The theologian is indispensible. She is the not-thoughtless. She takes no thought because she gives it. And the more she gives it away, the more it multiplies.
As the not-thoughtless, she is the never-bored. She loves people more than things and things more than words. She loves people by loving words and things. Her words pierce the rotten diction of tradition and dogma and creed and fasten, once again, words to things and things to people. She faithfully repeats what she is told by never faithfully repeating it. She reads the Bible by writing a new one.
No sermon is too long, no text is too dry, no lesson too familiar, no claim too self-congratulatory that she cannot read in it the word of the Lord.
When she reads, she reads right off the edge of the page and onto her desk and into her yard and out under the sun. When she writes, she writes right off the edge of her page and onto her desk and up her arm and into her heart. Her arms are tattooed with a fine scrawl of unrepeating names for God’s grace. Her body is an unboxed tefillin. Her eyes, open.
She loves losing arguments. Living, she never ceases to die. The subtext of her every word is the sacred syllable OM. Her cells, making copies of themselves making copies of themselves, hum it as they work.
Not the moon but a finger pointing at the moon, she induces a synaesthesia of saving doubt and speculative confidence and valid inference. Still pointing, she smells what she sees, hears what she feels, and touches what she tastes.
All day long she sacrifices her thoughts on the horns of life’s altar, burns them without hesitation as incense, eats them without regret as shewbread, working by of theology toward that place where her thoughts end and she parts the veil and clasps her child’s bare hand.
She is indispensible. She is the reason for the other reasons (and, as such, she embodies that place where the rational and the absurd touch). She is God’s work and glory.
She is that thing she had never dared suppose: she is nothing.