Preface and
Acknowledgment
Trackless Wastes and
Stars to Steer By
In that wondrous piece of
autobiographical theologizing called The Alphabet of
Grace, Frederick Buechner says that "most
theology . . . is essentially autobiography." I
agree, which is why in this book I often make explicit
connections between my personal story and my theology.
Given that stress on autobiography, I
want to credit some of the people who speak through me,
in their many and varied and sometimes contradictory
ways.
First comes my aunt Evelyn King Mumaw.
I think this book began the day she handed me the
blanket. It was heavy and warm. One side was plain. On
the other side, surrounded by red roses, roared a fierce
tiger.
Aunt Evie told me my grandfather and his dates kept warm
in their buggy under the blanket. Later it kept my dad
and his siblings cozy. That blanket came to symbolize for
me both the warmth of my inherited home of faith and its
fierce demands.
When Aunt Evie gave it to me, I was
groping back toward the tradition it represented but
still feeling ambivalent about it. I preferred the grace,
freedom, and joy I was finding through immersion in
various psychologies.
But the blanket tugged at my soul and
drew tears. It stirred me to love what it stood for. I
resolved to be true to my blanket and simultaneously true
to the wisdom I was finding among people who knew nothing
of my blanket’s world. This book is the result. I
wrote it for myself and all who yearn for warmth in a
chilly world.
Next come two people without whom I
wouldn’t exist, much less write: Aaron and Betty
King, my parents. They’ll probably wince (as I
imagine they always do) when they read one more published
critique of ways I experienced my background as
constricting. As any good child should, I have a few
bones to pick. But only a few, these days, probably far
fewer than my daughters will have if they ever (God
forbid!) theologize about their background.
After wincing, I hope my mom and dad
can hear what I’m most deeply trying to
say—that the family home they (and my eight sisters
and brothers) gave me made an excellent model for
building a theological home.
When I tell of the day she walked my
agnostic self around the college library for three hours,
explaining why she saw not only random molecules but God
in falling autumn leaves and sun setting sweet on
Massanutten Mountain, she’ll know who she is: Joan
Kenerson King.
Our friends thought it couldn’t
work—I so faithless, she so faithful. But it did, as
we wrestled with each other’s beliefs, as God
entered the wrestling, as together we built a faith
blending the best of both our ways. We share life, love,
our children. We also negotiate who does what when. She
gave me time to write this; I owe her, I know. I also owe
Kristy, Katie, and Rachael, who knew the writing was done
when they got their dad back.
Then come uncles and aunts, too many on
my dad’s side to be named (though I sneaked Aunt
Evie in), but important, nevertheless. They remind me
there’s power and beauty in a commitment to God so
deep that giving up radios and TV’s and other
"worldly" things is seen as small sacrifice.
On my mom’s side are two uncles.
Probably without knowing it, Robert Detweiler, intrepid
adventurer and explorer, taught me to delight in roaming
to the far corners of my soul. Richard C. Detweiler, wise
and gentle church leader, taught me that my soul was
God’s and helped me see the church as a good home
base from which to explore.
My professors at Eastern Mennonite
College deserve mention. The late Anna Frey took a shy,
scared college freshman under her gentle care. She
listened to my doubts and hopes. She also sensed how much
I wanted to write and taught me most of the few rules of
English I remember.
Willard Swartley showed me that
critical thinking and faith can go together. Titus Bender
came to EMC too late to teach me in the classroom, but I
got to know him and Ann anyway, and learned, by watching
how they live, to love the parts of myself and others
that are hurt, torn, outcast.
I met other mentors at Eastern Baptist
Theological Seminary. Vincent and Charlotte DeGregoris
taught me to let God’s voice speak through stories,
feelings, dreams, and visions. Peter and Carol Schreck
stirred me to make peace with my family and church
backgrounds and showed me the gold hidden in them. They
helped me see myself as a "stodgy liberal,"
someone who could only be healthy by holding
"conservative" and "liberal"
influences in creative tension, rather than opting for
either. We argued about it, but Ron Sider finally
convinced me the universe is open to God’s action.
And he got me started on book writing by inviting me to
coauthor a book with him.
Germantown Mennonite Church offered a
vital laboratory for developing and testing my ideas.
Though the views expressed herein are indeed my own,
Germantown was to them what soil is to seeds. Because I
couldn’t stop, I won’t start naming those
countless Germantown people I came to love. But I can
thank them for tolerating my novice pastoring, for
pushing and challenging and supporting me, for offering
precious glimpses of how to build a Christian home in a
homeless age.
James C. Longacre, trusted adviser and
crisis manager, oversaw my work at Germantown. He gave me
space to try out my wild ideas and helped me clean up the
mess when they didn’t work.
Daniel Hertzler and David E. Hostetler
published my articles often enough to make me believe in
myself and rejected them often enough to keep me humble.
Loren Johns was my trusty editor at
Herald Press. Putting it through computer analysis to
bolster his case, he gently and correctly prodded me to
simplify and polish my first draft. Then he skillfully
polished some more. After Loren left Herald Press, S.
David Garber faithfully saw the project to completion.
I thank them all, as well as friends
and influences beyond number, scattered across the world
and roaming through my being
Michael A. King
Telford, Pennsylvania
Trackless Wastes and Stars
to Steer By orders:
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