"Walking along a narrow, dimly lit road late one night, a rather stern-faced gentleman was struck by a passing car and sent hurtling through space. In the morning he was found, stiff and cold. His heartbeat was undetectable, due to a strange, Hitchcock-like affliction triggered by the impact; so he was taken to the morgue and laid out on a slab. From all outward appearances he was dead, and had been for some time. He would have been removed to a cemetery and with all proper respect buried alive, save for one small detail that went unnoticed by everyone but a morgue attendant. The detail -- a tear that occasionally ran down the cheek as if in a rush to get out of sight.
To present-day critics, the church is like that pedestrian lying beside the dimly lit road late at night. They say the church is dead or dying . . . . What they fail to see is that one small detail, the tear."
Paul G. Johnson, Buried Alive, page 9.