05/12/2026
The older I get, the harder it is to imagine all of my years spent teaching and prattling on about the “language of story” and “the God of story” and “story that makes all other stories meaningful”—the harder it is to imagine any of this being worthwhile. I’m not saying I should have been a doctor; I’d have done far more harm in a lab coat. And I’d have made a terrible salesman, policeman, or firefighter. Maybe the only thing I am suited for is the narrative imagination. Maybe I didn’t choose this foolish life; maybe it chose me.
Every year I encounter former students—usually at conferences—who share my fascination with stories. And these encounters remind me that every generation needs its storytellers to learn the trade from the previous one.
The minstrel archetype exists for a reason. Bards and scops and fools had a place in medieval courts because someone had to point out that the world is more than politics and money and war and the generation of laws. Someone had to remind even the king—especially the king—that good and evil, right and wrong, encompass higher laws that royalty ignore at the world’s peril.
Maybe that’s the sort of fool I’ve been. A fool training fools.
And what glorious company I keep!