From the Editor, Vol. 20 No. 1

Imagine a crisp, white bay in early morning—the water taut and glossy as a lemon, the waves teetering gently in the breeze like stacked porcelain plates... Everything is pregnant with motion. Soon the boats will be untethered from the docks; soon the odors of motor oil will intermingle with skillet sausage and microwaved egg muffins, and speakers will echo their mumblings underneath the bridge. Hot air cascades through screen windows. This is the Florida panhandle in its high season. It is mid-July, and big dragonflies are nesting near a bright bank of zinnias—everything is a banquet unto the senses. 

It was in this tropical array, amidst the morning stir, that I found myself seated on a pier, pondering the future of this Ichthus. We were just starting to compile and refine articles, envisioning how to bring this issue to life in print. As I watched the boats with the Gospels open on my lap, a flood of questions washed over me. What would this year entail on campus? How would our aspiration to revive the Ichthus manifest itself? And how would these pages address the spiritual needs present at Harvard? 

The air was damp and still. God was busy in His kingdom of silence. In all my desires for understanding, I had wanted the upcoming semester to unfold like scales before my eyes without first grounding myself in the budding uncertainty of the present moment. Yet all around me, in brilliant hues of pink and green, was the quiet insistence of growth. 

Life at Harvard felt like a distant reality—it often seems otherworldly beyond the bounds of Cambridge. This is because it is not so much a place as it is an amalgamation of places, people, and their histories from around the globe. The same holds true of the Bible; it is singular and yet encompasses countless different facets. Envisioning oneself within Biblical narratives is surreal. Just as the image of Widener Library steps slick with snow appears elusive, so too does the thought of Jesus all flesh and fish boats, preaching to a curious crowd of eyes from the water. Neither seems quite real outside of itself. 

But we must use our imaginations boldly. It is our weapon of incarnation against the tremors of this world, for we serve a God invisible who is calling out to us by name. If He chose to speak to us through mystery, then we should engage in dialogue with the mysterious. Reading literature, gazing a little more closely at art, repeating the lines of a poem—all of these practices strengthen our muscle of imagination so that when we open the pages of Scripture we may be more docile to the vision the Holy Spirit wants to cast before us. 

Now I challenge you to imagine that same bay, crisp and clear, gathering around the body of a boat. The Apostle Peter is trembling at the call of Jesus, and wet ropes are slipping from his calloused hands as the hot sun beats on his back. He is uncertain about many things, but the face of the Christ illuminates the center of his vision. Christ called, the boat gently rocked, and Peter paused, loosening the nets from his grip. This is the punctuating moment of a vocation: hearing God in the midst of daily work. 

With this edition of the Ichthus, themed “vocation,” we want our pages to be that kind of listening—an act of receptivity before God. In these essays and poems, you will find questions that press against the age: What does it mean to be called to work in the midst of ambition? To serve in the shadow of success? To live humbly in a culture that prizes performance over prayer? We believe vocation is not merely an individual call but a participation in God’s plan for salvation—a way of joining our testimonies together in the ongoing story of grace. 

Now back on Harvard’s campus, in this liminal corner of the world, that same call to follow Christ seems at once nearer and harder to hear. We live in an age of static, where meaning is promised everywhere and always falling short, and being busy is an apt distraction. Yet vocation cuts through the comfort of our protective routines and calendars. It takes us off our own course, out from the boat that casts nets only for the demands of the market and into the homes of our neighbors. Vocation partitions our life before Christ like water and oil; we continue to work, but now we do so as ones who have been called by name. For vocation is the belief that God still speaks to His people—not abstractly, but personally. To be called is to be named; to be named is to be known. Cardinal Sarah writes that “contemplative silence is a fragile little flame in the middle of a raging ocean. The fire of silence is weak because it is bothersome to a busy world...” 

So I cast before you a net of pages. May you hear, as you read, the faint sound of that same voice calling you—gently, insistently—into the deep. We may be in the midst of another busy semester of our lives, whether at Harvard or beyond, but let us not work for worldly demands, but labor instead for the kingdom, resting as we are commanded in the Sabbath of Christ. 

In joy, 

C. McGowin Grinstead