What your article ultimately is, Mr. Dyson, is a poorly constructed euphemism for calling every white American a "white devil", topped off with a fascinating attempt at self-flagellation by casting yourself, on account of your race, as a sort of Christ-figure that is "cursed" to in existence around whites.
Christ and then Ping, uh, which— Ping is pink, so, sort of Po, but sort of lightened out with a dash of Laa-Laa, I guess, so yeah another sort of—.
If by that you mean some sort of allegorical Christ-figure -- like Aslan in C. S. Lewis's "Chronicles of Narnia" -- then the answer is, nowhere.
I want to do the sorts of things Christ asked us to do: doing your best for children, particularly those from disadvantaged backgrounds".
On the cover McGuire appears to reimagine himself as some sort of extra-terrestrial Christ character (complete with halogen heart, rippling six-pack and incipient baldness issues), but inside it's stone-cold banger after stone-cold banger.
In the latter, the self forms itself in relation to the experience of an overwhelming ethical demand, the sort of demand that Christ made in the Sermon on the Mount or when he was asked to join in the vilification of the prostitute condemned to be stoned to death.
During these heavy, pregnant days of Advent- these days of waiting and anticipation- I've been contemplating what sort of world the Christ child entered.
The different versions of the satisfaction theory are differentiated by their claims about what sort of help the work of Christ has provided.
They could have leavened things with a few choice phrases, but the best ones – "Holy Christ", "Christ on a stick", "suppurating bloody Christ", that sort of thing – hadn't been invented yet.
I shouted, audibly, 'Jesus Christ!' Sort of shattered the illusion".
