Fall 2013 Volume II Issue III

A Christian Journal of Literary Arts at Brown University and the Rhode Island School of Design

Staff
President Elizabeth Jean-Marie Editor-in-Chief Margaret Nickens Layout Editors Chelsea Wang Tammy Kim Business Manager Nia Campinha-Bacote Fiction & Poetry Editors Cia Mathews Aleyna Mason Non-Fiction Editors Nar Gulvartian Taylin Im Russyan Mark Mabeza Online Editor Margaret Nickens Circulation Director Taylin Im Recruiting & Marketing Director Monica Perez Copy Editors Taylin Im Madeline Price

Submissions & Inquiries thebrowncornerstone@gmail.com Online browncornerstone.wordpress.com facebook.com/CornerstoneMagazine

CORNERSTONE Magazine Fall 2013

Cover Photo by Karlee Lillywhite

Contents
Non-Fiction
6 Becoming a Greenhouse Elizabeth Jean-Marie 8 Reflections of a Brown Derby Russyan Mark Mabeza 11 My Own Heart Surgery Russyan Mark Mabeza 28 The Adventure of Teaching C.S. Lewis Dr. Timothy Flanigan

Poetry & Fiction

16 The Winepress Ningfei Ou 17 Ransom for Many Isabella Martinez 20 He Holds My Hand Olugbenga Joseph 21 Silent Flocks Isabella Martinez 23 The Wanderer Christina Sauer

Artwork
13 Dress Sherman Hyungsoo Kwon 20 Presence of Fear Tamara Kwark 22 Absence of Memory Tamara Kwark 32 Dancer Karlee Lillywhite

Mission Statement
Cornerstone Magazine seeks first and foremost to celebrate the Christian Gospel by presenting its richness and beauty to Brown and RISD students and faculty. Open to those of all denominational persuasions, we provide a literary and artistic outlet for followers of Christ. We publish works of art, prose and poetry that exhibit intelligent and creative approaches to current events, history and Christianity in general.

Lydia Yamaguchi 14 Ducks Go Mac

CORNERSTONE Magazine Fall 2013

Lydia Yamaguchi 14 On the Wall of a British Castle

Letter from the Editor

The Wind and I
John 3:8 The wind blows wherever it pleases. You hear its sound, but you cannot tell where it comes from or where it is going. So it is with everyone born of the Spirit. The tree outside my house was hideous. It was dying, and the leaves melted towards the ground in shame. They were freckled and misshapen, fluttering constantly in terror. If the wind allowed, their ragged tip would occasionally reach towards the sky, but they would inevitably sink again in exhaustion. When I read under the tree, blackened remnants of leaves will fall into the cracks of my novel. They soak the pages with their slimy sick, but out of sympathy, I let them remain. I have never encountered such pure desperation; I cannot turn away what has already been denied by everybody else. I know the wind causes the leaves the most pain. It is strong during the fall, when the leaves are already hanging precariously onto their branches, and it fearsomely burns through the wormholes in the leaves. One morning, when the wind was screaming through the air, I implored it to stop. The tree convulsed in painful sobs, powerlessly exposed. Just let the tree rest for a few minutes, I cried, but I did not know where to direct my pleas. The wind picked up speed, tearing leaf from limb and throwing its victims carelessly into the dirt. The leaves lay in the mud, their edges slowly curling up as brown seeped from their core. ITS DYING, I screamed. DONT YOU SEE THAT IT IS DYING. The wind whirled, coming in bends now. The tree and I huddled together, unsure of where the next gust would hit. As I clung to its trunk, pieces of bark peeled off into my hands. I stared horrified at the trees flakes, coming in larger and larger chunks. The branches dipped lower to the ground, unable to hold on, even to its skin, and with the wind whipping my hair into the trees bareness, we wept. When I woke up the next day, I knew the tree was dead. It no longer wilted with purpose but now sagged in dejected formlessness. The leaves fell in clumps from the trees branches, realizing their own mortality. They shivered in the dirt as they sought for nutrients that they would never again be able to find. I curled up against the tree, placing a leaf into each of my palms. My tears would do nothing to enliven them, but I sought to give them a companion in their pain. The wind, too, had calmed, gently caressing the tree, tucking it away for the night. I had been sitting there for awhile, when a seed floated onto the ground near my leg. Half-mooned wings carried its thick belly, and looking up, I realized the wind was carrying many others, until they surrounded the entire base of my sleeping companion. As I sat there, bleeding for the loss of my friend, the seeds took root. They groped the soil with strong assurance, and burst into the morning light as the wind delivered powdered strength. They slowly grew around me in a fortress of bark, the wind slipping through their mighty trunks and tickling my nose. The wind smiled through the air. It murmured, I will always bring life. Just wait. I will always bring life. My old friend melted into the ground, yielding the soil to his younger companions, but these new ones did their part too, commemorating all who have been lost, all who will be lost. And sitting in the middle of my tree fortress, I realized I was not in the middle of things, or in the middle of anything. The wind came from everywhere, destroying direction in its route, but bringing tender kisses to all those waiting. I waited, for once, and the wind came to hold me in my sadness and my fear. The wind held the trees and the grass, and together we all grew, and we broke through the clouds. Soaring above the mountains, we thanked the wind, for carrying us with its touch.

Sincerely, Margaret Nickens Editor-in-Chief

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Becoming a Greenhouse
How Deactivating Facebook over the Summer Changed My Life Elizabeth Jean-Marie
At the beginning of summer, I always start with a to-do list. Usually the list consists of getting in shape, eating well, catching up on some great novels, and learning a new skill. This summer, I added a task that Ive never really put on a to-do list before: getting closer to God. Though the necessity of adding this task to my list initially eluded me, over the summer God revealed to me how in need of it I really was. I think its safe to say that Ive been a follower of Christ all my life. I grew up in a Christian household, and I was baptized on my 12th birthday I was a John 3:16 Christian. I recognized that Christ is our savior and that He died on the cross for all our sins. For me, recognizing who he was and what he had done was enough. Going to church once a week was enough. Occasionally cracking open the Bible when it was convenient was enough. Praying before I ate and before I went to sleep was enough. At the beginning of this summer, something clicked, and suddenly I was incredibly aware of how nothing I did was nearly enough. So I added the item to my list: get closer to God. I started by taking C.S. Lewiss Mere Christianity out of my dads office library. I read about 20 pages before I put the book down and turned to TV and the Internet. Weeks later, just when my goal for the summer was all but forgotten, God swooped in and took over. On fourth of July weekend, I went to New York to visit my cousins and we went to church that Saturday[1]. The worship service was touching, and the sermon was electrifying. After church I just couldnt wait to get back to my mission of actually getting closer to God. When I got back home, I tried to start reading Mere Christianity again and got through a couple pages. The chapter that I read wasnt particularly inspiring, and I could barely get through it. I found myself at a roadblock. I have heard all my life about the importance of a relationship with God. But seek ye first the kingdom of God is hand-stitched on a pillow on my couch, and yet I couldnt even explain what it meant to truly do so. I knew I had to make a change, something drastic; so I came to the conclusion that it was time to take out the distractions in my life, including Facebook. I honestly didnt realize how much time I was spending on Facebook until I didnt have it anymore. I thought that Id miss Facebook most when I was at home on my computer, but it turns out I missed it consistently throughout the day. Whenever I was waiting at the bus stop, sitting in lab while the centrifuge ran for ten minutes, or even waiting in line at Subway, all I wanted to do was aimlessly scroll through my newsfeed. In those empty moments, it was as if the world had suddenly gone quiet, and I was able to finally hear my own thoughts. Deactivating Facebook felt like I was coming up for air. Suddenly getting closer to God didnt seem so abstract anymore. My prayers were getting longer, and my Bible studies more in-depth. And it wasnt just that I was finally off Facebook, it was that I finally had the strength to stay off Facebook. For the longest time Id always tell myself, I cant imagine living without Facebook, and here I was, living without Facebook. My mental boundaries were suddenly shattered. If I could stay off Facebook, then I could certainly do the things that Id always put off for tomorrow. I could finish Mere Christianity, I could wake up every morning with the Word, and I could be in constant communication with God. Every empty moment was an opportunity to talk to God, or to open the Bible, even if it was through my IPhone app. The time that I spent reading scripture gave me so much clarity on what was preventing me from making that final step to walking hand-in-hand with Jesus. 1 John 5:11 states, And this is the testimony, that God gave us eternal life and this life is in His Son. I glanced over this verse as I read the rest of 1 John, which is full of such great wisdom, but when reading a passage in Mere Christianity, the significance of this verse came back to me. A Christian is not a man who never goes wrong, but a man who is enabled to repent and pick himself up and begin over again after each stumblebecause the Christ-life is inside him, repairing him all the time ... any good he does comes from the Christ-lifeHe [the Christian man] does not think God will love us because we are

CORNERSTONE Magazine Fall 2013

good, but that God will make us good because he loves us.[2] Being a Christian, for me, had always been a matter of following Christian traditions: going to church, praying before I ate and before I went to bed, and occasionally going to Bible study if I had time for it. What I never realized was that all I needed to get closer to God was to let Him in. To allow Christ to live through me, so that I could move from living my life for myself, to living it for God. The roof of a greenhouse does not attract the sun because it is bright, but becomes bright because the sun shines on it.[3] Now I am a greenhouse, and the only way I can become bright is through Christ shining on me.

[1] Elizabeth is Seventh Day Adventist, and observes the traditional Sabbath by going to church on Saturday [2] C.S. Lewis Mere Christianity, pg. 63 [3] C.S. Lewis Mere Christianity pg. 63

Lydia Yamaguchi 14 Birds in the Park

Reflections of a Brown Derby

Russyan Mark Mabeza
The Brown Derbies is an all-male a cappella group founded at Brown University in 1982. Since then, they have sung at the White House, performed at Carnegie Hall, met Debbie Gibson, been featured in the Early Show, and performed at weddings and colleges across the United States. I am Derby #145. Ive been asked numerous times before how it feels to be a Brown Derby, but I have never given a satisfying answer. I am thankful to be part of this group for a lot of reasons. With the Derbies, Ive had more excuses to sing and more courage to push myself musically. I got to do things I never thought I would have done before: stay at a beach house in Florida, do ridiculous dance moves for a competition, and most importantly, get to know a set of completely different people, all of whom have completely different interests and viewpoints than I, but have somehow ended up being some of my closest friends at Brown. While all of these are good and true, being in the group is not all rainbows and harmonies. Being a Derby exposed me to some of the most emotionally taxing experiences Ive had at Brown. They have challenged my beliefs and led me to wrestle with different aspects of my faith. When I told the Derbies freshman year that I wasnt going to drink, the inevitable question was Why?, the type of why asked out of curiosity as opposed to pressure. This made me ask myself: really, why was I not drinking? I didnt want to show my embarrassing drunk self, I said. Translation: Im not supposed to because people from church didnt do so. Translation: Im not sure if Christ would be doing the same thing. Translation: Because of my faith. Why couldnt I tell them that? What was it about my faith that kept me from telling them the real deal? Was I gasp ashamed? I would say yes. Yes, I was. For the rest of freshman year, I didnt drink even amidst Sloshball, a tradition of playing kickball against another a cappella group on campus, but with a twist. Still, my question remained, and it extended to the rest of the things I couldnt do because they were against my rules. I was falling into a legalistic trap. I was becoming bitter. Everything I did at that point was a checklist. Read the Bible. Check. Pray. Check. Dont do this. Check. My convictions had become the hollow following of rules. What is the meaning of Christianity? one of the Derbies asked me. Love, I said. This concept is something that Ive increasingly understood over the course of my walk as a Christian. Rule-free love. Not the one that lets you do whatever you want even if it hurts and destroys you, but the love that does not need a to-do and not-to-do list. Love that is born out of a genuine desire to make the other happy. This is the type of relationship with and obedience to God I have grown to desire and strive for. I want to follow Him because I love Him, not because of the rules set before me. Another thing that I have grappled with is pride. Before getting into the Derbies spring of freshman year, I was rejected by two groups in the fall. In my first weeks at Brown, I tried to build my identity as a singer. I wanted to be somebody amidst a sea of people who had traveled and changed the world before they had gotten into college. At least I got singing, I thought. When I didnt make it into those groups, I felt like I was being told I wasnt good enough at the one thing I thought I was good at. Dealing with rejection was an ordeal. My mom told me that I sounded more upset about these rejections than about a recent breakup. In all this questioning and humbling, I found myself in the Branch, the Christian group of which I have been a part since entering Brown as a freshman. That first semester was my chance to know and strive to be the person I wanted to become without the added pressure of being in the a cappella community. It was the relative calm in which I could start figuring out my faith and relationship with God. Clutch is a word I would use to describe that semester of rejection. Had I gotten into the groups I auditioned for that semester, I probably would have turned into the most arrogant person I know. Even now, pride is still something for which I need to watch myself. Performances come with a plethora of compliments, thanks to the incredibly supportive people that surround me. You were so good! You have the

CORNERSTONE Magazine Fall 2013

voice of an angel! You were amazing! It is so, so easy to let flattery go to ones head, and Ive always been wary of that. This awareness had made me inept at receiving compliments. How does one graciously accept commendations without thinking highly of himself? How does one maintain genuine humility? John, my mentor from the Branch, told me one of the best pieces of advice Ive heard regarding this quandary: Take compliments as roses. Then lay them all at the feet of Jesus. I cant claim my voice as my own good doing. Its like claiming Im responsible for having my hair color. My voice, along with anything in me that is remotely beautiful, is all Gods doing. He is the beauty in me. Now in my fourth semester as a Derby, I am aware of how much Ive grown to love and care for the group. This caring is probably the hardest challenge of them all. There are nights when I try to sleep but cant because I am preoccupied with Derby-related things our adventures and gigs, the group dynamic, our relationships. These people have managed to occupy a nook in my heart that I never really thought I was willing to share. This caring, I think, is a reason why God has had to challenge me multiple times with these questions. Do you love Me more than this? Do you love Me more than that solo you are trying to get? Do you love Me more than the applause and the accolades? Do you love Me more than the bonding, the traveling, the fun, the harmonies, the people? Each time I am confronted with these challenges, I come back to some of the most important memories Ive had as a Derby. Being on a humongous stage for ICCA, one gag away from a grandiose Pitch Perfect-esque moment of puking in front of hundreds of people. Hearing my friends scream their support in Sayles and Wayland Arch. Having vulnerable moments and deep conversations. Hearing a wild knock at 11:58 pm one night in the spring of freshman year. Opening the door. Hearing the Derbies sing, welcoming me in. If God asked me to give up all of this, would I be able to let them all go? Sometimes, when I find the answer difficult to acknowledge and accept, I look back to what

my friend, Berit Goetz, a Brown and a cappella alum, said when we were at Urbana 2012. I was praying today, for the first time actually, that if I could no longer sing - that no one would ever compliment my voice - that its okay. Ill be fine. Jesus is sufficient. Singing is a gift. So are being a Derby and the Derbies themselves. Being in this group has been a significant part of my Brown experience. It has been a great and worthwhile journey with this group, but it, too, shall pass. At some point, I will have to let go. Amidst all this, One will remain constant. Through the remaining semesters I have of putting on my white shirt, khaki pants, brown vest, shoes and derby, there is one reflection that I hope to see when I look in the mirror: Christ shining through me.

Justina Lee 15 Self

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Lydia Yamaguchi 14 Sunset Blues

My Own Heart Surgery

Russyan Mark Mabeza
Mr. Mabeza, are you ready? The nurses voice echoed with a soft urgency. I dropped my red, lifeproof-cased iPhone and put my gloves on. Yes. I have been operating on hearts for quite a while. I guess Ive always had the skill to look at them, diagnose precisely what is wrong and perform surgeries successful ones, for the most part. This wasnt true, however, of one particular day. Sawing through the sternum of the patient, I felt the heart inside my own body exploding into bigger and faster beats. As soon as I finished cutting, I opened up the halves of the breastplate, revealing a strikingly strong piece of muscle that lay underneath. Usually, when I slice up someone, I would know more or less what to do: fix up this perspective, offer replacements for this attitude, be weary of past experiences. This time, however, I was suddenly confused about what to do and what needed to be fixed in the first place. As an all intelligent - or maybe curious is a better word doctor wannabe, I decided to investigate. The first incision brought a strong, mellifluous voice into the room. It produced notes of different ranges, filling my ears with vibrant soul, almost close to those Ive heard and envied on the radio. It sang melodies and harmonies and just as I was getting lost in all its beauty, I heard a crack - the kind that a chain smoker has when he attempts to reach either a high or low note. The singing stopped and the voice became hoarse, semiinaudible whispers that soon became a raucous, dissonant mosaic of cracking, breaking voices. am I good enough why is this not my solo this is my part make it louder shine ah yes applause compliments deny it false no no no no affirm me look at me listen to me LISTEN TO ME tell me Im good Im not good enough I am very good deny it stop go wait Im not good enough Just as I thought my head was going to explode from all the noise, it died down into a loud, theatrical murmur. I decided to keep going. I made the next incision, ignoring, even attempting, to work with, the noise in the background. As I sliced with my scalpel, I came across something hard and metallic. I soon realized that it was a medal in a pile of buried ones deep in the atria of the heart. The medals were of different sizes, shapes and prestige. Best in Science, Student of the Month, Big Booty Runner Up, 1st Place Feature Writing. They all blended with the pieces of the heart itself. The metal parts were so ingrained that I even wondered how blood was still circulating through, how the patient was still surviving despite the rust that had accumulated and built up in the blood system from all the old medals laying submerged there. It dawned on me that fixing up this heart would require getting all the metallic pieces out. I decided doing so was too much of an ordeal, so I kept on looking at the rest of the heart. At this point, the pericardium had turned black, like tar lining the walls of the organ. My first instinct was to peel it away. I discovered that the blackness was a series of printed names. Peeling away the names was like peeling away bits of string cheese, except each time I did so, the heart resisted, like it did not want to let go. I kept on going, seeing names of failed relationships, broken friendships, acquaintances purged on Facebook, people the patient might or might not have cared about. Eventually, the names became exactly just that: names. I was growing weary, and my back and feet were hurting from all the standing. But most of my exhaustion came from the increasing emptiness I felt in the cavity of my own chest. There was one last name that I tried to peel off the heart, before I started hearing the life monitor beeping wildly as if telling me to stop, before the loud murmurs around became furious screams, before the monitor steadied into one single pitch saying I was failing, that both my patient and I were dying. The rest of my senses failed, and the world became a pitch-black oblivion. The name was mine. The good news is that I am alive. I remember waking up, sitting alone on a chair in a row of maroon ones. In the front floated a minimalist cross, with light shining through, illuminating microphones, guitars, a piano and a drum.

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Russyan. Someone mentioned my name. After, silence. God sat right next to me. Im happy youre here, He said. I couldnt look at Him. He let me sit in silence for a while before he spoke again. You fought a good fight. Operating on your own heart was very brave. I was wondering when you would give up. That bit made sense. It was my breastplate that I had sawn. It was my heart I was making incisions on. It was my own heart that was dying as I failed operating. There was a name that proved difficult for you to detach from your heart, He said. Yes, it was mine. You are correct. He didnt need to hear me speak my answer. Your name has had such a strong hold on your heart, that when you attempted to separate it, you almost died. I have known you before infinity began, and since the day you were born, I have seen you grapple with the question of who to live for. When you gave your life to Me years ago, I was filled with so much joy. You were coming home. Indeed, I was. At that point, I was overcome with an emotion I couldnt explain. I was smiling and yet, I found tears rolling down my cheeks. Your voice is special. Not because it is any better than the rest of the worlds, but because it was designed to give praise to Me. You have used your voice in so many ways, some of them meaningless. You sought the applause of an audience to affirm how talented you are. You used it to assert yourself, to claim a space to occupy. On stage, youd sing and feel on top of the world, and the applause filled your ears, so much so that compliments became your vain attempt to validate your place on earth. When you are alone, however, you always wonder whether you are good enough. You question the gift I gave you, and it broke my heart every time you did that. You sing to the world with so much soul and passion, and I would excitedly anticipate you

singing to me. Every Sunday I wait for you. Because you see, you sound best when you sing to Me. I dont care if your notes are on point, or if the harmonies are correct. What I care for are your hopes and dreams permeating the air inside our meeting place, with your tearful melodies and laughter. I want to hear you sing to Me, so I can sing to you all the beautiful plans that I have in store for you. You have kept your accomplishments so dear and close, that you find it hard to learn from My Word. There are times when I want to tell you something, but your hardened intellect would return My knocking convictions with metallic clanks of resistance. Every single day, I am yours to hold, but your pride keeps you from getting close to me. Your ego has caused you to believe that you are good by yourself. I am here because I worked hard. I deserve this because I was persistent. I am entitled because I am great, youd say to yourself. I gave you your words, strengths and intellectual gifts to reflect My glory. Instead, you used them to uplift yourself and in so doing have slipped away from the embrace I always offer. I think you think youre too grown for my hugs. He gave me a knowing smile before His face became serious again. The names on your heart are those that you have hurt. Some of them, I am aware, you do not remember. Throughout your twenty short years, you have wounded others and unbeknownst to you, yourself. The names on your heart are those that you have tried to substitute in place of Me. There is a hole inside your heart that is meant only for Me, and yet, you stubbornly try to fill it with mortal, imperfect people. You are so desperate to find the right person, the one that I had set aside to be your partner on earth, but forget to work on being worthy of that one. Because of your impatience, you settle for something less than my plan for you. You fought and tried to make it work with certain others, thinking, insisting, that those people were the ones I wanted for you. In the end, they all failed. You are bitter and heartbroken. I have waited for you to come crying to Me. You never did. Mid-operation, you grew weak and fell on the floor. The entire operating room was a mess, to be honest. I took over. I fixed your heart. It was

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a lot of work, but I want you to know that there is nothing that will keep me from trying to revive you from bringing you back to Me. See, I sent My son so you can freely come to Me. I gave Him up so that I can have you. That is how much I love you. I will never leave you nor forsake you. I know the plans I have for you, plans to prosper you and not to harm you. As far as the east is from the west, I have taken your flaws, darkness and insecurities away from you. While your heart is now healing and tender, you have the option of letting me care for it. And I hope you do, because there is nothing else Id rather do. You are the apple of my eye. You are in the palm of my hand. He sat closer and put His arm around my shaking shoulder. I woke up today and felt my heart beating. It is scarred, but it is as good as new. The hopeful news is that my days of attempting to operate on my own heart, or any heart for that matter, are over. Mr. Mabeza, are you ready? The waiter smiled as he gestured toward the door. Beyond it lay a feast especially for me, hosted by no less than my almighty Father (and perfect-record, heart-operating extraordinaire). I dropped my red, lifeproof-cased iPhone and fixed my tie. Yes.

Hyunsoo Kwon 13 Dress Sherman

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Deep chimes bring forth the Far East dawn Rousing Her bruisd souls. With bruisd knees She soldiers on For them the prayer bell tolls. Ningfei Ou

Ningbo, China, 2013 . These photos are snapshots of the church in China, and are only a coloured shard in the grand stained glass of the Lords work there. A hundred years ago, the groups like the Hudson Taylor and the Cambridge Seven would go to China for missions. But now, missionaries are springing up from the tilled land and sowing seeds elsewhere, and the blazing fire of the Spirits work in these places burns seven times stronger.

By the grace of God my great grandfather heard the message of the Gospel through a preacher passing through his village - the same grace that miraculously saved the life of my left-fordead grandpa. The empty pews are by no means empty - the residents are seminary students who study Gods word in hiding because the municipal governors forbids their establishment. They stay in most days of the 4 years, voluntarily give up their phones and their summer holidays, and may only go home after graduation. There is not enough space for willing students. The stools are prayer circles formed by women, all above the age of 70, kneeling for 4 hours at a time in an unending chain of prayer. These prayer chains are common in such villages, but that faith is far from what we know as common.

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Ningfei Ou 15 Untitled

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The Winepress
Ningfei Ou
Come in, dance! Be merry! brother to Brother cried; Come pluck the flitting, sprightly tune, With viola and bassoon But I cannot care for the mirth of earth Brother to brother cried. Come hear our hallowed sound, Brother, O Brother, decide! At least, if you must dis-agree, Parade with us the free! But Ive no chains, I am unbound Brother to brother cried. Brother, why do you tread? Why bide there, arid-eyed? Have you the wrath of grapes provoked, The wrath of God invoked? Relent now; see, your feet have bled! brother to Brother cried. Dear brother: My feet bled, Yet not of mine but of the Grape The fruit of the Vine, my milk, my wine, My portion thick, and red. For have you forgotten, dear brother, that if I do not drink of it I die?

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Rachel Himes 15 Cemetary

Ransom for Many

Isabella Martinez
Adapted from Matthew 2:1-12 My master has been acting strange for weeks, I told the mare I was brushing. People are always surprised that I talk to the camels and horses as I work, but sometimes they seem to understand me better than humans. I know it doesnt really make sense, since animals cannot talk back, but I always had a lot to say and no one ever listens to the stable boy. Hes been wandering around the castle halfdressed and spending all his free time in his star-watching tower. Umwhat did he call it again? An observatory! Thats it, the mare snorted, and I grinned. It sounded like approval to me. I continued, He says that hes observing the stars; one special star in particular. One that hes watching appear before his eyes. I dont even know how he could watch a star appearand whenever he isnt at the star-tower, hes at the library consulting ancient texts. I shook my head and grabbed the things I was supposed to deliver. Imagine spending all day inside! Im only a young orphaned servant, the boy that is sent to do anything and everything, so it wasnt really my place to ask, but I couldnt help wondering what this extraordinary star might mean. Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, a saw a bright light on the horizon. I stopped in the middle of the path and stared. My mouth fell open in surprise and I almost dropped all the charts my master sent me to get. That star, that brilliantly shining star to the west, that hadnt been there before. That must be what he was charting, I realized. I ran the rest of the way. I was out of breath, panting, and sweaty by the time I got to the top floor of the observatory. I would have felt furious about the sheer number of steps more than a hundred! if it had only been an errand; but my own wonder spurred me on.

A Nativity Story According to a Magis Young Stable-boy

Sir! I exclaimed, running into the tower, The star...! Good, youre here, my master interrupted, I need three pounds of the finest gold from the treasury. I want perfect, pure nuggets that shine like like that star! Understood, my young friend? Gold fit for a king! Yes, Sire! Right away, sir! What can this mean? I wondered as I ran back the way I had come. It was only when I got to the treasury that I realized that I still had the charts. In our excitement, neither my master nor I had noticed. ~ That star and that gold turned out to mean a very long, exciting journey. A marvelous journey that for some lucky and absurd reason I was permitted to be a part of. Only a few days after I had raced up and down these stairs with charts in my arms, my master packed up his tent, grabbed a couple of old scrolls, put together a small armed convoy (too small for the Captain of the guard who muttered darkly about bandits), and set off for the west. I was in charge of animal care - which turned out to be much more difficult than I had anticipated because we were soon traveling only by night so that Master could follow the star. The horses and camels werent too pleased about that. Honestly, neither was I when the novelty of the experience began to wear off, and it was just sand and rocks for days. But the sight of that star was all I needed to regain my spirit of adventure. After several days of travel, the Captains voice boomed through the camp a few minutes before dawn. Sire! he declared, spooking a few camels, Two convoys approach, one from the northeast and the other from the southeast! Where are they heading? Master asked.

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The same direction as us, Sire! Masters eyes widened, and he looked up. I followed his gaze, one hand rhythmically stroking the spooked animals; the star was shining as brilliantly as ever to the west. I knew someone else would see the sign... Master murmured to himself. Only I was close enough to hear. Not that it made any sense. Set up camp! He declared to the group, We will dine with distinguished guests this morning. I eagerly watched the two groups as I undid saddles. One group rode camels (they must have come exclusively by the desert) and the other rode horses (lucky people as they must have avoided the sand and come by the mountains). Our gift of gold must be for one of them, I thought. The sun had risen by the time all three groups finished setting up camp and the three kings sat in an ornate dining tent the man with horses had brought with him. Master ordered for the cook to prepare the best provisions, and the three men had a splendid meal while they discussed something in low, serious voices. From outside the tent, I could only hear low murmurs, but their voices grew more and more excited as they compared star charts and ancient documents. I thought we would give the gold to these guests, I told the horses I was feeding. But now I think that our journey isnt over. We must be on our way to honor an even more important king. My heart beat faster at the thought of seeing such a man. ~ The next night Master directed our party to the west. With the addition of the two other convoys, the group was truly a caravan. Walking at the end of the line, behind the rear guard, I marveled that something could bring three different Persian magi together on a peaceful mission to honor a mysterious figure. ~ Many days later, we finally approached a city, and in the center, a palace gleamed. This has to be the place, I told a camel as I waited outside with the soldiers. The Captain was furious that Master insisted on going into a strange palace alone but Master declared

that the mission was peaceful. I was surprised and the adults even more so when Master appeared after a short time with the other two men in tow, all still holding the gifts. We shall continue, he said. But, your Majesty, the Captain asked in confusion, Isnt this the place? No. Well, arent we stopping here for the night? Definitely not. I do not like this King Herod. The other two men nodded in agreement and grumbled about suspicious motives. All three sets of soldiers exchanged bewildered glances, and I looked at a camel and shrugged. We once again camped outside and continued to follow the star. Finally, we reached a little town so small that it seemed insignificant compared to places that we had passed from a distance.The beautiful golden star was shining directly over a small building on the outskirts. As we rode there in our caravan full of kingly splendor, a young girl wearing worn clothing and holding a basket of goods approached the road from the fields. She was singing happily to herself in a language that sounded familiar, but she stopped in confusion as soon as she saw us. Two young lambs frolicked around her feet. Child! one king called in Greek due to the conquests of the king Alexander the Great many years before it was the common language of the world What is the name of this town? Bethlehem, sir, she answered in the same language. Do you see that star? another king asked, pointing. The girl nodded, she looked even more confused. Where does it lead? Master asked. The stables of a local innkeeper, sir. The kings started in surprise and exchanged glances with their companions. I glanced at the soldiers; they looked perplexed as well. Stables sounded just fine to me. The girl began to walk away then hesitated. She turned slowly, trying to find the right words. Why do you follow the star? the girl asked.

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We seek the newborn King of the Jews, Master replied. I stared at him. We do? I wondered. The girls eyes lit up with understanding, and she smiled. She murmured in her own language, which I suddenly identified as Aramaic, the common language of Judea. It was spoken by a few Jewish slaves kept by one of the kings. She motioned for us to follow, saying, Youve come to the right place! There was no room at the inn. The baby is a few weeks old! It was apparent that she wanted to say more, but Greek was not expressive enough for her. She simply motioned us onward, pointing to a small road that went around the town. Soon the stable was in sight, and she ran ahead calling something in Aramaic. Ordering the soldiers to stay outside, the kings entered the stable and presented their gifts; gold, frankincense, and myrrh. A young mother held the baby king and looked on in wonder as the father protested and inquired in Greek; What does this mean? The young shepherdess placed the basket by a stack of hay that seemed to be the couples bed and knelt by a manger. The lambs sat beside her. Her gaze never left the baby. A cloud passed in front of the brilliant star, and the stable became dark. I shivered; for a moment, the baby had seemed to be wrapped in chains made of shadows, as if he was being taken captive. Captivedoing wrongpunishmentransom My thoughts traveled a sad, dark path. Stories told by slaves chased each other in my mind. The girl tapped me on the shoulder and pointed at the baby. Jesus the Messiah, she whispered in Aramaic, then continued in Greek, Jesus the Christ. Angels came from heaven to tell us he was here. Messiah? Christ? The anointed one? I translated in my head . Hes a baby king, but Master once told me a story he read in his texts, a tale of a king that would die for his people. I gazed at the little baby, once again clothed in the light of the star.

This is the messiah of the Jews, the Savior of the World, I realized. He will pay the ransom for the many held captive by the sorrows of the world. The kings were telling the father and mother about the journey, describing the fabulous star we had followed here. The stable was warm and comforting, the smell of the animals familiar to me. It was strange, really, watching three wise kings dressed in gold-trimmed cloaks stooping before an infant in a manger. I watched in silence with the shepherd-girl as the three magi from the east knelt before the little savior.

Rachel Himes 15 Untitled

Lydia Yamaguchi 13 Scottish Springs

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He Holds My Hand
Olugbenga Joseph
He holds my hand Without the slightest hesitation He holds my hand To guide me from temptation He holds my hand In the midst of the enemy He holds my hand Cuz I dont know whats ahead of me He holds my hand Because I cant see on my own He holds my hand I am never alone He holds my hand And in case yall didnt know God holds my hand And He will never let me go

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Tamara Kwark 13 Presence of Fear

Silent Flocks:

A Christmas Story
Isabella Bello Martinez
Look out! Startled, I glanced up at the street. I saw the danger instantly and dashed into the safety of a small store, thanking the LORD that I was already more than halfway across the street. The streets of little Bethlehem, a few seconds ago as crowded as metropolitan Jerusalem, were hastily cleared. Many unlucky people were forced to drop their cargo and fling themselves to the side to avoid being crushed by the horses stampeding down the main street. Two Roman cavalry soldiers raced down the crowded street, laughing and shouting in Latin. They were speaking too fast for me to understand, but they were obviously drunk. Hey! a man shouted indignantly, You couldve killed someone! There are women and children around! Grumbles and cries of dismay filled the air as pedestrians searched for things theyd dropped or merely stood up from the dusty ground. I couldnt help grinning as I saw one important looking Roman soldier sniffing his red cape suspiciously; it was newly soiled with something black and sticky that looked remarkably like donkey dung. I would know we had donkeys doing their business everywhere in the fields where my family kept their sheep. Adjusting my ruffled clothing, I noticed a young couple on the side of the road. The man, dressed in typical clothing of a hardworking Jewish man, was holding the reins to a spooked donkey. He murmured to it gently while stroking its ears, attempting to calm it. The woman rode the donkey and wore a dirty, white dress and a blue headpiece. She had one hand curved around her bulging stomach, as if to protect it. The couple was surrounded by wrapped bundles that had fallen from the donkeys saddle in their haste to escape the soldiers. She was in no condition to bend to the ground, so I walked back the way I had come, and began to gather the stray bags. Here, I told the woman, placing them in her hands. Thank you, she told me, with a smile. I returned her smile, and tentatively asked, Have you found an inn? No, the man replied. We just entered the city. You should hurry; travelers have been arriving for days. Ive never seen Bethlehem so crowded! The census even has all the farmers and shepherds coming into town. Do you know where we can go? the man asked, giving his wife a worried glance. Her forehead had creased with concern at my words, and she placed both hands on her stomach. I was silent for a moment, thinking. Most places were full butFollow this road until you reach the synagogue, I told them, And then turn right. Theres an inn owned by a man named James. Hes a God-fearing man and will find room for you. And if his inn is full, hell direct you to another. The man looked relieved. God bless you, the couple told me, and they resumed their journey. Glancing at the setting sun, I hurried to reach the fields. I was supposed to bring my father and brothers dinner tonight. My eldest brother would not be pleased if dinner was late. ~ Hours later, I reclined against a boulder, drowsily observing an exceptionally large, bright star. Id noticed that star a few nights ago, and I could have sworn that it was growing. The only sound was the whisper of the wind among the blades of grass, the occasional sound of sheep bleating, and my father quietly singing a psalm of David. How precious is your love, O God, we take refuge in the shadows of your wings, he sang. I smiled at the peaceful night sky. Suddenly, a man dressed in clothes of

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luminous white was standing among us! I jumped to my feet with a small cry of fear, and I heard my family do the same. One of my brothers even began praying for protection against the devil. However, the sheep usually skittish around strangers did not run. Instead, they looked at the stranger with a look I can only describe as joy. The stranger smiled at us and said, Do not be afraid; for behold, I proclaim to you good news of great joy that will be for all the people. For today in the city of David a savior has been born for you who is Messiah and Lord. And this will be a sign for you: you will find an infant wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger. I stared, dumbfounded, at the being that could only be an angel. The messiah? Here? In Bethlehem? I felt a deep sense of peace fill me, and I knew the truth of what the angel was saying. Then, a crowd of angels filled the night sky, wearing an aura of peace and joy like a cloak. Glory to God in the highest and on earth peace to those on whom his favor rests! they sang. Soon, they were gone. Once again, we were alone in the fields with our silent flock of sheep. Lets go and find this child! one of my brothers shouted eagerly. But where are we supposed to look? my father demanded. There! I shouted, pointing at the brilliant star, Follow that star! Im not sure why I said that. But I was absolutely certain that I was right. I was expecting to be ignored, as the youngest often were, but my family agreed instantly. We began herding the sheep toward the direction of the star. The distance must have been long, but we walked briskly with joy in

our hearts and a song of praise on our lips. It seemed like only a few minutes had passed before we arrived at a simple stable. Hey, someone commented, Isnt this James place? Yes, I responded. I thought of the couple I had seen earlier today, the woman that had been about to give birthcould it be? My father opened the door and there, lying in the manger wrapped in swaddling clothes, was a newborn child, with his mother and father lying in the hay beside him. The young man from earlier today rose to his feet, looking at the crowd of dirty shepherds and a little shepherdess in confusion. Hasty greetings were exchanged. An angel told us My father began to explain, interrupted often by my brothers. Ignoring the excited men, I sat by the exhausted but content mother. Gazing at the child, I began to think. I thought of the angels, the stories about the Messiah, the hopes of Israel, the soldiers in the market, and, for some strange reason, I thought of the verses of Isaiah that told the story of a suffering servant One of the smallest lambs of the flock came and nuzzled me. I petted it absentmindedly, gazing at the baby. Then, I realized something. You, too, are a Shepherd, I whispered to the sleeping boy, You have come to lead the flocks of Israel; a flock of silly sheep that will follow one another off a cliff into a sea of sin if youre not there to lead them to safety. I became conscious that the man was speaking to my father. His name is Jesus, he was saying. Jesus, I though, the LORD saves, the shepherd that has come to lead his silent flocks.

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The Wanderer
Christina Sauer
I awoke as a wet snowflake chilled the tip of my nose. I opened my eyes. What looked like pieces of clouds falling towards me obscured my vision. I could make out a bright circle directly above me, covered by a gray canvas of sky. It was nearly noon. I tried to recall what day it was. Tuesday, maybe? I had lost track. Dead brown leaves drifted to the ground as I stood. I hugged my arms around my body. Fall had finally lost its grasp as winter took hold of the world. Already a thin layer of white covered the ground. I took two huge steps, stretching my legs. My knees popped. My toes tingled. I could feel the rotation of the bone in my hip socket. I shouldered my pack onto my back. A sharp pain ricocheted down my spine. I ground my teeth, took a deep breath and began walking. The falling snow muted the world. Birds, crickets, and other creatures tended to burrow into their warm homes. The wind might have blown, but there were no leaves on the trees to rustle. Such silence unnerved me. Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, I recited aloud. And sorry I could not travel both and be one traveler, long I stood Frost for a frosty day. How appropriate. My cheeks grew warm. I turned to find another man trudging behind me. By the worn-out quality of his boots, I knew he was a seasoned traveler. He raised his hand in a wave. Sorry, I didnt realize anyone was around, I said. He smiled through a coarse beard. I rather liked it. You have a strong voice. I felt pride swell in my chest. Thanks, I mumbled. I continued walking. The strangers pace was quicker than mine, and he soon stood beside me. I slowed to allow him to pass. The dirt path barely fit two across. He slowed as well. I increased my stride. He matched mine. Sweat trickled down my neck. My heart began to race. I glanced over at him. He was staring at me. I stopped. Did he mean me harm? Was he following me? Did he just need a companion? What is your name? I asked. Wanderer, he replied. A lie, I was sure. Peculiar name, I stated. Yes, its because I go from here to there without direction. I simply wander. It was then that I noticed he had no pack or belongings. Again, I felt the need to run. Perhaps he was an escaped convict? Well then, where are you wandering to? His eyes crinkled like he was about to laugh. That would defeat the purpose of wandering, no? To have a destination? I remained silent. I thought I might join you. Do you mind? It does get rather lonely out in this plain. My desire for human interaction overpowered my fear. I hadnt seen another man for over two months. I shrugged my shoulders. I tried to resist talking, but it was useless. Wanderer felt the need to fill up every space, a trait we shared in common. Where are you headed? he asked. Without breaking my stride, I pulled a map out of my pocket. It was wrinkled and stained. I had stolen it from a garbage can in a park the first week of my travels. I unfolded the paper and pointed to a circled isolated town in the right-hand quadrant: Betuel. Wanderer glanced everywhere but that point, nodding at the large Xs crossing out the towns I had already visited. Will we be there soon? he asked. For a wanderer, he certainly was in a hurry. Maybe today. Or tonight. Or next week. Im really not sure. This answer did not satisfy him as he continued to stare at me. He pointed ahead of us towards a copse of trees. Two roads diverged, he said. A large post stood amidst a pile of snow. One wooden arrow pointed towards the left, the other the right.

Tamara Kwark 13 Absence of Memory

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I looked at the map again. There was no indication of separate paths. Had I taken a wrong turn somewhere? I neared the crossroads. I had to make a decision. Both paths stretched straight into the woods. I could not see if they bent towards the west or east. Should I choose at random? I would be set back if I made the wrong decision. My reasoning failed me. I could give up. Turn around. Go back. It would be easier. What should I do? I asked. Wanderers eyebrows lifted. You must make your own choice. I examined the two paths carefully. The one to the left was completely obscured by snow. The right path was covered in various tracks, some appearing equine. My eyes returned to the left path. I felt drawn to it, but had no reason but a gut feeling to take it. This path. I pointed to the right. Surely where horses had trod, humans had passed by as well? ~ We traversed nearly two hours before emerging from the dense woods. The sun was setting and to my dismay, we found ourselves heading west. A wooden sign read Median mile. I chose wrong, I confided to Wanderer. We will have to turn back in the morning. He grunted and doubled his gait. I had to run to catch up with him. Wanderer, where are you going? His eyes met mine and I took a step backwards. The blue of his irises were as cold as ice. I held my chest. I couldnt breathe. My pack grew heavy. I hunched over until I was on my knees. I sobbed, my tears flowing freely down my face. I felt his arm around my shoulders. He pulled me close, drawing me into his warmth. I cried until my tear ducts grew dry. There is no turning back, he whispered. We can only move forward so long as we remember the lessons learned. With my weight on his arm, I stood. I looked into his face again. His eyes were red and watery. He had cried, too. I instinctively moved away from him. Who was this Wanderer? The town of Median sat on an island. The only entrance to the island was over a bridge, guarded by a scrawny young boy. He sat precariously on the edge of the stone bridge, swinging his feet back and forth. He was whistling.

Ello there, visitors. If you want to get in, you ave to pay the toll, he chanted. His dirty hands extended towards us. Whats the charge? I asked. He scratched his head. Well, that depends. What do you ave? I dug into my pockets. I knew I had at least a single coin to give the child. Are you hungry? asked Wanderer. The child grasped his belly. Am I ungry? E says? The child crossed his arms. Im always ungry. But today, Im thirsty. Me brother was supposed to take is turn on watch, but e never came. Wanderer bent down to the waters edge. He cupped his hands together, dipped them in the water, and began to drink. Sir, dont drink that! Its poisoned. The water must be boiled first! The child raced off the bridge and barreled into Wanderer. Wanderer took the boy in his arms and placed him in his lap. He once again pooled water into his hands and pressed them to the childs lips. Drink, he said. But, sir, its poisoned, he mumbled through pursed lips. Not this water. This water will make you content. The child still resisted. Do you not trust me? The child gasped. Of course I trust you, sir. And you are thirsty, are you not? He drank. After this exchange, the child let us freely enter the town. As we waved goodbye, he gave us a toothy grin. I swore the child whispered, The debt is paid. But I couldnt be certain. It was nearly dark, and the glow of fire illuminated the windows. My teeth chattered. So many questions raced through my mind. Was the water truly poisoned? Would the child get sick? What about Wanderer? Wanderer led the way. He guided us through alleys and roads. Have you been here before? I asked.

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Never, he returned. Near the middle of the island, we found a private boarding house. It was an old Victorian mansion with a wrap-around porch. Wanderer collapsed on the porch swing as I knocked on the door. I knocked three times before a womans face peered at me through the window. There was a clicking noise as the locks unbolted. The door opened to reveal an elderly woman. Her hair was white with flecks of gray. She wrapped herself in a fuzzy blue bathrobe. Can I help you? she inquired. Do you have room for two travelers for the night? I gestured to Wanderer. The woman sneezed. Wanderer sat up. Good Lord! she cried. Her eyes darted between Wanderer and me. Im sorry, but I can only take you. He, she swatted her hand towards my companion, is not welcome. Wanderer walked towards the door. The housekeeper shrunk behind the door. You will not let me into your house. It was a statement, not a question. The woman frantically grasped for the glasses hanging around her neck. Your voice? It sounds so familiar. She slipped the owlrimmed glasses onto the bridge of her nose. She stretched her neck out, like a giraffe, to get a better look. Do I know you? Wanderer closed his eyes, a wrinkle etched into his brow. His shoulders rose as he took a deep breath. No, he exhaled. I have never known you. With his words, he dusted his feet off on the doormat and left. That night we slept in the barn of a local farmer. We hid amongst the straw in the hayloft and fell asleep to the braying of sheep. ~ By mid-morning we had returned to the crossroads between Betuel and Median. The left path remained untouched. My back sagged under the weight of my pack. Each day, the load was harder and harder to bear. My body was slowly wearing down. I took each step gingerly as my legs prickled with needlelike pierces in my muscles. My foot caught on a hidden root and I tumbled to the ground. The force pushed the air out of my lungs. I floundered trying to stand. As I elevated myself to my hands and knees, my back

gave out again. I was pinned under my pack. That baggage is impossible for you to bear alone. I spat the mixture of snow and dirt out of my mouth. I can handle it. Suit yourself, Wanderer remarked. I continued to struggle. No matter how much strength I exerted, I could no longer keep myself upright. Exasperated and sore, I yelled, Please help me. His arms lifted the pack off my back. My body rejoiced from the relief. Wanderer had slung the pack onto his own shoulders. A vein in his neck pulsed. It was just as difficult for him to carry the pack as it was for me. Why dont we trade packs for a bit? he asked. I snorted. You have no pack! His voice was strained, and his breathing was labored. Then your baggage will be light. It will make your travels easier. I acquiesced as we continued on. The path to Betuel proved challenging. Once inside the forest, the path rose straight up and over a mountain. As we neared the peak, Wanderer fell and we both carried the pack until we were once again on flat land. The weight took a toll on my companion. By the early afternoon, I feared for his health. His face was pale and his sweat was mixed with blood. I begged him to return my pack. He refused. I saw the spire of a cathedral and shouted for joy. We have made it, Wanderer! Do you see the tower of the Cathedral? I raced out of the forest. The marble gates of Betuel greeted me. I danced. I shouted. I sang. My voice echoed into the skies. I lifted my hands and thanked the heavens. After years of searching, wandering on an endless path, I finally returned home. Suddenly, I remembered Wanderer. He should have reached the city. Hesitantly, I left the outline of Betuel and hurried back into the woods. Wanderer! I cried. I ran faster. What if he was hurt?

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I stopped and scrutinized the scene around me. The snow was no longer untouched. On the path was a single set of footprints, my footprints. I ran further. I knew both he and I travelled this part of the trip. I scanned the distance for an outline of my pack, but it too had disappeared. I called his name. Only silence met my ears. I looked carefully at the path itself and gasped. I kneeled and traced my finger along the outline. What I had thought were footprints were really ichthyses: two crossing arcs resembling the outline of a fish. I bowed my head. I knew I would never find Wanderer in this wood. He had left and taken my load with him. As I returned to the gates of Betuel, I looked once more at my snowy path. Two roads diverged in a wood, I exclaimed, and I, I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference.

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Justina Lee 15 Assisi

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The Adventure of Teaching C.S. Lewis

Dr. Timothy Flanigan
What could be more fun than teaching a course on the writings of C. S. Lewis at Brown University? Would any students want to take it? Would there be a professor to teach it? Five years ago I found the answers to these questions. I walked into my first class hoping there would be a handful of students. To my surprise, the class was nearly overflowing. The biggest problem was how to answer the pleas of the thirty odd students since the typical seminar course only has 22 students. Clearly there was great interest! What I found very quickly is that Brown students are inquisitive, seek the truth with both their hearts and their minds, and also have a vibrant Christian faith. My students came from all backgrounds. Many of them were Evangelical Christians, others were Roman Catholics, others were Jewish, and more than a few were Agnostics but questioning. Why did I want to teach the class? C.S. Lewis wanted to lead us to a window which looks out from our dark and stuffy room of modernity. He wanted to burst open the shutters and point us to an enormous vista stretching away from the room. He loved to paint the canvas of this vista with the ideas of majesty, valor, courtesy, grace, nobility, virginity, splendor, ceremony, taboo, magnanimity, mystery and holiness. Lewis asked his readers to go beyond themselves. The quest he offered is to enter into deeper mysteries, deeper truths, and deeper adventures - deeper and more wonderful and more unknown than ourselves. The more we focus inward, the smaller our world becomes. For Lewis, a real selfhood and liberty is found by entering into the Cosmic Dance where we find (sometimes to our surprise) that we have a role. We are invited to step into the Cosmic Dance which is bigger than ourselves and

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Lydia Yamaguchi 14 Lion Statue: Boston Library

hence more glorious, wonderful, and inherently threatening. We are asked to be a part of the great drama, and the great dance, and the great story. Like all great adventures, there is danger, but there is joy. We all matter, to an extraordinary degree, no matter how big or small our part is. During the class, we read three books from the Narnia series, the Space trilogy, (Out of the Silent Planet, Perelandra, That Hideous Strength), The Great Divorce, The Screwtape Letters, and The Problem of Pain and A Grief Observed. All but the last two books are fiction. C.S. Lewis speaks as much to the heart as he does to the mind. In so doing, he frequently convinces us that his vision of reality is, not only more humane and compassionate, but is also more exciting and real than the day-to-day world. Embedded within Lewis fiction is a deep Christian theology. Reading the Narnia tales and the Space Trilogy clearly sheds light on our humanity and our struggles; God is Our Father and seeks us. He pours out the awesome love, healing and forgiveness given to us through His Son, Jesus Christ. Most of our discussion in class delves on Lewis approach and how our existence is radically changed when seen in the perspective of an almighty, loving God who created us in His image and then sent His only son to save us. Everyone in the class is not on the same page. This is Brown! This, of course, makes it an exciting discussion. Over the course of the semester, students learn to engage in topics of truth, beauty, faith, obedience, and sacrifice, while being respectful of various viewpoints. Students have to grapple with what C.S. Lewis is saying and what he is trying to convey. Needless to say, it is most exciting. Our Christian faith is one which is a pearl of great price. It is always proposed and never imposed. The invitation is personal, profound, and fundamentally life changing. Offering a course on the writing of C.S. Lewis gives me the great privilege of watching students grapple with the most awesome questions, that are not abstract, but are personal in the deepest sense. Im extraordinarily grateful to interact with Brown students in the classroom while discussing these exciting truths. I am also extraordinarily grateful to Brown University for encouraging intellectual and personal adventure within the classroom.

Dr. Flanigan is Professor of Medicine in Infectious Diseases at the Alpert Medical School at Brown University and works primarily at The Miriam and Rhode Island Hospitals. His research primarily focuses on HIV/AIDS, including NIH and CDC funded research on HIV treatment and prevention particularly among marginalized communities. He also spearheaded a nationally recognized HIV Care program at the Rhode Island State Prison. He teaches a course on the writings of C.S. Lewis, UNIV0400 during the fall. He was recently ordained a deacon in the Roman Catholic Church. His wife, Luba Dumenco, MD is also on faculty at Brown Medical School, and they have five children who keep them busy and laughing.

Lydia Yamaguchi 14 Medieval Alleyways

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Conversation Corner
What is one class or professor you would recommend for spiritual students at Brown or RISD?
Meet todays Cornerstone representatives. Nia Campinha-Bacote 15, our enthusiastic business manager who has a passion for cardio kick at the OMAC and small groups with the Branch Russyan Mabeza 15, Cornerstones unofficial vocalist and court jester, who frequently turns heads with his merry laughter and suburb acting abilities Ningfei Ou 15, What words are there to describe this elegant creature? A poetic laureate, a Biblical scholar, an unintentional fashionista Austin Lillywhite 14, Cornerstones previous editor-in-chief and the worlds most well-spoken man. He often speaks in couplets and metaphors, an accidental consequence of being brilliant* What is one class or professor you would recommend for spiritual students at Brown or RISD? Nia: Dr. (Timothy) Flanigan because he feeds you tea and crumpets and loves Jesus! Tea+crumpets+Narnia=what more could you ask for? Russyan: Ditto. I havent taken other spirituality courses Ning: Aside from C.S. Lewiss class, I took, from the classics department, Roman Religion (with)
Lydia Yamaguchi 14 Pastured Horizons

Prof John Bodel. If one is into early developments of Christianity and why/how/when/through what means God made his mighty works known and how the gospel spread miraculously despite persecution etc, this class would be marvelous. Bodel is a Christian, though he doesnt say it explicitly, great knowledge nonetheless! Nia: Ning and I also took (The New Testament and the Beginnings of Christianity) by Prof. Denzey Lewis. I wasnt in love with it, but it most assuredly increased my knowledge of the Bible in regards to a historical perspective. We went through nearly all of the New Testament in a semester, so if someone is looking for a class in which the Bible is the primary textbook, this is an awesome class. I remember being so excited that the Bible was my homework. Austin: Dostoevsky RUSS 1820 taught by Professor Golstein!!! Best class EVVAAAAAAAA! Will change yo life in ways you aint prepared for! Take it. Additional Suggestions: Science and Religion with Professor Jeffrey Poland in the Science and Society department Andrew Kim 13 *These opinions of the reps do not reflect those of Cornerstone Magazine, but rather of Margaret Nickens and Elizabeth Jean-Marie, giggling conspiratorially in a Blue Room booth.

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Karlee Lillywhite Dancer

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Ministry Profile
Reformed University Fellowship (RUF) Brown Christian Fellowship
Reformed University Fellowship (RUF) is an evangelical Christian fellowship that serves students at Brown, RISD, and other schools in the city of Providence. We are connected with the nationwide ministry of the Presbyterian Church of America. Our mission is to reach out to students for Christ and to see one another embraced by Gods grace. We believe in the power and authenticity of the Bible as Gods word, as well as the importance of a loving and united community before Christ. Christians and curious non-Christians alike are more than welcome at our weekly large-group gatherings every Friday at 7 pm in List 110. We also meet for more personal, small-group Bible study Sundays at 5 pm on the 3rd floor of Wilson Hall. Since my first RUF event, I have known that RUF has truly been a godsend. This past year and a half has taught me so much about Gods grace in action. I have been able to turn to my brothers and sisters in Christ for anything and everything, personal and academic alike. They have shown me a tiny slice of what love looks like humble and full of a heart to serve, rooted in a Biblical worldview. Nowhere else have I found a community so intentional about loving one another. Its impossible to put into words exactly what RUF has been like for me, but I love talking about it. If you would like to hear more about my story, please contact me! You can reach me at ashley_wu@brown.edu, and you can find more about RUF its people, events, and vision statement--at http://rufbrownrisd.org.

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A Prayer for Brown

from Reverend Kirstin Boswell-Ford Associate University Chaplain for the Protestant Community
For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future. Jeremiah 29:11 You, who have called us here, to this place; In You we trust. We have faith in all that we are being prepared to do and to become; and that our time, wisely spent, will allow us to become complete in this task. For in us, in the very works of our hands, our hearts, our minds, are the hopes and dreams of individuals, families and communities. Allow us the sharpened wisdom, clarity of mind, brilliance of purpose, and dogged determination to engage the course; that when the preparation is complete, we may undertake our appointments with gladness and a desire to serve. In all that we do in this space called Brown University, You are preparing us to be people after your own heartcalled and accountable, brilliant and humble. Help us to live into your desires for us, that we might engage with passion all of the challenges of the world, setting our hands to the plow and our gifts to the purposes for which you have ordained them. Keeper of the Heavens and Earth, Shape us according to your design. Grant us the capacity to accept all that this community is and can be; to walk our pathway within it with thanksgiving and peace. Hold us in your embrace as we grow and become all that You would have us become. Keep at bay all that seeks to deter us from this course. Holy Spirit, strengthen us for this, Your good work. Amen.

David Yoon 13 Ruth Quad Contemplative

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If I take the wings of the morning and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea, even there your hand shall lead me, and your right hand shall hold me.
Psalm 139: 9-10

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