Tag Archives: truth

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Honesty is Boring

This past weekend, I had the opportunity to travel with the entire high school student body on a retreat to Lenk, Switzerland. It was hard to say good-bye to Leigh and Katy Jo, especially considering that I knew the time would not fly all that fast; because my foot is still broken, I could not join the kids in skiing, ice-skating or even simply walking around the town. I was pretty much confined to the youth hostel where we stayed, but at least the weather was nice. I had ample downtime in which to behold the grandeur of the Swiss Alps, read my book, relax under the winter sun, and even spend some considerable time working on my current writing project (I actually put down over 5200 words on Saturday!).

The remarkable thing about this weekend, however, was not the time for rest and relaxation, but what the chaplain’s office had planned and what the speaker and the musician both modeled: genuine honesty.

Anyone get the feeling that there are a lot more Pinnochios in pulpits these days?

These M.K.’s have heard it all before, and a good amount of them have grown cynical to these spiritual retreats in which they have watched others (and, at times, also participated) in pursuit of that gratifying ”camp high” or “worship buzz;” that kind of emotional self-manipulation that involves forcing a feeling of intimacy with such intention that one becomes swept away by his or her own design. Just as a scene in a movie can effect an emotional reaction when the soundtrack swells and the camera zooms in on the actor’s tear-streaked face, so worshippers can also allow the music and the crowd and the lifting of hands to overwhelm them and deliver them into a kind of euphoric contentment. The problem is, these moments are rarely genuine and almost always temporary. So, as the speaker put it this weekend, you’ve got your “posers” (the ones trying to force intimacy and relationship), and you’ve got your “cynics” (the ones embittered toward this kind of self-fakeout). Few are the ones who actually seize on a lasting, honest connection with God.

The night before we left for Lenk, I asked the guys in my small group what they were expecting or hoping for at this year’s retreat (being seniors, this would be their last one). The two things that came out most clearly was a hope for a captivating/entertaining speaker who had something new to say, but who also understood the importance of being real with the students. The following evening, as we sat down together in the corner of the youth hostel’s gym after the first session, I asked them what they thought so far about the quality of the retreat’s leaders. They seemed a little turned off to the music (it was in a style more common to my generation than there’s) and less than enthusiastic about the speaker. When I asked why, they said he didn’t speak with a lot of humor or engage them in an entertaining way. What they did admit, however, was their recognition that both of these men were surprisingly honest about who they were and what they desired for the students to understand about God.

As Christians, I think we often err in this way. We want to be captivated by truth in new and innovative ways – in a way that keeps our attention, in a way we haven’t heard before. The problem with this is that, sometimes, all we get is the garnish and none of the meat. Telling the truth doesn’t always come with bells and whistles, and, as songwriter Derek Webb has sung, “the truth is never sexy.” Honest-to-God truth cannot always be honestly expressed in show. Eventually, all the dazzling object sermons, complicated instrumentation, intricate presentation and overhyped emotion will fail us – we will lose our buzz.

May we learn to embrace spiritual leaders who value honesty over showmanship. And when we find ourselves less than entertained at a particular event, sermon or lesson, may we forget ourselves and our need to be wowed. As Richard Rohr writes in Everything Belongs, “Those who are totally converted come to every experience and ask not whether or not they liked it, but what does it have to teach them.” May it be so with us.

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Stumbling onto Truth

For Elizabeth…

A former student recently asked me a very pointed question. From a Christian perspective, what should be the boundaries to a poem, specifically in regards to word choice and subject matter? In this post, I will seek to answer this question, or at least, as is common on this blog, draw as close to an answer as is possible.

Now, before I run the risk of coming across pretentious immediately off the bat, let me preface all that will follow with a particular quotation that has helped me keep this amateur writer’s feet on the ground and his head out from under the clouds. Screenwriter Aaron Sorkin, who has penned such acclaimed stories as A Few Good Men, The Social Network and several excellent television series, never wrote a truer or more poetic statement than the episode of The West Wing in which Laura Dern’s character, the U.S. Poet Laureate, speaks to Toby Ziegler, the White House Communications Director and chief speechwriter. She tells him, “The goal of an artist is not to communicate truth. The goal of an artist is to captivate you for however long we’ve asked for your attention. If we stumble onto truth, we’ve gotten lucky.”

So, let it be stated at the outset that, for the purposes of this blog post, I am not declaring that prose or poetry or any form of expressive art is salvific. In other words, while a poem or story or song or painting can have an effect on us – while they can sometimes even incite change – no person will ever be saved by them.

So, then, what is the ultimate purpose of creative expression? What is the paramount reason to write a poem?

I believe it is to enliven the reader. To inspire.  Of course, the writer cannot redeem the reader – he can only propel the reader on a path toward redemption. But expressing oneself in a manner that even lays the groundwork for this is a lofty task. It requires the poet to be a keen observer of the world and its inhabitants so that his re-creation on the page is compelling. Henry David Thoreau writes in his classic work Walden, “We must learn to reawaken and keep ourselves awake, not by mechanical aids, but by an infinite expectation of the dawn, which does not forsake us in our soundest sleep.” He explains that anyone can create a work of art, be it a painting, a sculpture, a poem, etc. But, “It is far more glorious to carve and paint the very atmosphere and medium through which we look, which morally we can do. To affect quality of the day, that is the highest of arts.”

So, for a poet who is also a Christian (rather than “a Christian poet,” which uses the word “Christian” as an adjective that categorizes and thereby boxes in the writer), I believe poetry should be viewed as evangelistic. A poem should carry the aroma of the euangelion, the “good news” of salvation. Why? Because, if it doesn’t, it is a lesser poem. Like a private who shies away from the front, it is not being all it can be.

However, there are two caveats to this assertion.

First, it must be understood, in light of the quotation from The West Wing, that a writer who is solely concerned with an end goal – a protest or an argument or a specific persuasion toward truth – is no writer at all. He or she has ceased to be a poet and has instead become a preacher or a politician. This is because everything takes a backseat to expounding upon the determined point or message. The poem (and, as an extension, the story or song or even the painting) becomes didactic, or preachy. Remember, the only goal of an artist is to captivate the reader. Not to save, and not even to change. Only to encourage – to nudge the reader in the direction of both. And it works both ways. If I am not captivated by a particular work, I will not be inspired, which is the catalyst for change. If I feel that I’m being barked at by the work, then any chance there was in growing or coming to a deeper understanding of life or faith or God goes out the window.

So, while the poet may desire to effect change, he has a responsibility, first and foremost, to captivate. To entertain. To awake the imagination. To enrapture the mind’s eye and expand the mind. How does he do this? With every bit of skill he has, every technique he can execute. Language. Tone. Rhythm. Motif. Imagery. Metaphor. Symbolism. Whatever arrow is in the quiver that is suitably weighted  for the flight. It is the quality of the writing – not the intention – that truly moves the reader. How that reader will respond is out of the poet’s hands.

The second thing to remember, and perhaps what cuts to the quick of the question my student asked me, concerns what, if anything, is off limits. In my opinion, depending upon the theme, subject, character or level of realism, no speck of language is taboo. Word choice means word choice, not choices. For example, I am currently reworking a story that I first wrote for a college creative writing class. The story’s two principle characters are poor, washed-up, lonely men who live in a pauperized small town. One is unknowingly battling severe depression, while the other is bipolar and prone to violent, vehement outbursts. Now, the question is, as a Christian, should I avoid putting words into the mouth of these two sad, downward-spiraling men that I would not say myself in a church sanctuary or (as is a popular “what if” to morally-righteous folks) if Jesus suddenly appeared and sat down next to me?

First of all, if Jesus suddenly sat down next to me, I don’t think I would have much to say at all. I’m pretty sure I’d be speechless. Secondly, if these two men from my story use salty, offensive language when they speak, I’m pretty sure Jesus wouldn’t be surprised. It comes down to what I value more: my moralism or my realism. It has taken me several years, but I have come to value the latter, mainly because I believe that my job is, first, to tell a compelling story, not construct a squeaky clean one that avoids offending even the most conservative of readers. This may mean I have to give up the possibility of some “Christian” publications accepting my work, but that is a concern that shouldn’t be hard to relinquish when I remind myself that the point of my work is meant to be evangelistic. “Those who are well have no need of a physician, but those who are sick” (Matthew 9:12).

But, as I’ve stated, this faithfulness to realism doesn’t simply concern language. The poet’s honesty must extend well beyond language. It must not shy away from portraying the darkness and the depravity in the world if the focus of the poem or the vision of the poet turns in this direction. T.S. Eliot wrote some of the most extraordinary poetry during the early years of the Modernist movement, and part of the reason he is remembered was that his images were strikingly truthful and relatable even in their metaphorical or symbolic depth. Eliot had a quiver crammed with techniques, but what makes him a great poet is not that he was good with words, but that he was not afraid to shoot them at any target, be it divine or disturbing.

To pull the reins on a poem in order that it avoids controversial, depressing or unpleasant subjects and images is dishonest, fearful writing. The poet robs himself of the challenge of identifying the threads of light that might be woven even through the darkest of fabric, and he robs the reader of the experience of taking that journey through the valley of the shadow that often comes before we reach the green pastures and still waters. Madeleine L’Engle writes, “There is nothing so secular that it cannot be made sacred, and that is one of the deepest messages of the Incarnation.”

So, what are the boundaries? They are the borders constructed by our conscience, but patrolled by our courage, and our courage is known to have a restless spirit. Where are the boundaries? They lie as far away from our freedom – a freedom that is as spiritual as it is literary – as our freedom can stretch us.

Poetry, not to mention all forms of true writing and true art, should be as challenging and inspirational for the poet to compose as it is for the reader to read.

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Chasing the Sermon

A good sermon is an elusive sermon. At least, this is what I’ve come to believe. I’ve never served as lead pastor in a church, so I suppose this statement may not apply to the majority of pastors out there. But I’ve stepped behind enough pulpits to know that the sermon (or “message,” for the hipper Christians out there … and, I guess,  ”homilies,” for the more traditional) is one that doesn’t come easily. If it does, I believe it runs the risk of being merely the product of the preacher’s own opinions and selfish understanding of faith.

It is a surreal thing to stand in front of people and deliver a sermon. Perhaps the congregation assembled before you is collectively faithful and therefore intrigued and inspired by your musings on the things of God. Or, maybe like the majority of churches in America today, the people in the pews are there because, well, they’re almost always there, usually in the same seat, and arguably the most important thing running through their minds is where they will be doing lunch not long (hopefully) after your final “Amen.” Either way, I believe the sermon is no less of a holy thing. I sometimes suspect it is a sacramental thing, too, because a good sermon is breathed into by God (like Adam, the disciples, Scripture, and you and me), and that makes it a window into His mind, and that means that those who dare to truly look through it – the preacher and the hearers alike – take part in an act of allegiance unto the mind and heart of God.

I used to begin my preparation of sermons with the always popular proof-texting method. This is where you think of an idea you want to communicate (normally one coming out of your own innocent selfishness), and then you hunt down a few verses that back up your idea, which usually means you must take these verses out of context to a degree. The majority of the sermon, then, is like an argument presented in court. You are seeking to convince the audience as if they were a jury gathered to determine the quality of your topic. In my opinion, this is the most popular method of sermon preparation. These days, you can even visit some mega-churches where the Sunday morning worship budget is so fat that pastors can show flashy videos and bring props of all shapes and sizes on stage to make the proof-texting even more extravagant. Then again, this is often a necessity – when your sanctuary is the size of a basketball stadium, you have to do something extraordinary just to hold people’s attention week after week.

Of course, proof-texters rarely lose control of their sermons, because they have learned how to quell the movement of the Spirit while preparing, and then they simply pray for the Spirit to move in what they have created on their limited own. Granted, the flip side to this coin are those pastors (and I’ve known a few) who do not prepare at all and expect the Spirit to simply guide them in their presentation when it comes time to step behind the proverbial pulpit. And yet, even if they are skilled in impromptu speaking, this is just another form a proof-texting, only there is no glancing over the particular texts beforehand. You just land on them like the spinner in a game of Twister.

These days I try to avoid proof-texting of either kind. This can be somewhat difficult, but I believe that when the sermon focus begins to feel elusive, then the preacher is on the right track. When you begin to second guess yourself, I think this is actually a good thing. It means that whatever original idea might have been rolling around in my mind doesn’t seem worthwhile enough to expound upon to the congregation, and that is one of the first steps in getting over selfishness. Not the only step, but one of them.

When we come down to it, it is no easy thing to preach the Word of God. Sure, there are many out there today who make it look easy, but I’m willing to bet half of them aren’t preaching the Word of God so much as they are preaching advertisements for a noble life. There’s nothing wrong with this – there’s nothing wrong with self-improvement at all – but accomplishing an exposition of the things of God is easier done than said. Most churches are full of lessons on how to live noble, moral lives. What exists beyond the noble and the moral – well, that’s harder to come by.

So how do you know when you’ve done it – preached the Word of God, that is? Or, at least, how do you know when you’re on the right track? What do I mean when I write that the sermon becomes elusive? Mainly, I mean that the words you are striving to put together, the exegesis of the text, the application of the lesson (if indeed there is an actual cut-and-dried lesson in there somewhere) becomes haunting. Something that lingers in front of you, seemingly just out of reach. It almost taunts you. Reminds you that, yes, yes, this is the Truth, but oh, how delicate and beautiful a Truth it is, and if you would indeed come after it, you must comprehensively deny yourself – along with all your alliterative sub-points and poetic quotes and perfectly pitched punchlines – and take the heavy responsibility of speaking this Truth once again into being in the hearts and minds of your hearers.

Sure, in the end, you may indeed have three memorable talking points, a couple of winsome illustrations, and perhaps even a couple of chuckle bombs perfectly calibrated. After all, the beauty of preaching is that this elusive Truth – the Truth of the Power of God – is not meant to be preached devoid of personality. He has, after all, chosen you, a human with a hankering for skillful turns of phrases and well-rehearsed changes in voice tambour, to be the bearer of His message. But that’s the simple glory of it. There is no such thing as “dumbing down” in God’s mind. The Apostle Paul reminds us that He chooses “the foolish things” of the world to shame the wise.

He chooses you. He chooses me. So, when it comes to preparing a sermon, take joy in the journey. Take thrill in the chase.

This Sunday, I have been asked to preach … and so, the game’s afoot!


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Teaching and Learning and Glimpsing

To be a teacher, an educator; to make a difference in the lives of those who sit before you, some rapt with attention with ready pens and note paper to spare, and others with sluggish eyes and drooping bodies not yet divorced from their beds despite having staggered into the classroom – this is a weighty thing. It was the early Church leader, James, who, in the Epistle attributed to him, writes, “Not many of you should presume yourselves teachers, for you know we will be judged with severity.”

This is day three of my new job, in this new school, in this new country with all its new rules, new policies, new routines, new grocery store layouts, and old, old history. I sit at my little desk during a quiet fifth period – a time I am attempting to set aside for reflection – a brief respite in the middle of a jam-packed day of instruction. The periods fly by, fifty minutes in length, as if in defiance of the amount of information the teachers would like to convey. And while the students are dedicated to hearing us out, they are, it seems, also as concerned with whether or not they need to lug in their heavy, thick spine textbooks everyday, and if the seating arrangement prepared for them on the first day of class is going to be upheld for the rest of the year.

It is a funny thing, an institution of learning. Life unfolds before my eyes in a myriad of ways every hour of every day. And I smile and I read with as much feeling as I can muster (for even I am fighting, at times, not to drag as those sleepy-headed students are) and I encourage these students to dig. I implore them to seek the Truth that lies underneath all of this literature and history and grammar, believing myself that, yes, there is indeed Truth underneath it all, flowing like a subterranean river behind the lines and paragraphs and pages of words we read.

Underneath us all, there is Something more. There is Truth beyond which we would be able to handle were it to suddenly unearth Itself and reveal Itself in the stark majesty and glory in which it is filled and encapsulated. May we come to sense it. May the soft flow of it resound in our ears. May the wind of it brush against our cheeks. May we, in time, catch a glimpse. On this side of heaven, that is all we need.

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Truth to Power

I preached in my church’s worship service this past Sunday. I’ve preached before, both at this church and others, so I was not all that nervous at the thought of standing up before the congregation I belong to and expressing myself and my thoughts on God through a sermon. Years ago, doing such a thing would have brought on involuntary trembling. These days, it’s a cake walk.

However, I write this without taking into account the subject matter of my sermon. Usually, this variable effects no change in my composure. On this Sunday, however, I felt quite uneasy as I stepped to the podium and gently laid my manuscript down. You see, I normally have no problem with a sermon once I have written it, having used the best words that come to communicate the message I believe is from God, the reception of which being, of course, an intimate and rather mundane hand-off, and not the revelation-on-Patmos kind of inspiration many people associate with receiving a “message from God.” I like to imagine God is pleased to work in the former way much more often, especially in these days filled with flamboyant televangelists and strutting mega church preachers who seem to have an endless connection to ecstatic inspiration from the Almighty (strange that they all sound the same). But I digress…

This Sunday, I chose two passages to expound on: Acts 4:32-35 and James 1:21-27. In short, I spoke on the amazing intimacy that existed between the first Christian church, and how most church-goers in our society have regressed to living as mere “hearers” of God’s word, rather than “doers.” I intimated that these two selections from the New Testament inform one another. The problem for me was that the sermon I ended up with after three hours of writing seem to read with a tone of meanness. Having written it on Thursday, I fretted through the next two days, afraid that the words I originally felt to be challenging and relevant to my particular church community, were, at worst, vicious, and at best, somewhat inconsiderate. It didn’t matter that there was a tenderness in my tone when I practiced reading it. What was being said was quite harsh in places. Some of the lines included:

“Everything outside the church that does not contain its official and pristine stamp of approval is considered secular – and therefore evil – by comparison. It is dangerous. … In an “us vs. them” church, there is no “ye though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,” because a truly ”good” shepherd would deem that journey unnecessary if it included such a detour into the world.”

“We will never be the church that God desires, that honors are risen Savior, if we do not actively care about its members – all its members - and the community that exists between us all. ”

“We will never be a transformed church until we are willing to worship with our hands as well as our mouths, with our talents as well as our pocketbooks. True need demands both.”

Talking with some of the church members afterwards, the usual niceties (which, don’t get me wrong, I believe were genuine) were exchanged, but one woman said, “It was a wonderful message. Ouch!” She was uplifted and inspired by the sermon, but her comment still made me gulp. The last thing I wanted to do, as this will probably be my last sermon at this church (Leigh and I leave for Germany in less than two months), was to alienate my hearers, or cause them to think that I do not treasure my experiences within this congregation.

But, I suppose, this is what is involved in speaking truth to power. There is no easy delivery, nor is there perfect release on the other side. You only trust in the words you feel are right, stand tall and speak well, and hope that they will not go out in vain, but find fertile soil in the hearts and minds of your listeners. It is very similar to missions fund raising, when you know you need to simply come right out and tell people how very much in need of their financial support you are, but have trouble doing so without being apologetic. Strange that I would be experiencing such similar circumstances so close together.

So may you know courage, and may you recognize truth when it seizes you. May you stand tall and speak the truth well. And may you see transformation take place. May you reap a harvest like none other – the glorious harvest that comes when power is humbled and is remarkably moved to show its power in full. May the truth set you and me – indeed, everyone – free.