Mr. Pickwick and his three companions stationed themselves in the front of the crowd, and patiently awaited the commencement of the proceedings. The throng was increasing every moment; and the efforts which they were compelled to make, to retain the position that they had gained, sufficiently occupied their attention during the two hours that ensued. At one time, there was a sudden pressure from behind, and then Mr. Pickwick was jerked forward for several yards, with a degree of speed and elasticity highly inconsistent with the general gravity of his demeanor; at another moment, there was a request to “keep back” from the front, and then the butt-end of a musket was either dropped upon Mr. Pickwick’s toe, to remind him of the demand, or thrust into his chest, to insure its being complied with. Then some facetious gentlemen on the left, after pressing sideways in a body, and squeezing Mr. Snodgrass into the very last extreme of human torture, would request to know “where he was a-shovin’ to”; and when Mr. Winkle had done expressing his excessive indignation at witnessing this unprovoked assault, some person behind would knock his hat over his eyes, and beg the favour of his putting his head in his pocket. These, and other practical witticisms, coupled with the unaccountable absence of Mr. Tupman (who had suddenly disappeared, and was nowhere to be found), rendered their situation upon the whole rather more uncomfortable than pleasing or desirable.

At length, that low roar of many voices ran through the crowd which usually announces the arrival of whatever they have been waiting for. All eyes were turned in the direction of the sally-port [where the soldiers would enter the streets]. A few moments of eager expectation, and colours were seen fluttering gaily in the air, arms glistened brightly in the sun, column after column poured on to the plain. The troops halted and formed; the word of command rang through the line; there was a general clash of muskets as arms were presented; and the commander-in-chief, attended by Colonel Bulder and numerous officers, cantered to the front. The military bands struck up altogether; the horses stood upon two legs each, cantered backwards, and whisked their tails about in all directions; the dogs barked, the mob screamed, the troops recovered, and nothing was to be seen on either side, as far as the eye could reach, but a long perspective of red coats and white trousers, fixed and motionless.

Mr. Pickwick had been so fully occupied in falling about, and disentangling himself, miraculously, from between the legs of horses, that he had not enjoyed sufficient leisure to observe the scene before him, until it assumed the appearance that we have just described. When he was at last enabled to stand firmly on his legs, his gratification and delight were unbounded.

“Can anything be finer or more delightful?” he inquired of Mr. Winkle.

“Nothing,” replied that gentleman, who had a short man standing on each of his feet for the quarter of an hour immediately preceding. “It is indeed a noble and a brilliant sight,” said Mr. Snodgrass, in whose bosom a blaze of poetry was rapidly bursting forth, “to see the gallant defenders of their country drawn up in brilliant array before its peaceful citizens; their faces beaming — not with warlike ferocity, but with civilized gentleness; their eyes flashing — not with the rude fire of rapine or revenge, but with the soft light of humanity and intelligence.”

Mr. Pickwick fully entered into the spirit of this eulogium, but he could not exactly re-echo its terms; for the soft light of intelligence burned rather feebly in the eyes of the warriors, inasmuch as the command “eyes front” had been given, and all the spectator saw before him was several thousand pair of optics, staring straight forward, wholly divested of any expression whatever.

“We are in a capital situation now,” said Mr. Pickwick, looking round him. The crowd had gradually dispersed in their immediate vicinity, and they were nearly alone.

“Capital!” echoed both Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. Winkle.

“What are they doing now?” inquired Mr. Pickwick, adjusting his spectacles.

“I — I — rather think,” said Mr. Winkle, changing color — “I rather think they’re going to fire.”

“Nonsense,” said Mr. Pickwick hastily.

“I — I — really think they are,” urged Mr. Snodgrass, somewhat alarmed.

“Impossible,” replied Mr. Pickwick. He had hardly uttered the word, when the whole half-dozen regiments levelled their muskets as if they had but one common object, and that object [to shoot] the Pickwickians, and burst forth with the most awful and tremendous discharge that ever shook the earth to its centres, or an elderly gentleman off his.

It was in this trying situation, exposed to a galling fire of blank cartridges, and harassed by the operations of the military, a fresh body of whom had begun to fall in on the opposite side, that Mr. Pickwick displayed that perfect coolness and self-possession which are the indispensable accompaniments of a great mind. He seized Mr. Winkle by the arm, and placing himself between that gentleman and Mr. Snodgrass, earnestly besought them to remember that, beyond the possibility of being rendered deaf by the noise, there was no immediate danger to be apprehended from the firing.

“But — but — suppose some of the men should happen to have ball cartridges by mistake,” remonstrated Mr. Winkle, pallid at the supposition he was himself conjuring up. “I heard something whistle through the air now — so sharp; close to my ear.” “We had better throw ourselves on our faces, hadn’t we?” said Mr. Snodgrass.

“No, no — it’s over now,” said Mr. Pickwick. His lip might quiver, and his cheek might blanch, but no expression of fear or concern escaped the lips of that immortal man.

Mr. Pickwick was right — the firing ceased; but he had scarcely time to congratulate himself on the accuracy of his opinion, when a quick movement was visible in the line; the hoarse shout of the word of command ran along it, and before either of the party could form a guess at the meaning of this new maneuver, the whole of the half-dozen regiments, with fixed bayonets, charged at double-quick time down upon the very spot on which Mr. Pickwick and his friends were stationed.

Man is but mortal; and there is a point beyond which human courage cannot extend. Mr. Pickwick gazed through his spectacles for an instant on the advancing mass, and then fairly turned his back and — we will not say fled; first, because it is an ignoble term, and second, because Mr. Pickwick’s figure was by no means adapted for that mode of retreat — he trotted away, at as quick a rate as his legs would convey him; so quickly, indeed, that he did not perceive the awkwardness of his situation, to the full extent, until too late.

The opposite troops, whose falling-in had perplexed Mr. Pickwick a few seconds before, were drawn up to repel the mimic attack of the sham besiegers of the citadel; and the consequence was that Mr. Pickwick and his two companions found themselves suddenly enclosed between two lines of great length, the one advancing at a rapid pace, and the other firmly waiting the collision in hostile array.

“Hoi!” shouted the officers of the advancing line.

“Get out of the way!” cried the officers of the stationary one.

“Where are we to go to?” screamed the agitated Pickwickians.

“Hoi — hoi — hoi!” was the only reply. There was a moment of intense bewilderment, a heavy tramp of footsteps, a violent concussion, a smothered laugh; the half-dozen regiments were half a thousand yards off, and the soles of Mr. Pickwick’s boots were elevated in air.

Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. Winkle had each performed a compulsory somersault with remarkable agility, when the first object that met the eyes of Mr. Winkle as he sat on the ground, staunching the stream of life which issued from his nose, was his venerated leader at some distance off, running after his own hat, which was gambolling playfully away in perspective.

There are very few moments in a man’s existence when he experiences so much ludicrous distress, or meets with so little charitable commiseration, as when he is in pursuit of his own hat. A vast deal of coolness, and a peculiar degree of judgment, are requisite in catching a hat. A man must not be precipitate, or he runs over it; he must not rush into the opposite extreme, or he loses it altogether. The best way is to keep gently up with the object of pursuit, to be wary and cautious, to watch your opportunity well, get gradually before it, then make a rapid dive, seize it by the crown, and stick it firmly on your head; smiling pleasantly all the time, as if you thought it as good a joke as anybody else.

[from The Pickwick Papers by Charles Dickens]

Now, let’s simplify: a complete sentence requires a subject and a verb.

A verb, of course, is an “action word,” a word that does something, such as drink or eat or walk or sleep. These words all describe action; they are verbs. The subject is the person or thing doing the action. Here is a simple sentence which contains nothing but a predicate:

John ate.

That, believe it or not, is a complete sentence, even though it contains only two words. The second word, ate, is a verb; it describes an action. The first word, John, is the subject; it tells us who did the action. It is important to understand that no sentence is complete until it contains both a subject and a verb. A sentence that does not contain both is called an “incomplete sentence.” Here is an example:

People running.

This is where people get confused, because running is a verb (more or less). We needn’t get into the technicalities of what the word running is called in this use; the important thing is to recognize that running here is merely telling us which people, it does not tell us what the running people are doing while they’re running.

The easiest way to make that phrase into a complete sentence is to add a form of the verb to be: is, are, were, etc. So we make that a complete sentence thus:

The people are running.

Or we can use “people running” as a noun phrase, describing which people form our subject. This will require that we add a verb or predicate to the phrase to create a complete sentence:

The people running are late.

You will notice that both sentences use are as the verb, and are as we already mentioned is a form of the verb to be. And we can change the noun phrase people running into a simple noun (people) simply by moving the verb to a different position:

The people are running late.

Finally, the simplest form of a sentence contains just a subject (noun or pronoun) and a verb. (I am not addressing imperative sentences here, which are commands such as “Go!” We’ll do that some other day.) This brings us to the name of God:

I am.

Remember the basic rule: a complete sentence requires a subject and a verb.

This is the first in an occasional series on how to photograph small subject matter, such as hand-made crafts. Many of the principles, however, will be applicable to all types of photography.

Photographing small objects may seem daunting at first, but once you understand a few basics of digital photography, it is actually a very easy process–and fun, even. I will offer a series of occasional articles on how to take out the frustration and put in the fun of close-up photography, covering elements of lighting, color control, focus, PhotoShop manipulation, and so forth.

However, before we begin, let’s address the most important piece of equipment: your camera. Here’s the basic gist of this article:

You will want a decent single-lens reflex (SLR) camera.

A Standard Lens Reflex (SLR) camera

SLR vs. Rangefinder

There are two basic ways of viewing your subject with a camera: rangefinder, and SLR. Both cameras, of course, have a lens which is used to take the photograph, but a rangefinder also has a second lens, usually a small aperture which you peer through to see what you’re shooting. With a rangefinder, you’re looking through one lens while the camera is shooting the image with another lens.

The single-lens reflex, on the other hand, has only the one big lens which the camera uses to capture the image. When you peer into the viewfinder, a series of mirrors inside the camera reflect light from the subject through the lens and up to your eye. When you click the shutter, one of those mirrors flips up so that the light will travel to the “film” (whatever digital processors are used inside the camera instead of film) rather than to your eye. This “flipping-up” process is the “reflex” part of SLR.

The advantage of SLR vs. rangefinder is that, when you peer through the viewfinder, you are seeing exactly what the camera will see when you click the shutter. If you’re shooting a landscape, where your subject is a significant distance from your camera, the rangefinder shows you almost the same thing that the camera will see. But when you’re photographing a small object that’s just a few inches from the lens, then the rangefinder’s viewing lens is going to be way off from what the camera lens captures.

Point and Shoot Cameras

Most folks don’t want to spend the extra money on an SLR, and many are also intimidated by how complicated they seem. After all, you can change the lens on an SLR! That notion by itself awakens fears of limitless future expense buying fancy lenses and filters and flash attachments and doodads galore. And then there are all those mind-boggling settings to worry about. Much easier (and cheaper) just to get that little Sony and press the button. Let the gadget do the thinking.

Of course, the basic premise of this thinking is faulty. One can easily find an SLR for a few hundred bucks, and many point ‘n’ shoots actually cost more. Furthermore, all SLRs these days offer a no-brainer point ‘n’ shoot setting where all you do is . . . well, point and shoot. You don’t even have to focus anymore. The beauty is that, as you learn how to use the SLR, you will have a whole world of control over your images that is not available with a point ‘n’ shoot.

Here’s the bottom line: if you want to photograph your handmade crafts, you cannot hope to do it with a point ‘n’ shoot. You’re going to want an SLR someday anyway, so don’t waste your money — start out with a decent SLR to begin with.

Pixel Count

These days, just about any SLR will offer a large enough image with sufficient detail to capture your small subject, so the pixel-count numbers are essentially irrelevant. Don’t get sucked in by big numbers; this is where many people waste lots of money that never pays back. Stick to the name brands — Nikon, Olympus, Canon, Sony — and you’ll do well with whatever you get. Provided it’s an SLR, that is.

Camera Settings

Another feature of an SLR is that you will be able to control a wide variety of elements when you click the shutter. One important element is the type of light that you’re using. Are you shooting your craft in direct sunlight? Then you’ll want to set the camera for “daylight.” Using table lamps? No problem, just set it for “incandescent.”

This will also come into play in dealing with getting things in focus. With an SLR, you’ll be able to take full control over depth of field issues. There are a myriad such things that will effect your images, so it will be easier to address them by subject in future articles.

That’s enough for now. Basic take-away point: us an SLR.

Next article: How to Adjust Your Camera for Various Light Sources.

God also named certain elements of creation, such as the elements of our environment. The notion of bestowing a name on something indicates authority and lordship, and God has retained to Himself the lordship over His created environment. On the other hand, He gave mankind lordship over the lower orders of life, including fish, birds, land animals, and “every creeping thing that creeps on the earth” (Genesis 1:26).

This order within creation has wide-ranging implications throughout the Scriptures. For instance, God promised mankind after the Flood that earth’s environment will always sustain life (Genesis 8:22). He reiterated man’s authority over the animal kingdom (9:2-3) while also reiterating the sanctity of human life (9:5-6). Paul referred back to Genesis when he addressed issues of order within the church (e.g., 1 Corinthians 11).

(Excerpt from Before Abraham: Creation, Sin, and the Nature of God by John MacArthur [and Gregory C. Benoit], Thomas Nelson, 2008)

One Sunday afternoon, Minsc and I decided to train Boo to be gentle enough for a child. We grabbed Minsc’s #1 Son, put him in a life jacket just like Daddy’s, armed him with his own paddle, and put in to one of the countless tidal ponds along Rhode Island’s coastline, called Quonochontaug Pond — or Quonnie by the locals. This little trip was more of a post-shakedown cruise, or whatever nautical concept would be fitting here. It was just a short run to test it on the pond, and to accustom #1 Son to proper canoe behavior.

A number of people were quahogging along the far side of the pond, near Weekapaug Beach and the Weekapaug Inn. (A quahog [pronounced “ko-hawg,” not “kwa-hawg”] is a large clam that is native to the coast of Rhode Island. For pronunciations on other names contained here, you’re on your own.) We passed by close to one couple, standing waist-deep and digging diligently with their toes. Each had an iron rake with which to dig the quahogs out of the muck when their toes found the hard shells, and they had the usual floating basket between them — a wicker basket stuck inside an old tire inner tube — standard gear for this enterprise.

What caught our eyes, however, was that the man had a toilet plunger, stuck business-end up in the water beside him. I’d never seen this tool used for quahogging before, so I asked him what it was.

“It’s a plunjah.” He delivered this revelation in a tone of some annoyance, as though we’d asked a self-evident question — which I suppose we had.

“Well, yes,” I persisted, “but what do you use it for?”

“For the gawdam quahogs!”

With this deeper understanding of the mysteries of clamming, we continued on our way, paddling toward the Weekapaug Inn. We navigated through the many moorings which would soon fill the little cove with boats, and headed for the causeway which connects Weekapaug Inn with the “mainland.” (The Inn is surrounded on three sides by Quonnie Pond, giving it the appearance of an island.)

I was soaking in the scenery, the fragrances, the sounds of my home, rejoicing yet again in the privilege of living here, when I suddenly saw a large jagged rock sliding under our bow. Well, not sliding, exactly — banging more like, then scraping. We could feel chunks of Boo’s skin being gouged out. Approximately a half-second prior to collision, I had cried out “Rock!” as any attentive bow-man should do, so my conscience was mollified.

And besides, it was actually a very pretty rock, an interesting texture and shape, covered over with the loveliest barnacles. I thought no more about it.

It wasn’t my canoe anyway.

We paddled about a bit, looking at the Inn and its environs. We reminisced about our adventure of years before when we’d sneaked through the woods surrounding the Inn, armed with a variety of fireworks, and laid midnight siege to the Inn and its outlying cabins.

I have no recollection now of where I’d gotten the fireworks (since they’re illegal in Rhode Island), but I had quite a supply of bottle rockets and firecrackers. I also cannot recall just how we came up with the scheme of doing battle with the residents of the Weekapaug Inn, but some demon got hold of our imaginations, and we laid our plans.

We chose a night around the new moon when the sky was illuminated only by the stars. We dressed, of course, completely in black and set off from the home of Minsc’s parents. He was still living at home, being a college-aged youth. He has this as an excuse — that he was young — whereas I was old enough to know better.

It would have been a simple matter to approach the Inn by road or even by water, but our hearts were set on Vietnam-style commando raiding, so we set out on the most abstruse route possible through the woods.

Minsc’s sister Jane had a dog. Its name was Chelsea. It was stupid. It met us as we skulked forth, and immediately attached itself to our plans. Our curses, threats, and flying objects convinced it that it was adored and desired, and it accompanied us well into the woods. It was clear that we could not take Chelsea with us on our mission — commandoes don’t use dogs — so we had no other choice than to return to the house and tie it up.

Actually, we did have one other choice: we could tie the dog to a tree in the woods with the intention of freeing her once the mission was accomplished. Which is what we did. Tie her, I mean. And have intentions — we did have intentions.

We resumed our skulking while Chelsea concentrated on howling. As a matter of fact, of the two missions undertaken that evening, I think Chelsea’s may have been the more successful. She determined to howl, and set about it with divine inspiration. She howled, she barked, she yelped, she whined, she screamed with such deafening, nerve-rending vigor that it could only have been done with the help of the Muses.

The din was not conducive to skulking, but commandoes must overcome adversity, so we skulked on. Minsc had established the route we would take, and had included passage through the yard of some friends in Weekapaug just to add the spice of potential discovery. This element worked quite well, as it turned out. We slipped silently into the back yard — just in time for them to put out the cat. They switched on enough lights for a football stadium, then stood at the door surveying their property.

We, of course, “hit the dirt” in time-honored commando fashion and lay absolutely still. A few hours later, as rigor mortis was taking hold, they switched off the lights and went back inside, and we made our way toward the Weekapaug Inn.

Now, this was no amateur, off-the-cuff excursion. We had come down a week or so earlier in daylight to map out the estate and to plan our attack very carefully. The plan was to establish a battery of artillery along the fence which faces Quonnie Pond, which would lend air support while we went in close for our sabotage maneuvers. The fence was on the far side of the compound, and on the “mainland” side stood a series of small cabins — inside of which were our targets: hapless summer vacationers and wild teenagers who worked on staff.

They must all be neutralized.

We slipped invisibly behind the fence and established the artillery. This consisted of a long row of bottle rockets propped through the fence’s chain links. They were put in pairs, fuses twined together and inserted into a cigarette, about halfway down. We’d previously tested this fusing system and had determined that half a cigarette was just enough time for us to move into position. When we had finally set up a barrage of rockets and cigarettes — and this was not a speedy process — we lit the cigarettes and moved quickly into our assassins’ positions in the shadows around the cabins.

Suddenly, there was a whistle followed by a bright explosion overhead: our air cover had arrived. Instantly, we both began running in and out amongst the cabins, lighting fuses and tossing packs of firecrackers under the floors. Meanwhile, our artillery battery was faithfully banging away overhead, and the chaos was complete.

Lights came on, doors slammed, cars started — and we ran. We were not together, as Minsc had been at a different section of cabins, and I soon lost sight of him as we crossed the causeway off the Inn property. I felt compelled to demolish the causeway in order to cut off our pursuers, and I called for my partner to stop. I then turned back — most heroically, I humbly point out — to fire a final volley back across the bridge. I even set up one last time-fused rocket to cover my retreat, and at last set off for home.

Unfortunately, my partner had not waited. This posed a problem for me, as he was the navigator, and I’d paid no attention whatever to where the woods path came onto the causeway road. I was not even sure which house we’d used, despite how intimate I’d been with their turf. I spent some considerable time tripping over stone walls and hiding in shadowy backyards before finally deciding to walk back on Weekapaug Road.

The trip back took a good while — much longer than it had taken Minsc to return and become apprised of the situation on the home front. As I finally approached the parents’ home, I saw Minsc’s truck coming toward me at a good clip. He zoomed past without seeing me (I was, after all, an invisible commando) and roared into the darkness. I assumed that he was going in search of me or my remains, and got in my car at his parents’ house and roared off after him.

It seems, however, that inside that house were some rather angry womenfolk. Jane had heard Chelsea’s concerto but had not been appreciative of the artistic merits. She immediately concluded that the dog was caught in a bear trap and was being slowly eaten by coyotes.

When she discovered that Minsc had tied the dog to a tree in the woods, she was paradoxically not relieved. In fact, her wrath was actually increased — compounded, with interest — and further doubled by the considerable effort she had expended in traipsing through the dark woods in search of the howling mutt.

Jane had promptly marched home, where she had commiserated with her mother, and the Universal Feminine Spirit had arisen in thunderous wrath against All Things Male. My car, as it happened, was noticeably parked in the driveway, so my character was implicated along with that of Minsc. They had no idea what we were up to this time, but they knew from vast experience that it was no good.

When Minsc had arrived on the scene, dressed head to toe in black and stinking of cordite, The Wrath was unleashed. No amount of commando training can equip a man for such an onslaught, and he quickly turned and fled. My subsequent hasty exit in my car added the final proof, if any was needed, of my complicity and cowardly refusal to face the injured parties waiting inside.

All these memories, in far greater detail, came to mind as we paddled about behind the Weekapaug Inn. They had recovered quite well from the invasion: the little cottages were still there, awaiting another summer’s occupants of vacationers and staff; the fence still remains along the pondside; and even the causeway is there still, capable of bearing the flow of traffic that would be arriving soon.

It was under this causeway that we passed again on our way back home — the scene of a forgotten battle, a moment of heroism, of one man standing firm against an approaching battalion, rockets bursting in air, great rending explosions — oh. That rending explosion was actually not in memory, but in present tense. Very tense, in fact. We had collided once again with the same large rock.

A Red, Red Rose

Robert Burns

She Walks In Beauty

Lord Byron

Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer’s Day?

William Shakespeare

The Passionate Shepherd to His Love

Christopher Marlowe

How Do I Love Thee?

Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Did not fish, according to Darwin, decide to grow themselves some lungs and legs? The Darwinist wishes, in his deepest secret heart, to have chosen for himself to be, to have created his own existence, for that is the only way that he can be a god.

To be created is to have another who is greater than you, one to whom you are accountable for how you use the existence that you have been given. Even that element of “given”-ness is anathema to the Darwinist. To accept a gift, even the gift of life, is to be in some measure beholden to the giver. A true gift, of course, does not bring any debt save gratitude, yet even gratitude is too great a debt for the proud man, for it implies that another who is greater than you has shown you grace or mercy.

This would, in some measure, also extend to one’s biological parents, for they are the most immediate and obvious givers of one’s life. So the Darwinist, together with his Siamese twin the Freudian, has absolved himself of even the filial debt with his smoke screen of biological necessities and instincts and cravings and survival of the species, blowing it all so thick that no one can see clearly through the haze of amoral equivalencies.

The eternal hope of the Darwinist is not heaven but self-godhood, becoming one’s own god and answerable only to self.

Now, all this is bad enough, but far worse than the Darwinist is the so-called Christian evolutionist. This person is a true Laodicean, neutralized to vomitous luke-warmness by the mixture of hot and cold, Biblical Christianity and worldly paganism. He is so desperate to be accepted and respected and “cool” and “relevant” in the eyes of the world, so enamored of the world’s sophistry, that he attempts to embrace with one arm the false god of Darwinism without letting go of Jesus Christ with the other arm.

He is a double-minded man, serving two masters, simultaneously believing with whole heart two mutually exclusive ideas. For the foundation of Darwinism, the pebble on which it is built, is Death; while the Rock foundation of Christianity is Life.

Darwinism, the religion of Death, requires that death be present for its tenets to be feasible. A creature (that word itself is loaded, for creatures were created; therefore, the Darwinist never uses that word, preferring “life-form” as his Hitleresque euphemism) — the creature that supposedly changes — “evolves” or “adapts” in Darwinist jargon — does so simply in order to survive. Darwinist theologians do not preach that “adaptation” occurs because the creature wishes to thrive or to learn more or to advance himself in the world; they sermonize on the fallacy that a “species” is threatened with extinction and must grow wings or lungs or legs or tails if it is to survive.

The Bible, in contradiction, teaches that death did not exist on earth prior to Adam’s eating the forbidden fruit. This belief — that sin brought death into the world — is the imperative belief for Christianity. It is the basis of our most central tenet, that only Christ’s death could bring atonement for sin. If death already existed in any form prior to Adam’s sin, then Christ’s death becomes futile. He is the second Adam, the “Last Adam” according to Paul (1 Corinthians 15:45), and His sinless life paid the price for the first Adam’s sin-induced death.

In short, the Bible teaches clearly and repeatedly that Death did not exist on earth until Adam ate the fruit. This required both knowledge and free will. A horse commits no sin because it is not accountable for understanding the will of God, not capable of choosing between God’s will and self-will. Only a fully formed man is capable of this. That fully formed man was named Adam, and he was created in a moment by the command of God, created fully man and fully accountable.

Christian evolutionists adulterate themselves with the world by trying somehow to believe that God used Death to help Him create life. Only a pagan could believe that — a pagan and a Laodicean Christian.

(attributed to Martin Luther)