A recent reviewer in the Sunday New York Times set down a maxim for literature that applies equally well, I believe, to our reflections about the cosmos. "A novel," he wrote, "must stand on its own feet. We may tolerate its being pedestrian, but it must be ambulatory." Ambulatory, I would suggest, because it must go somewhere, be provocative and fruitful for further thinking, else it is useless. I write as a theologian, species Christian, subspecies Lutheran, and I intend to represent my species as well as I can. In the process, however, I am not interested simply in reciting what has been believed and reflected upon in my theological traditions, but rather to state what I believe is ambulatory in those traditions. Since, for better or for worse, I have set myself as the judge of what moves and what constitutes significant and interesting movement, I shall render the tradition in a highly selective manner and interpret it from a definite stance that corresponds to the place I want to go with it and to the direction in which I want to head. I shall not be able to avoid being pedestrian, but I do wish to be ambulatory, and I invite you to walk with me.