Where is the Story?
Where is the robust Story, strong enough to bear the weight of bodies and of souls, to touch millennia of wounds and scars softly, with healing, to feel a billion billion muscles strain towards life? Where are the benedictions that we crave when blessings seem in short supply? Will we, like Jacob, smelling like the hunters we are not and wearing the skins of deception, steal from an unseeing one the blessing for which we thirst? Or will we live our un-narrated lives, and say as Esau says, “I have enough”, set out for the margin, known from that moment on not as ourselves but as our children? Where is the story that will catch us as we plummet from the brink, pushed off the page by our own bare adequacy, by our having enough and no more? Will we wrestle with a Stranger in our dream, seize our blessing and receive our limp? Will we fall and rise again like Joseph, trafficked by his brothers – slave, prisoner, then unlikely hero (who mines the truth of d