A blank slate, every morning begins with a blank slate and puzzlement: what to write? It isn’t for any reader out there who may be waiting breathless for ayaSophia, but for me alone, clinging precarious to that last drop, ounce, tittle of sanity before the plunge into the abyss. What then?
Our gospel this morning is not a story, not one of our wonderful stories of Jesus, not “I love to tell the story,” but an ajar door that admits human interference with Heilsgeschichte. The storyteller is quiet, the campfire has died down. Around its embers doze a few wanderers who have not gone home to their tents. As light hints in the east, stars blink out, extinguished one by one. Intellectuals arrive to construct a concrete bunker for the high and lofty One who inhabiteth eternity, and creeds are born to define incomprehensibly the One who, speaking from the fire, will not even tell us his Name. I AM.