Everything we write must be written with the constant anticipation of un-writing. As religious people we are caught up in the ebb and flow of God. Of God who breathes creation one moment and then destroys it in a flood the next. Of a God who is always on the tip of our tongues, but who (or which) may never be exhausted by any words written, or dreams dreamed.¹

So it is with great trepidation that I write. For as soon as I write, I must begin an ascetic practice of un-writing. Though, I must write. For though I may have to un-write my writings. It is far better to have written them and un-written them, than for them to remain simply unwritten.

I will write. I will write to give a voice to those on the margins. Though, I must always remember that I must let those on the margins un-write or critique my writing. For I write on a laptop, in a warm home, on a comfortable couch. But everyone writes from somewhere. There is no utopian writing from nowhere. So I start from where I am, and I hope and pray that in the process I will find myself caught up in the light of those who reveal truth, that is, those on the margins, those who are suffering.

And I will un-write. I will un-write to give voice to those I have left out. To those I have overlooked. To those that my frenetic prose has left unheard, unseen. I will constantly un-write and be unwritten. I will allow myself to be unwritten, but not written off. My voice will be heard, but it is only one voice among many. One writing among a cacaphony of writing. My writing only makes sense in the context of the writing around me.

So I write tentatively, but I write. And I un-write.

1. Though, I suspect our dreams are often more precise than our words [↩]