Do Not Be Daunted

A sermon I wrote for four children, ages 13, 10, 10, and 8, to preach in worship at First Presbyterian Church of New Haven on December 18, 2016.

For context, much of the congregation had recently read the book Faithful Resistance: Gospel Visions for the Church in a Time of Empire (compiled and partly written by Rick Ufford Chase). The Gospel reading of the morning was Matthew 1:18-25. Shortly after the reading, the children acted out a play which elaborated on the text, and the play led directly into the sermon. Find the scripture passage here.

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L: “Do not be daunted by the enormity of the world’s grief.”
A: “Do justly, now. Love mercy, now. Walk humbly, now.”
M: “You are not obligated to complete the work--”
R: “--but neither are you free to abandon it.” *

A: Did you know that Jesus was Jewish? This is something that surprised me when I first learned it. When we read our Bible as Christians, we don’t want to make it sound like God left the Jewish people or thought their faith was not good enough. Joseph and Mary were Jewish, too. That’s why in our play, Joseph makes a point of telling his sister that he still loves God and Torah, which is the Hebrew Law.

M: Later on in Matthew, Jesus even says that he has come to fulfill the Law, not to abolish it. Sometimes it isn’t really obvious, but most of the things that Joseph, Mary, and Jesus do are in light of their faith, not in spite of it. In today’s text, Joseph has a decision to make. What does the Law require of him?

L: “What does the Lord require of you? Do justice. Love kindness and mercy. Walk humbly with your God.” Micah 6:8. His faith would have taught him to honor both justice and mercy.

R: The Bible says Joseph planned to “dismiss Mary quietly.” We don’t know what really made him decide that, but we do know he didn’t want to hurt her or shame her. A public accusation would have done that. So why isn’t it good enough for Joseph not to hurt Mary? Isn’t that both justice and mercy? Why does he decide to stay with her, and what difference does it make?

M: “Do not be daunted by the enormity of the world’s grief.”
R: “Do justly, now. Love mercy, now. Walk humbly, now.”
L: “You are not obligated to complete the work--”
A: “--but neither are you free to abandon it.”

R: The Harper Collins Commentary tells us what it means for Joseph to be a righteous man. Besides valuing justice and mercy, Joseph is also “open to divine revelation that corrects his traditional way of thinking.” In other words, Joseph is open to God telling him something that Joseph wouldn’t recognize as holy without God’s help. This too is righteousness.

A: Joseph dreams that an angel tells him who Jesus will be and what his birth will mean. This is the Messiah the Jews have been waiting for. This is Emmanuel, “God with us.”

M: Faith does not only challenge us to be more just and more merciful. Faith challenges us to stay with God and the vulnerable people God loves.

L: When people are in danger or pushed to the edges of power, even if the threat doesn’t affect us directly, it still changes our lives. It must.

A: “Do not be daunted by the enormity of the world’s grief.”
M: “Do justly, now. Love mercy, now. Walk humbly, now.”
R: “You are not obligated to complete the work--”
L: “--but neither are you free to abandon it.”

R: Faith changes how we witness crisis and pain. The Global Bible Commentary tells us not to ignore the political implications here: “Having hope is a political act of resistance against death-wielding powers.” These powers might be government, economics, social norms, or religious convictions.

L: In our play, Joanna shows us what’s at stake for Mary. Mary agrees to help bring Jesus into the world, but even if she tells people the whole story, they might not believe her. Because of social and religious customs, acting on her hope could put her in danger.

M: Brian Merritt writes in Faithful Resistance that salvation is not something a person can own. Instead, “we understand salvation to be resistance that pushes … toward equality and compassion for all living creatures.”

A: Along with Joseph, we might also learn that there is more to loving people than sparing them from harm. Sometimes faithful resistance means being a friend or companion to someone other people wouldn’t blame you for ignoring.

L: Merritt writes, “This is why direct action and mutual aid are so central to our own spiritual growth. These actions put us at risk in ways similar to the constant condition of those who are oppressed. It may be our only opportunity to find Christ in this world.”

A: Remember, Joseph is not the Savior here. Jesus is.

R: And God’s salvation work will happen whether Joseph decides to participate or not.

M: But through the dream, God tells Joseph exactly what it is he has the chance to do. And just like with Mary, God already knows what Joseph’s answer is going to be.

R: “Do not be daunted by the enormity of the world’s grief.”
L: “Do justly, now. Love mercy, now. Walk humbly, now.”
A: “You are not obligated to complete the work--”
M: “--but neither are you free to abandon it.”

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*Citation: This quote, used here as a refrain, is commonly attributed to the Talmud and appears to paraphrase/be influenced by a few voices, such as Rabbi Rami Shapiro.

The Carpenter's Apprentice

A Parable by Kimberley Fais

Photo Source

Manuel made his way through the woodshop that he had inherited from his father. Now himself an esteemed carpenter, Manuel found the apprentice at a workbench in the back, putting the finishing touches on a model ship about the size and weight of his own two hands.

Seeing his craftsmanship, Manuel told the apprentice, "You will build a boat fit for a journey."

The apprentice looked up in surprise. "I will?"

"You will."

"When?"

"While I am away."

Without another word, Manuel set out, and the apprentice set to work.

The apprentice was overwhelmed with honor and excitement. This was his chance to do something real and useful. Oh, he loved fashioning toys that would delight and entertain children and knickknacks that would adorn shelves and mantels, but never before had he been entrusted to build a true vessel.

He made the boat from a dense wood, the most extravagant he could afford. It was the kind of wood known to make exquisite furniture, and the apprentice imagined his ship transporting a king across the sea. He embellished the mast and carved a figurehead for the bow. He sanded the hull smooth and drenched the interior with varnish until it shone. He added every imaginable accent and amenity to raise the boat’s appeal.

When Manuel returned, he found the boat at the woodshop.

"It's heavy," said Manuel.

The apprentice quickly tried to reassure the carpenter. "Wait," he said, bustling around the entirety of the boat and plucking off various pieces. "I can fix that. I’ll get rid of the extras."

The carpenter shook his head. "Build again."

Without another word, Manuel set out, and the apprentice set to work.

The apprentice was embarrassed about his mistake; that he had gotten so carried away, so complacent. Of course his first real ship should have been humble, simple, understated. This time, he built a boat that was lightweight and thin and very nearly bare, save for the most essential of essentials; nothing unnecessary or cumbersome to weigh it down.

When Manuel returned, he found the boat at the woodshop.

"It's light," said Manuel.

"It'll float," the apprentice said proudly.

"And crumble in the waves," said the carpenter, a regretful expression to his brow. "Build again."

Without another word, Manuel set out, and the apprentice set to work.

The apprentice found just the right sort of wood for a boat, but he became self-conscious about his ability to build a ship that would not be too unwieldy or unbalanced or structurally flawed. He had failed twice already, and he desperately wanted this boat to be one fit for water. He made a sturdy little boat, one that surely could endure a bit of tossing in the waves without toppling.

When Manuel returned, he found the boat in the woodshop.

"It's small," said Manuel.

"Size doesn't matter," wailed the apprentice, "as long as the boat is balanced and strong. That's what you said!"

"You made a boat for you," said the carpenter, "a safe and simple project. This time you must build for more than yourself."

The apprentice sighed with impatience. "Come on, Manuel. Even Noah got measurements for the ark. Just how big should this thing be?"

The carpenter replied, "Big enough."

"OK," said the apprentice. "So what is that in cubits?"

The carpenter simply smiled and said, "Build again."

Then, without another word, Manuel set out, and the apprentice set to work.

The apprentice built the biggest ship he could build. If a boat for one made him seem petty and self-centered and aloof, a boat built for a massive crowd would surely be inviting and triumphant. No one would be turned away from a ship this great, and what a tribute it would be to Manuel, the mentor whose apprentice single-handedly built such a remarkable ship.

When Manuel returned, he found the boat in the woodshop.

"It's big," said Manuel.

The apprentice looked hopeful. "Big enough?"

"Too big," said Manuel.

"Whoa, whoa, wait." The apprentice leapt to the side of the boat in its defense. "Are you worried about the floating thing again? Because I know this one will float. I used the strong, lightweight wood and everything."

"Too big," said Manuel, "because there are not enough sailors to manage it."

"So we'll get more sailors."

"We will have only the sailors we will have," said Manuel.

"You know what this is all about," the apprentice insisted. "You know, but you're not telling me, and it isn't helping. How many sailors will need to board this thing?"

But the carpenter only smiled and said, "Build again." As he turned to go, the apprentice caught his arm.

"Manuel," the apprentice insisted, "I've built again and again. I need to know more. I need to know who is traveling and where they are going and how best to get them there."

"Yes," said the carpenter. "Yes, you do."

So the carpenter set out, and the apprentice went into the center of town.

He watched and listened and wandered the streets, noticing things he never noticed before. He realized then that ever since he became the carpenter’s apprentice, he tended only to notice people enjoying their handiwork—the children who had received toys built in the shop; shopkeepers using shelves and furniture and tools crafted from wood.

For the first time in a long time, the apprentice walked through town and saw and heard what people needed. The apprentice had only received his assignments from the carpenter, but it seemed that the carpenter had wanted him to surface from the woodshop so that he could talk to the townspeople himself.

But no one he met had any need of a boat.

Then he met a family just beyond the market. With some weary reluctance, the woman with a wriggling toddler in her arms explained to the apprentice that they all needed to get home, across the sea, and didn't know yet how they would make the journey.

The apprentice looked at the family; the mother and a few of her grown children would be strong and able sailors, and some smaller children would need a safe space to travel with them.

The apprentice smiled and said, "Come back to the woodshop with me to tell me more, and I will build a boat fit for the journey."

The Impromptu Travel Companion

As I mentioned in the account about the time that I did not sleep in a ditch, I was, for the most part, a lone traveler.

Until Tim.

Short curly brown hair. Slight space between his two front teeth. Europe Guide Book glued to his hand. Backpack big enough to carry a limp body.

In a nutshell, the antithesis of me with exception to the friendly disposition - friendly enough that the likelihood of him actually carrying a body around seemed fairly low.

I'd taken what might be considered the Incognito Approach to backpacking. I dressed casually in plain prints and colors - minimal logos and lettering - and carried only the bookbag I'd used in high school. In any given place, if I looked enough like I knew where I was (not frequently the case, but nevertheless), I imagine I looked more like a student than a tourist.

And generally, that was more accurate. Between budgeting my trip and realizing that my own priorities tended to be less the museums and attractions than plain people-watching and wandering around town, I spent much more time "playing local" than tourist. True to the guide book in hand, Tim preferred to scope out good restaurants and famous landmarks.

On the other hand, he also liked to scope out the McDonald's in each place he visited, not to eat there but to check the price of a cheeseburger for means of comparison. Apparently you can tell a lot about a city by how much the fast food costs. I was slightly less interested in this undocumented study and slightly more willing to treat it as a scavenger hunt.

There was one thing that Tim and I had in common, though: we had each done the majority of our journey on our own. I'd found that traveling alone seemed more to my benefit than a liability. Not only was I more alert than one may be with a group, but also silent (i.e. less boisterously American), save for the occasional simple phrases to get around. I felt safe on my own.

Theologian Paul Tillich has said that "Language... has created the word 'loneliness' to express the pain of being alone. And it has created the word 'solitude' to express the glory of being alone." In between great times of meeting up with friends along the way, I was rather enjoying some glorious solitude.

And as any vacationing being knows, the moment you taste solitude is the moment something or someone stumbles upon your quiet place.

Cue Impromptu Travel Companion. How he went from "fellow tourist" to "impromptu travel companion" is essentially a tale of one man's spontaneous decision to co-opt an acquaintance's plan for a detour through Bologna, Italy, but don't worry, because in the end he turns out not to be a criminal, as far as I know.

So Tim 'n Kim hit the road. Or the train tracks, as the case may be. It might have made for a fun photo in a travel journal or backpackers' catalogue, me with my puny high school backpack and him strapped to that trailblazers' bodybag. It could have doubled as a jetpack if the thing wouldn't weigh him down so much.



On the train, I spent most of the time writing while Tim pored over his traveler's guide book. We were happily quiet company, but all it took for me to miss the glory of solitude was for Tim to ask about what I was writing.

Ain't nobody ask what I'm writing 'less they don't wanna live.

I am not usually what folks would call a "sharer."

I know, strange personality trait for a blogger, but the truth is this: my first blog? I told about three people that it existed. Socially, as do many people, I have very wonderful but very few confidants, which somehow carried over into my willingness to share my writing - even my fiction. In my first (and last) creative writing workshop, I dreaded shopping work, which is oddly a central part of the process.

And one of my college professors once asked, if I wanted to be a writer, why had I never tried to submit any of my work for publication? Was I not even curious? Was it a simple fear of rejection or was it actually that I refused to open up to the point of being a writer who avoided readers?

Blogging (v. 2.0) has actually been a challenge to myself to be more comfortable with articulating the silly and the serious to others; to force myself to complete short pieces of writing meant to be read rather than hoarded. It's taken me a long time to get to this point of openness.

And by all means, I think it's fine for people to be reserved. Privacy and dignity are obviously not shameful, especially in a world of "over-sharing." But some part of me - the part that began AmenAbility, the part that doesn't lose herself in her writing but rather remembers the world as she writes - was ready to be more open to people. And not just as the Giant Ear, a role that I quite like to take on, but also, perhaps, as a Voice.

Why has it been so difficult to embrace that?

So while it was easy to resent the Impromptu Travel Companion for interrupting the glory of solitude and for reminding me that I was the Awkward Loner hovering over a notebook like it might disintegrate if someone else so much as glanced at it, this unusual meeting was also a thought-provoker for me. Made me contemplate why I was so defensive about a fictional story. Because it wasn't already complete? Because it wasn't high quality and it would injure my pride? What, then?

It made me think that maybe, if I pour so much of my being into what I write (yes, even the silly things - especially the silly things), I don't want to wait until I've completed a masterpiece before I'm willing to share my work with other people. I'm all for promoting quality over quantity, but maybe there is something to sharing besides thinking that something is good enough for an audience, that something is done and thus needs no additions or alterations.

My life is thus far unfinished, too, and by no means a work of art. I expect it could use quite a few changes and, I like to think, many additions. It could end tomorrow or it could end years from now - I don't know. But I do know that I don't want to keep life contained and avoid living it with others, either.

So I'll take my chances.

The Portrait of Samantha

One winter's day in England, I woke up and the sky was bright blue and I leapt for joy. But the day was even more extraordinary than that, and it involved food and chance-meetings with memorable strangers. And food.

Between a delicious Nutella crepe from Michel's and a movie at the Odeon, I spent a couple of hours wandering through the city. Most everyone I knew in town had evacuated for the holidays, and I was determined to begin my month of general solitude by finding ways to appreciate where I was even in the absence of familiar faces. Heading along St. Aldate's, I doubled back a little and decided to take the "scenic route" past Christ Church - past its trees, its veinous vines and its forbidden grass (so tempting) - toward the Thames.


Naturally I had already devoured my crepe of chocolate love and hazelnut happiness, so with slightly sticky but otherwise conveniently free hands I unleashed my camera on the world, taking the clear skies as an opportunity for shutterbuggin'. My camera at the time was decidedly moody and decidedly not compatible with Britain. It didn't function well with grey any better than I did.

Along the broad path, an elderly woman rested on one of the benches, a great willow tree behind her and the leaves of the tall oaks enveloping her in shade. She wore a light green hat and a cozy white coat, layered over which was a white apron. On her lap she worked at a large piece of paper, already quite far along with branches of graphite splaying across the sheet.


We exchanged greetings at a distance; shared our satisfaction with the weather. I regaled her with my bit about my anti-cloud camera and was pleased to see her smile, even though it didn't seem she needed a reason. She was simply pleasant, enchanting. Before long we were thoroughly engaged in conversation, and she showed me bits of her work. She considers herself an artist and a poet, and "perhaps a sort of philosopher." She loves nature. She ponders humanity, life, innocence. She pointed me in the direction of the last poem in her collection, one about youth.

"I wrote that after I saw a child skipping ahead of me one day," she explained. "I was a child once. But where did I go? I swallowed myself."

Hm. Paraphrasing there. I suppose philosophy is one of those things that sounds equally cryptic whether or not you've quoted correctly.

She would draw the trees from one college campus after another. Often the images would eventually be scaled down to be placed on cards. She spoke of one young woman who asked her to design her wedding invitations. The couple were married in a forest and have since lived in a tree house somewhere.

The trees must have been her favorite. She would speak to the trees; she would hear them. I'm not one to believe vehemently that plants and inanimate objects have personality or communication, but then my science professor that year had told me that I anthropomorphize everything, and he generally needed to explain whatever neurological process I'd just butchered in actual scientific terms that would not lend emotion and motivation to ions and synapses. I decided not to tell him that I've also named half my appliances, or that I speak aloud in a specifically quirky voice to signify translating for my dog. And when this woman admitted to me that after dropping a spoon she set it down elsewhere and said, "I'm putting you in solitary confinement!" my inward chuckle was quickly quelled with a thought of - well, a moody camera. Let's leave it at that. So I won't judge.

I listened. Just listened.

She extracted a card from her unusual portfolio, full of scribbled pages and scraps of fabric. "I saw these two little acorns and this is what they told me," she said. She opened the card, and inside with another image of the acorns it read, 'We will be two trees.' She smiled when she read it.

She described Joseph, an oak, and Samantha, the great willow behind her. There were several designs incorporating Samantha in particular. She'd written a book about her called The Portrait of Samantha, and seemed to feel especially fond of her. She said that one day, Samantha asked, "Do you think I'm beautiful?" and so she drew her, as well as a self-portrait, and placed them side-by-side, and Samantha thanked her.

She seemed to remember every person, every face, every name; what's more, she knew each of their stories, as though no life were to go unnoticed or forgotten. That young man is a maths student from America; he has another year here. The runner over there - he comes by the river every day at this time. They all acknowledged her in passing with smiles and salutations.

"This man," she later explained, nodding unobtrusively down the path to a man in a long black coat, "was a professor at Christ Church. He's retired now, and he's become an alcoholic. Falls asleep sometimes here amongst the trees."

As she continued I listened silently, both intrigued and concerned, not daring to glance at him and trying to find a balance in remaining respectful of both the speaker and the unknowing subject.

"Look," she whispered more fervently, her brows raising into her wrinkled forehead, and finally I did.

The red of his entire face only accentuated his bulbous nose and droopy eyes. A bit of saliva or such dribbled at the side of his lip a good way down his chin. What most captivated me, however, was the addition he had made to his long black coat: a flower, an entire flower complete with about 18 inches of its stem, held assumedly through a button-hole near his lapel. He looked absolutely sorrowful, as though in perpetual mourning. Slowly he passed us, and I thought he was going to continue to plod down the path without a word, but he nodded to us and said quietly, "Good luck," before departing.

There was little more to our visit. We talked more of art and writing. Suddenly it seemed not to matter that inside I knew my passion for both was dwindling; it was exciting just to share the appreciation for it with someone. Without knowing all this, she told me, "I can see the writer in you." It was an unexpected comment - one that, along with all the intriguing parts of the afternoon, gave me a subtle spark of the creative passion that I'd so missed. It isn't often that an acquaintance acknowledges something, anything, in you. I should add this to my repertoire of day-brighteners. I should be so fortunate to lift someone in that way.

Her name was Zoe Peterssen, and on a whim I later searched for her online. Apparently people have spoken of meeting her in this fashion at least as early as 1998. Learning this, I only feel all the more honored to be a part of this decade or so of people who have been somehow enchanted with this woman, so much so that she has been immortalized not only through her work but also through stories told everywhere.

Before I left I bought one of her cards, one of the portraits of Samantha. I liked it because it was in fact the tree behind her as we spoke that day, but also because it had made an impression on me as I looked through her collection.

Inside it reads simply: 'Not alone.'

Perhaps God speaks through the trees; perhaps through portraits of them.

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This is a revision of an entry from my old travel journal, December 2008.

The War of Art

Before one of the last races of the Christ Church regatta (fall 2008), our team warmed up, rowing south along the Isis toward the starting line.

My legs became stiff, locked, almost physically unable to move. Part of me, a very athletically- and physiologically-ignorant part, worried that I had overdone it and that if I continued I could do some sort of irreparable damage. It seems silly to say it, but the fear was real enough. I finally confessed to the captain, who cycled along the shore to cheer us on and, when necessary, communicate with the marshalls on our behalf.

She told me to work through it, to use it, and I did. I put more force into my legs than ever, driving hard through the water if just to spite them. Each time I have trouble writing or working or doing anything, I remember that moment, that triumph - not just the victory, but the fight for it.

During that same year my writing prof realized that my creative energy was beginning to dwindle. I think if one day we ever meet again and decide to play Pictionary or Charades, I want her to be on my team:

"This" - she said; I don't even remember what nondescript noun she called it - "is it light or heavy?"

Stuck. Honestly had no idea. Whatever it was, it felt like nothingness to me. Is nothingness light or heavy?

"To me it feels like the heaviest thing," she said so earnestly, almost forlornly, gazing out the window of her study to the vast meadows across the street. And so the questions continued. "What does it smell like? Does it have a taste?" I didn't know. I must have conjured up something unappetizing to satiate her curiosity. "Give it a name," she said finally.

I felt my skin flush. I eyed the door. I remembered the feeling of being cornered and remembered I didn't really like it.

"A name!" she said. "Give it a name, like..." [Here insert a nonsensical name for a fictional character in the 2088 Novel of the Year, or the name of your favorite circus troupe's star clown. Either one.]

I sputtered uncertainly, "Stan?"

"Stan! Good. What does he look like?"

Perhaps it was only colored by my own discomfiture, but this interaction was nearing bizarre, and I was not responding all that creatively. I summed up what I called the Archetypal Emo Guy, upon her confusion as to what that actually meant. And then for specificity's sake I doodled him, pretty black tresses hiding his little eyes and all.

Apparently the purpose of all this was to give me something to work against. I wonder if fiction requires an extent of friction, both inside (the story itself) and out. Conflict, driving force, motivation. So my perpetual task from the prof throughout the year was this: to fight Stan. It was like playing a video game with my own badly conceived villain, made slightly better with my own shuffled music collection for a soundtrack.

But she had quite a point. Naming it - even naming it Stan (or Juggernaut... but more on that tomorrow) - that's the first step.

I fought Stan. I fought him hard, but never entirely defeated him. Stan fancied himself a stowaway and traveled home with me. He has since popped his hairy little head in now and then, and I'm devoting the first year of grad school to squishing him between my frenetically-typing fingers.

When I was about six, I drew a picture of Superman flexing his graphite biceps and captioned it with a phrase that had caught my eye: "What doesn't kill you only makes you stronger." My mother kept it on her bulletin board, and I think seeing it there made an impression on me. It wasn't just a display of her kid's art. It was a statement of conviction. It was a battle cry. It earned a notable place in her own work area, her own Stress Central.

So cue the music. Something to play while Superman kicks Stan's butt.



Or something like that.

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Battling your own creative blocks? Fighting resistance? Be it in writing, art, business, sport, or anything at all, I wholeheartedly recommend the book The War of Art by Steven Pressfield. Check it out at StevenPressfield.com or find it on Amazon.

Can I Get An Amen?

It has seemed, throughout my own experience, that God teaches and shapes and transforms someone all the more not in times of great human brilliance but in moments of meekness, humility, and even confusion. If theology - religious discourse, God-talk - were solely a matter of intellect, what could a student of theology ultimately strive to attain but the omniscience of God alone?

And so it is in the spirit of not-knowing, of accepting the immense magnitude of an omniscient God, that I embark on my seminary career. Now at Drew Theological School, just a few days before the beginning of the semester, I realize that even as I seek knowledge, I do not seek concrete answers as much as I seek peace - the acceptance of not having them - and thus a balance between intellectual activity and all other growth.

This morning I seized the opportunity to take a writing exam using a computer. A child of the late twentieth century, my hands are seemingly incapable of handwritten decrees. Having come to accept this as both circumstance and personal identity, the thought of organizing an essay by hand strikes fear into my heart. It seems inevitable that many students planning to pursue ministry have certain roles and places to which they plead with God not to send them. As Dr. Westfield said earlier this week in advising students how best to select a cross-cultural program, sometimes we must go to the last place in which we envision ourselves. And though it may seem a weak comparison, for me, a handwritten exam is much that place. When my computer seemed less ready for the writing test than I was, and I watched as it processed, simply processed, I took out my pen.

I spoke the other day with Larry, an alumnus of Drew. Larry has worked in prison ministry for many years, a vocation he discovered through his wife, who had been set on this particular form of ministry long before it ever struck Larry himself as "suitable" for him - or rather before he believed himself suitable for prison ministry. He spoke about his reluctance and concerns, but also about the dismal place in which he found the inmates. The incredible crossroads that brought them together came out of something seemingly hopeless, and although many found it difficult to persevere, many lives were transformed entirely.

Larry and I discussed being grateful for times of concern because of the growth there. It is being thankful for the flood washing over the earth, for the despair beneath the juniper tree, for the agony of the cross, that in all these things there may be new life. It is the "amen" of assent and approval, the acknowledgment of truth and divine providence, shouted in times of apparent disorder and uncertainty and suffering; the faith that something great is happening beyond the grief, the hurt, the hopelessness, even if the greatness is yet unseen by human eyes. I pray that God will take who I am and do something despite the tohu vbohu, the mishmash, of who I would be - not without my knowledge of God but rather without the presence of God's own wisdom and peace.

Arriving at the threshold of theological education is rather like waiting for my computer to "wake up" beyond the point at which even the computer itself seems baffled. As I set out by hand, still eyeing the stagnant screen, I knew that eventually the computer would find focus and move on, but I knew, too, that I haven't all the necessary wisdom to understand how it works - or why it does not. And so I waited, and adjusted to a method of working that makes me incredibly and wonderfully uncomfortable, adjusted to the idea that perhaps it is easier to set about something along the best course one can find than to fear that the way is not familiar or safe or well-lit, and never take a step.

And when both I and the computer were ready, I began to type.