# Video: Lost in the Mystery of God: Remembered Wisdom Before Retirement October 22, 2024 ![Stephanie Paulsell](/sites/g/files/omnuum5526/files/styles/hwp_16_9__480x270/public/2025-03/Screenshot%202025-03-17%20125826.png?itok=jkgc4Aav) Stephanie Paulsell delivered a moving lecture about her life in scholarship before her retirement in December 2024. Paulsell has been a member of the HDS faculty since 2001. She is the author of "Religion Around Virginia Woolf" (2019), co-editor (with Davíd Carrasco and Mara Willard) of "Goodness and the Literary Imagination" (2019), and has served as a regular columnist for The Christian Century since 2007. This event took place on October 22, 2024. \[MUSIC PLAYING\] **SPEAKER 1**: Harvard Divinity School. **SPEAKER 2**: Lost in the Mystery of God, Remembered Wisdom Before Retirement, October 22, 2024. **KERRY MALONEY**: --Maloney. I serve as the chaplain and director of religious and spiritual life here at HDS, and teach in the Ministry Studies program as well. My office's role here at HDS is to stand at the very busy intersection of the intellectual and spiritual life, and try not to get run over by the traffic there. And that's both for the school and for the individuals who comprise it. And that's just a really big banner that gives me an excuse to throw parties like this one. So here we are. I want to thank you for coming. But I also want to thank the CSWR for allowing us to use this beautiful space, and particularly Laurie Sedgwick, is-- where is Laurie? Who keeps everything running here, Laurie has stepped out to make more things run, for helping me set up today. So thank you for that. We're glad to be here. Thanks also to HDS AV for showing up and filming this so that you can go back and watch this again and again, once it gets up on the website. So as David Letterman famously says, my next guest needs no introduction. So what am I doing here? I'm going to give her an introduction anyway. Better than anyone at HDS, I think, Stephanie Paulsell embodies that intersection of the intellectual and the spiritual. As you know she's a scholar and teacher, minister and administrator, mentor and friend of almost peerless agility, moving among disciplines and duties with exceptional attention, wisdom, and love. As a longtime faculty member in Ministry Studies, Stephanie has taught generations of HDS students, many of them here tonight. That ministry is, in the words of Gregory of Nazianzus, the art of arts. And of course, like all artists, she makes that constant agile movement appear utterly effortless. Stephanie, none of us in this room know how you do it. We have no idea. But we do have a few clues. The first of which is that you are indeed a person who unites the intellectual and the spiritual. In you they blend, painstaking scholarly inquiry with constant, humble prayer, disciplined research with devotional attention to texts, exquisitely careful writing with exquisitely honest spiritual practice. The second clue to which you will surely refer tonight is your formation as the daughter of the great Reverend Dr. William Paulsell and Dr. Sally Paulsell. You embody and carry on in every possible way the giant gifts they were and are in this world. In many ways, it seems your whole life is an homage to them, and a beautiful homage it is. The third clue is that you have founded your entire life firmly on the art, discipline, and wonder of attention, which, as Simone Weil taught us long ago, and you teach us every day in your classes, is indeed the foundation of everything. Truly, Stephanie, all of us gathered here tonight cannot imagine HDS or Harvard without you after you retire in December. I'm going to cry. Excuse me. But because you've left your fingerprints all over this place, and all over our hearts, we don't really have to, right? You'll linger here with us long, long after you are happily immersed in books, and family, and whatever else delights your heart in Virginia. Take us with you, please. So I won't stand here much longer between you and Stephanie. But an occasion like this demands that I at least read a synopsis of her extremely impressive CV, in case there is one single person left in this room who isn't fully aware of that CV in its entirety. So here you go. Stephanie is the Susan Shallcross Swartz Professor of the Practice of Christian studies here. She obtained a BA from Greensboro College and an MA and PhD from the University of Chicago. She's been a member of the HDS faculty since 2001, where she's not only taught, but served for a time as Associate Dean for Ministry Studies, particularly during a critical moment of the overhaul of the vision of the MDiv program. She served as interim associate dean of the faculty for a while and interim Pusey minister in the Memorial Church more recently. See what I mean about not knowing how she does it all? But she does. She's the author of Religion Around Virginia Woolf in 2019, the co-editor with David Carrasco and Mara Willard of Goodness and the Literary Imagination, and has served as a regular columnist for The Christian Century since 2007. Her work focuses on religion and literature, Christian spirituality, and the spiritually formative dimensions of the practices of reading and writing. Some of her recent courses include Virginia Woolf and Religion, Contemplative Prayer in Christianity, Emily Dickinson: the Extasy Define, Seeking God: A History of Christian Spirituality in 12 Lives, and a seminar, (CLEARS THROAT), excuse me, on the 20th century monastic writer Thomas Merton. Her other publications include Lamentations and the Song of Songs, co-authored with our own beloved Harvey Cox, Honoring the Body: Meditations on a Christian Practice, and The Scope of Our Art: The Vocation of the Theological Teacher, which she co-edited with L. Gregory Jones. Stephanie is an ordained minister in the Christian church, Disciples of Christ, and until last spring, she lived here in Cambridge with her husband, Kevin Madigan, where they served together as faculty deans of Eliot House in Harvard College. Again, how many hours in your day, Stephanie? I want that clock in mine. One of Stephanie's great spiritual gifts, which, I don't have to tell any of you, her great fan club in this room, one of her greatest spiritual gifts is her ostensibly endless generosity. I simply cannot recall a time that you said no to any one of the professional requests I have pitched in your direction. And I'm guessing the same is true for everybody else in this room. Thank you, Stephanie, for saying yes, not only to all my requests, but to all these people who are here as their beloved teacher and mentor. Thank you for that yes. And thank you for saying yes to speaking tonight. In doing so, I think you are ministering to our collective grief in anticipation of your imminent departure, but also our collective gratitude for the extraordinary gift and privilege of having you walk among us and beside us as our friend, as our teacher, as our mentor, as a great scholar who is indeed the embodiment of the intellectual and the spiritual, united in one. And I can mostly promise that after tonight, I'll stop asking for those kinds of favors from you. Stephanie Paulsell. \[APPLAUSE\] **STEPHANIE PAULSELL**: Thank you. Thank you so much, Kerry. I'll say more about Kerry in a minute. But thanks to all of you for coming out tonight. I'm really moved to see you all. And there are people here, Professor Levinson, who is my own teacher in graduate school, and Claire, who was my student here, and now is on our faculty. And it's just amazing to be among you. I'm very grateful to Kerry when she invited me. This is a series that Kerry has run for a long time, where she invites faculty to come and talk about why we care about what we care about, which is a really wonderful thing to get to do. And I think this is maybe the third time I've done it. And so it's kind you get to take your own pulse every couple of years when Kerry calls. And I don't know. Kerry's just opened these spaces for us to reflect on our work on a personal level. That's been really helpful to me in my 23 and 1/2 years at HDS. So, Kerry, I'm just so grateful to you, and love you so much. And I appreciate this so much. A little known fact is I hired Kerry Maloney. \[LAUGHTER\] Back in the day, the chaplain's office was run out of OMS. And when I was in OMS, Kerry came and worked with us. Dudley and I worked together there. And it was one of the great joys of my time at Harvard. So I went back to something that-- the things that I've written for Kerry are the things I want to go back to actually in retirement, and think more about, and write, flesh out a little more. And so I've tried to do that with this. And I hope it meets this moment. But I'm very grateful to you all for coming. When I was a child, I often accompanied my father on the weekends to small churches in Eastern North Carolina. My dad was a religion professor at the college in my hometown. But on the weekends, he sometimes filled the pulpits of churches that were between pastors. We would drive through the humid Sunday morning with his plain black hardback Bible lying on the seat between us, his sermon folded up between its pages. The sermon of his that I love the most was called Lost in the Mystery of God. I can still see the manuscript of that sermon in my mind's eye, the title centered at the top in all capital letters, the text double spaced and marked up with handwritten edits. But frustratingly, I can't remember the words themselves. Like many books I've read and loved, I can only remember the way that sermon made me feel. It made me feel as if the world were opening and opening all around me. It gave me the sense that God was shining on the surface of things, but also hidden in depths beyond my reach. It made me want to be brave enough to take risks for what's right. And it made me want to pray. It made me want to lose myself in the mystery of God. I would give anything to read that sermon again. But unfortunately, it's lost. Over the years, I badgered my parents about it. Do you remember the scripture text on which it was based? I've asked. And might there be a copy still tucked away in a file somewhere? My mother thinks that the text of that sermon was a Psalm, maybe, O God, my God, I seek you, from Psalm 63. My father always said, that sermon wouldn't sound as wonderful to you if we still had a copy of it. \[LAUGHTER\] It's a better sermon in your memory, he used to tell me, than it was in real life. Even lost, that sermon remains generative for me. I might not be able to remember the words of it. But when I try, other memories float up, my dad and I driving to Gold Point or Wendell, the windows of our green Chevy wound down to catch the breeze, fields of bright leaf tobacco shimmering in the heat on either side of the road, the rattle and whine of insects. That car was one of the first classrooms of my theological education. Dad, do you think there's really a hell, is the kind of question I would ask. And he would reply, why would God build a permanent place for evil? I remember the crunch of our tires on the gravel of a church parking lot, the elder smoking outside as he waited for us to arrive, the way my dad would look for me and catch my eye when he came out into the chancel, the way the backs of my legs would stick to the pew on the hot days. I remember one young man who leaned forward to listen when my dad preached, as if he would drink every word like water, if he could. I remember taking out a sheet of loose leaf notebook paper after church one afternoon, writing the words, "lost in the mystery of God" across the top, and composing my own sermon. I can see the shape of that sermon in my mind's eye too, one long paragraph in my looping fifth grade cursive. But that sermon is also lost. More than 50 years after I first heard it, 50 years, my father's sermon continues to draw me to the mystery of God, into the mystery of myself. Sometimes that last sermon seems like the crucial missing piece of my childhood. If I could just hear my father preach it again, or read it word by word, I would understand better who I am. The great African theologian Augustine of Hippo believed that it's more satisfying to find something that's lost than to have it always in our possession. "What is sought with difficulty is discovered with more pleasure," he wrote. That's why he loved scripture. It rewarded the search for hidden meanings. Augustine gets lost in scripture the way one would get lost in a beloved. "Let your scriptures be my chaste delight," he prays. Getting lost and lingering there is the greatest pleasure he knows. But there's a difference between being lost in something and losing something you can't get back. If the first way of being lost is a pleasure, erotic in its intensity for Augustine, that second lostness is more of a challenge. When he's lost in scripture, he can keep going deeper and deeper into its mysteries. When he tries to recover his lost childhood, however, he can only get so far before he reaches the limits of his memory. That his infancy is so utterly lost to him, and yet still a part of him preoccupies him chapter after chapter. "My infancy has been long dead while I still live," he marvels. "Should I say my boyhood grew in me, replacing infancy? For infancy did not go away. Where could it have gone?" He tries a few things to stimulate his memory. He asks his parents what he was like as a baby. He studies other babies, watching them smile, and nurse, and eye each other jealously across the breast, hoping to remember what his own infancy was like. "And what about the time before my infancy," he prays, "when I was in my mother's womb? And what about the time before that? Was I anywhere or anybody?" he asks. "For I have no one to tell me this." How can we know ourselves, Augustine seems to ask, when so much of our lives is lost to us? None of us can remember our infancy or any existence that might have preceded it. We can't remember most of our childhood. And even the present is always slipping through our hands. Even the sermons that were once written down, typed up, carefully edited, eventually disappear. Memory, for Augustine, is a vast and boundless subterranean shrine, a great harbor, with secret, numberless, and indefinable recesses, an inner place which is yet no place. He dives down into it as deep as he can. But he can find no end. He encounters himself in those vast caverns of memory, but not, by any means, all of who he is. Certainly, he cannot find his lost childhood, at least not whole and intact. Meditating on his lost childhood then becomes a practice that leads Augustine beyond his memory and keeps him turned toward God. For none of the things lost to his memory, could I discover, he prays, "without you." If he wants to know himself, he will have to get lost as well. He will have to get lost in the mystery of God, where Augustine's childhood, and every other forgotten thing, is remembered. When religion is discussed in American culture, and especially during election season, it is usually associated with certainty. And religious faith is assumed to represent one side of a clear pair of opposites. We believe, or we don't. We are religious, or we're not. Religions are true, or they are false. We are inside a religion, or we are outside of it. Religious people, it is often said, know where they stand. Maybe because of my father's sermon, both being lost and seeking lost, inaccessible things have always felt to me though, like ways of being religious. Lostness calls the polarities between belief and unbelief, inside and outside, into question. It pushes back the boundaries of where we think we're standing. As the poet, Fanny Howe, has put it, "there is no inside or outside under an undiscriminating sky." In Christianity, there's a thread of images that suggest that getting lost is a crucial part, maybe even a permanent part, of seeking God. The anonymous author of The Cloud of Unknowing wrote in the 14th century, that "if we ever want to feel or see God, we will have to get lost in cloud and in darkness." Sir Thomas Brown in the 17th century complains that "the deepest mysteries of faith have been reduced to logical syllogisms, and organized by the rule of reason. I love to lose myself in a mystery," Brown wrote, "to pursue my reason to an O altitudo." The Apostle Paul, in his sermon in front of the Areopagus in Athens, imagines all of us living beneath the undiscriminating sky, groping after God, feeling our way in the dark. The anonymous author of the 13th century, Quest of the Holy Grail, a book I read over and over again at HDS in the years that Billy Graham and I taught a course on the literature of journey and quest, were you in that class? \[INAUDIBLE\] offers as a religious practice, the act of getting lost on purpose. The knights of Arthur's roundtable are called to go out into the world to seek the Grail, a lost holy object powerful enough to heal the land. But there's no map for this quest, and no sure path to follow. The knights begin their journey by getting lost, deliberately, in the woods. Rather than looking for a clearly marked path, they launch themselves into the most trackless parts of the forest, wherever they saw it thickest, and wherever path or track was absent. Only in the lost, pathless places could they hope to move toward the lost object they sought, because only there would they encounter the unexpected adventures that would evoke from them the choices and actions that would lead to the next step in their journey. Every adventure presents them with a choice, a moral choice. And when they choose, well, then the next part of their journey unfolds, not the whole journey, but the next steps. And that's how the successful knights move toward their goal little by little, adventure by adventure, choice by choice. They learn as they go to choose mercy for their enemies, sacrifice on behalf of strangers, and the courage to stand up for the vulnerable. The worst thing that can happen to a Grail knight is to stay on the well-marked path, and have nothing happen to them at all. Those few knights who do find the Grail in the end, also discover that finding it is not the most important thing they've done. The most important thing is that they've learned to navigate through the world responsively, attentively, compassionately, intuitively. This is not just a strategy for finding a lost object. It's training for a new way of living. When they do find the Grail, God speaks to them, but not to congratulate them for completing their challenge. God says instead, keep going. God says, getting lost in the world is your calling. Don't linger here, God says. Depart from here, and go where you think you will be best employed, and where adventure leads you. What seemed like a story about losing and finding becomes a story about staying lost, a story about a permanent quest. Fanny Howe has a word for this kind of lostness. She calls it bewilderment. Citing the great Sufi mystic, Ibn Arabi, who prayed, "Lord, increase me in bewilderment of you," she offers bewilderment as a path to God. Just as adventures illuminate the next part of the path for the knights on their quest, bewilderment is for Howe an actual approach, a way to settle with the unresolvable. "Bewilderment will never lead you back to common sense," she writes, "but will offer you a walk in a further wild place." For Howe, as for Ibn Arabi, bewilderment is a mystical practice that invites us to see beyond the polarities of losing and finding, origin and goals, a practice that is achieved not in arrival, but in continual transformation. As a mystical practice, bewilderment breaks open the lock of dualism that guards the boundary between what we know and what we don't, what we remember and what we don't, what we believe and what we don't, and instead, peers out into space as the sky clears and darkens, and clears and darkens. Bewilderment is also, for Howe, a political and a poetic practice. As a politics, bewilderment is devoted to the little and the weak. It prioritizes weakness, fluidity, concealment, and solitude over courage, discipline, conquest and fame. As a poetics, it is committed to searching for something that cannot be found, like Augustine searching for his lost childhood, a search that generates question after unanswerable question. In the spirituality of bewilderment, there is room for every hidden story, and for all we've lost along the way, even lost faith. Therese of Lisieux, the 19th century French Saint, whose Little Way to God has often been misunderstood as the saccharine spirituality of a sheltered young woman, spent the last year and a half of her life bewildered and lost. On the night before Good Friday in 1896, Therese had a coughing fit in the night. And when she awoke the next morning, she was covered in blood, and knew that she had begun dying. She was, at first, filled with joy at the thought of leaving this earthly exile, and joining Jesus in heaven. But by Easter Sunday, that joy was lost. And she never found it again. Therese died in 1898, quite young, at 24. But if she had lived as long as some of her sisters, she would have lived into my lifetime. Therese lived her religious life between a culture suffused with traditional Roman Catholicism and its practices, and a culture in which Marx, Darwin, and Nietzsche were doing their world-shifting work. Although cloistered, Therese was not immune to the great questions of her age. When faced with her imminent death, she fell into a trough of doubt and fear. She said it was like living in a country upon which an impenetrable fog had settled. Try as she might, she could no longer feel the joyful confidence she had had in God's love, and care, and promises. "It was a night," as she put it, "of nothingness." But even lost in this night of nothingness, even with her vision of God's love obscured, she stayed turned toward God. And she kept loving. "Even though I no longer have the joy of faith," she wrote, "I am trying to carry out its works." Lost and bewildered, she nevertheless, remained determined to make her whole life, up until her last living breath an act of love. As theologian Mary Froehlich has written, Therese bore witness to what may be the only foundations upon which theology in a postmodern age can build, namely, a small and naked person standing in the abyss, trusting in God, and absolutely committed to loving. "This is," Froehlich says, "how the church began, and is, perhaps, how it will continue." So is this what it means to be lost in the mystery of God, to go on loving even in the midst of our bewilderment? Is it to remain turned toward God even when we're lost, even as the world shifts, even as we ourselves are rearranged by our losses? Is it to keep seeking lost things, even those we know are beyond our reach? In the spring of 2016, the South African artist William Kentridge created a 500-meter frieze on the wall of the Tiber River. Called Triumphs and Laments, Kentridge's frieze depicts moments from Rome's history that range from the city's founding myths, through the perilous journeys that refugees are taking now today across the Mediterranean Sea to reach Italy's shores. The images are not in chronological order, but rather appear in unexpected combinations that draw our attention to the terrible intimacy of glory and loss, and the laments that arise in the wake of every triumph. Kentridge created his frieze using a method called reverse graffiti. He placed enormous stencils of his images against the wall and pressure-washed around them. The images that remain are made from the dirt, and pollution, and organic matter that has accumulated on the wall over the years. It's almost as if the images had been hidden there all along, lost in the patina of grime. Some of the images are iconic, the wolf who suckled Romulus and Remus, the Emperor Marcus Aurelius on his horse, the angel on top of Castel Sant'Angelo, sheathing his sword. Some of them are humorous, a nun receiving communion from a mocha, the ubiquitous Italian coffee pot. Other images recall the violent displacements that mark Roman history in the past and in the present, soldiers returning to the city after the sack of Jerusalem, bearing the treasures of the temple they destroyed, Roman Jews being deported to Nazi death camps during the German occupation in 1943, refugees with their possessions strapped to their backs, boarding a small boat for the dangerous crossing. One of the most compelling images in this frieze though, is a simple dark panel that appears to be on wheels, a sort of caravan, part of the moving procession of history. And scrawled across it is the phrase, (SPEAKS FOREIGN LANGUAGE), which means, what I do not remember. In the midst of a procession of some of the most well-known images in human history, is an image marking what has been forgotten, the stories that have been lost, which is most of history, of course. Most stories are not remembered by us, not written down in books, not displayed on walls for us to ponder or show to our children. In the midst of a procession of images of some of the most well-known stories in human history, Kentridge placed an image that recalls all that has been lost, all that has been forgotten. That image reminds us that the procession of human history, the journey that we're all a part of, depends on forgotten stories, forgotten histories, forgotten lives. It's not just the emperors on their horses, but the lives of the unremembered, the relationships they forged, their hopes and aspirations, their triumphs and laments that have moved history forward. As David Hempton used to love to remind us when he was our Dean, George Elliot famously wrote in her novel Middlemarch that things are not so ill with you and me because of those who lived faithfully a hidden life and rest in unvisited tombs. I think David was trying to remind us that the hidden work we are all engaged in here, the work of reading and writing, of study and research, of chaplaincy and ministry, is an indispensable part of the human project. To memorialize what we can't remember, to give it weight and heft, and recognize it as an irreplaceable part of the procession of history is an act of reverence by the artist, and an invocation to us, the viewer. It calls us to follow our imaginations to the boundaries of what we know, and then to press on even further. It asks us to attend to the lives of those whose history has been forgotten, as well as those in our own day and age whose unfolding history we ignore. It urges us to remember that our triumphs and laments are interwoven with those of others that were implicated in the lives of others, even those whose names we'll never know. I think Augustine would have appreciated Kentridge's mural, and especially the caravan of all that is lost to our memories. I think he would have seen it as a kind of ark, bearing God's memory through history, gathering up all we forget, a reminder that while our histories, even of our own lives, can only ever be partial, God remembers everything. And so being lost in the mystery of God inevitably brings us into the mystery of each other. I think that what I've been trying to do all these years at HDS is to remember my father's lost sermon, and failing that, to rewrite it. My father died this past April. And so now, it is not only his sermon that is lost to me, but he is lost to me as well. And the loss of him is still clanging around inside of me like a clapper in a bell. I haven't integrated his death into my life, yet. I am still lost, which, no doubt, explains the pages I just read to you. My dad, I think, was nervous about Kevin and me retiring. He thought we were so lucky to be here among such brilliant students and colleagues. And he was right. We were lucky. We are lucky. Are you going to write books, he asked me, after you retire? I hope so, I said. Good, he told me, a few weeks before he died, because it's good for the soul. My dad believed in the work that we do here for students and teachers alike. He believed it was good for the soul and good for the world. Our house was full of his students when I was a child. They sat around on the floor of our living room until late many nights, talking about God and prayer, and the war in Vietnam, which seemed like it was never going to end. My dad loved teaching. And during COVID, when we were teaching on Zoom, my dad joined a session of my seminar on Thomas Merton, and talked to my students about what it was like for him to be a student, going out to the Abbey of Gethsemane with his Professor and his classmates, and talking with Merton face to face. He was still teaching when he died. He taught a weekly reading group on Christian spirituality. And they were reading Teresa of Avila's Interior Castle, just as my class here at HDS was. Both our classes stopped just before reaching the end. But Teresa herself says that we can't get all the way to the end in this life. "We can only touch eternity in moments," she said. The Harvard philosopher Alfred North Whitehead, whose work gave rise to process theology, once wrote that "God's nature is best imagined as that of a tender care, that nothing be lost." For Whitehead, a God in whom nothing is ever truly lost is a judgment on the world, of judgment of a wisdom which saves what in our world is considered mere wreckage. God's impulse to remember is a judgment on the way we render things and people disposable, a judgment on the way we calculate which losses we can sustain, how many lives lost to war, or incarceration, or gun violence we can bear. Whitehead imagined God as the poet of the world, who gathers up the world's sufferings, its sorrows, its failures, its triumphs, its immediacies of joy, its laments, and moves them onward toward eternity. We can't remember everything. We can remember, in fact, very little. But we can take our fragments and create something new from them. "Every scribe who has been trained for the Kingdom of heaven," Jesus says in the Gospel of Matthew, "is like the master of a household who brings out of his treasure what is new and what is old." Or, as Virginia Woolf put it, "creating art is the work of lovers, who create from fragments," as she puts it, "one of those globed compacted things over which thought lingers, and love plays, incidentally, the best definition of a sermon that know. It's from piecing together these fragments, the new and the old, the remembered and the forgotten, the visible and the hidden, that we might create new visions, new ways of living in this world. Even lost, my father's sermon remains one of my most important fragments. I still wish I could hear it again, or read it word for word. But maybe what matters, just as much as the words themselves, is everything that trying to remember that lost sermon brings back, the memory of those conversations in the front seat of our car, the crunch of our tires on the gravel, that young man listening to my father's sermons with rapt attention, the feel of my body in the pew. The mystery of God moved through all of this, and gathered it up, and moves it somehow forward. I think maybe what my father said in that sermon is that if we want to know who we have been, and who we might become, if we want to the stories that have been lost, and what they call us to do and be, we're going to have to search, not only our memories, but the fathomless depths of God's as well, where every lost story is remembered, and every forgotten thing is held. Thank you so much. \[APPLAUSE\] **KERRY MALONEY**: Thank you. \[? Just going to wait here. ?\] **SPEAKER 2**: Sponsors, Office of the Chaplain and Religious and Spiritual Life. **SPEAKER 1**: Copyright, 2024. The President and Fellows of Harvard College.