junkmail for blankets

proverbial dogs and revelation vomit

i let the blog (read: me) stress me out. feel like i have to write witty and reverent and profound things. this feeling is self-commissioned and unwarranted. a perversion of a desire to be loved.

and then, organizing my seminary papers on my computer, i found something i wrote both for and to myself a few weeks before graduation. i was given a packet of readings by herbert, bonhoeffer, schaeffer, peterson, wangerin, and others, and was asked to respond. it seems timely tonight. and it fulfills my urge to post before three days go by. click below if you want to read. and, in a mass-thank you sort of way, to all who stop by and read, thank you.

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Most people would avoid writing for the sake of being writers; be published rather than write. Success has gone the way of coffee and cocoa – we like it instant. I like it that way. Would that I could graduate to instant ministry success and wisdom and knowledge of my future come May.

Much of the Reader is concerned with the specifics of pastoring a flock. Some of it is, like Peterson’s book, concerned with being pastoral, and it’s this part that interests me most. All the readings are relevant, but some of them have more pre-graduation-trauma relevance than others. It seems that God is carving out for me a niche as difficult to appropriate as pastoring; He wants me to write. I think. The following are the Reader’s words on writing.

My composition students ask, in various disguises, how they can become good writers. I try to disguise my old answers as fresh maxims, but I always return to these three: to be writers, we must (1) live well, (2) read well, and (3) be willing to write poorly.

::Herbert and Spurgeon on living well::
The parson is on his journey, says Herbert, “and when he comes to his inn, he refuseth not to join.” For the moment, I’m going to ignore the details about what rituals to observe and what prayers to say and what ale to order. Am I willing to interrupt my journeys for the sake of nourishment? Will I use my gifts to nourish my agendas and idols, or will I use them to feed and gift others? And in the process, shall I find that feeding others is ultimately feeding myself? Make time in my important writing “schedule” to fellowship and feed with others? Most writers I know sit alone in basements and libraries and sterile chambers to “meet memory in the dark” (Annie Dillard); writing is a lonely profession, but I am sure that the same writers are not anxious to stay in those positions once the paragraph is written, deleted, and put off another day. What relevance will my writing have if I’m writing about basement walls and library eccentrics all day? People – people besides myself – are the heart of my writing. Brokenness is the subject of my composition, and it is the composition of my subjects.

I like to think that God will bless my efforts, whatever that means, but it’s only true if my efforts are directed less toward grammatical rigor than righteousness; only if my efforts are directed more toward Christ than composition. Only Christ-likeness will ink my page with respect and grace and winsome-ness: “We need the divine influence to keep us back from saying many things which, if they actually left [his] tongue [(pen)], would mar [his] message.” I am only beginning to learn what it means to write honestly, and part of what it means, I'm sure, is a desire to love. I can use my pen until the ink runs out to tell people what I think about them and how they need to change, but if love doesn't color my ink, then I write only cruelty. For my life as well as my writing, I must “cultivate a cogent as well as a clear style” (Spurgeon). I must live well.

::Bonhoeffer on reading well::
Seminary has taught me, among all else, to exegete the culture and its people as seriously as I do the Scriptures. I am taught to read the Bible sensitively, and I am taught to read the culture accurately. In order for my writing to be relevant and respectful, I must do the same with those for whom I’m writing. Am I willing to read my audience sensitively, and am I willing to do it accurately, as well?

I carry around scraps of paper with me when I leave the house so that I’ll have a place to write all the images and conversations I observe. Occasionally, I get so excited over some image that my hand shakes for fear that I won’t be able to write it down before I forget it. These are the zingers. I like the zingers. Too much. They’re the one-liners and unforgettable scenes that will convince people, I hope, that I’ve got all the answers and they’re imbeciles if they don’t agree with me after reading what I’ve written. Often, I use my writing the same way that Bonhoeffer warns us not to use our meetings with people: “ . . . from the first moment when a man meets another person, he is looking for a strategic position he can assume and hold over against that person.” Ouch. My job is to nourish the weak, as he says, not to eliminate them. In fact, the only people who benefit from my own weakness are the weak themselves. It is a faux-righteousness that thinks its thesis is beyond improvement. All my drafts this side of glory are rough.

::Schaeffer and Wangerin on the willingness to write poorly::
I am scared of creativity. Creativity is inefficient. I am scared of efficiency, or, more likely, the pressure of an efficient culture. Paper shredders and Daewoos and those damn instant coffees mock my inefficiency. Familial asides and mutual-fund commercials scare the dim wits out of me. I simply cannot write at forty-three miles per gallon. I cannot write well all the time, and I cannot produce final drafts without shredding multiple rough drafts. So thank you, Dr. Schaeffer, for drinking real coffee: “Let us not think that waiting on the Lord will mean getting less done. The truth is that by doing the Lord’s work in the Lord’s way, we will accomplish more, not less.” Here’s to spiritual caffeine.

If my writing is to speak well, it must have room to sit silently. Some things don’t sit well. Proverbial dogs and Revelation gods vomit, and it is not nice. I can vomit words all day, but who wants to read wretch? When I refuse to buy into bigness and success and efficiency, then I will glorify God with my writing. When I allow my pencil space to sit silently, then my words will be weighty: “She watched and kept her own counsel, and her words were weightier, therefore” (Wangerin).

So God is calling me, I think, to write. But He has called me first to live well, to read well, and to admit into my life the willingness to write poorly. And I have a feeling these things will not be finished by May. I can’t do these things on my own, but one thing I can do. I can get another cup of coffee.

Posted by ghetto monk at March 12, 2004 11:10 PM | TrackBack