have the most beautiful forests, and we used to go there every year when I was little. My mother would take me out to show me the coffee blossoms and the tigers in the forests. It was always so green there, and the air always felt like rain. And now it's raining here and it's all just wet and cold and I'm scared that-" She broke off. "I don't know. Sorry. I'm probably not making much sense." Lila was quiet for a moment, and then she said, "What are you scared of?" Anna shook her head. She couldn't shape the words, and she wasn't sure she could say them to someone she had only just met anyway. To distract herself, she took a bite of one of the pan dulce Lila had given her. It almost melted in her mouth, moist and sweet and perfectly crumbly. "This is amazing," she said. Lila beamed. "I'm glad you like it." Another bite, another taste. Lila continued to swing gently, back and forth, in an oddly soothing rhythm. The taste of the pan dulce on Anna's tongue felt soft, comforting, like a friend holding her hand.

The weapons of divine justice are blunted by the confession and sorrow of the offender.

The Word cleanses us, believers should be willing to bathe daily in HIS WORD". Clean us up Lord!

Tell me what you are thinking when you look at me like that." There was iron and ice in his voice. Not even a hint of tenderness. For some reason, his harsh manner did not bother her. She sensed something beautiful and elusive existed behind his daunting facade. The possibility of discovering what it was filled her with delicate anticipation. She looked into his eyes and answered truthfully. "I am thinking about how you make me feel." The muscles along his jaw tensed, and his eyelids lowered just the barest fraction. He brought his hands around to clasp them behind his back. To keep from reaching for her? "How do I make you feel?" Her skin tingled in reaction to the raw note in his voice. Lily took a moment as she thought about how to put it into words. It was a difficult thing to explain, and she wanted it to come out right. "I feel..." she began, then hesitated. Her breath caught in her chest, and she had to force it out on a heavy sigh. "I feel strong and weak at the same time. When you look at me, I feel exposed, as if you can see my most private thoughts. And though it frightens me- you frighten me- it is such an exquisite sensation that I do not want it to end. Because I want you to know me, to see the deepest parts of me." At first he did not respond beyond a fierce clenching of his teeth, and Lily wondered if he wanted to hear something else. Had she revealed too much of her inexperience? Should she have said something more provocative, more sophisticated? "Do you desire me?" he asked finally. The molten heat running through his words curled around her, heating her breath, her skin, her blood. She looked into his eyes and felt a swirling deep within. It tingled like white fire and spread to the most intimate places in her body.

The devastation of his actions, his meanness, felt like bags of rancid trash heaped around him.

The explanation has been written already in the three words that were many enough, and plain enough, for my confession. I loved her.

The last confession he heard was from a young hysterical girl who seemed to him to be making up a chain of small sins so that she could imagine herself full of remorse.