Why I Fear Writing [jay]

Summer camp in the rolling hills of southeastern Pennsylvania is a highlight of my boyhood. Being raised in a Christian home required that I attend a Christian camp with a bunch of other church kids who were looking forward to hiking, creek-stomping, archery, swimming and farting in the poor cabinmate’s face who happened to be the first person to fall asleep on the first night.

At this camp, as I suppose would be the case at most Christian camps, we would grudgingly be dragged away from the adventures of the day for “Bible Time”. It was an obligatory, mid-morning devotional time in The Chapel, a blisteringly hot, converted 18th century barn that smelled like cedar and three hundred year old poo. Some poor sap – usually a retired missionary or overworked local church pastor – was asked to come and share biblical truths for half an hour with a group of thirty to forty ten year olds who could only think about the team competitions that afternoon or the S’mores awaiting them that evening.

For nine straight summers I attended that camp and to this day I don’t remember a single Bible Time teaching, save one. A story that one speaker told on a July morning when I was ten or eleven seared my heart with fear and trepidation and is still the strongest reason why I fear writing. The story went something like this:

Billy was a ten year old boy who lived with his parents and little sister. Little Billy loved his family very much and was, for the most part, obedient and good. If there was one thing Billy lacked though, it was an ability to control his tongue.

Billy’s elderly grandmother took ill with cancer and Billy’s parents asked Grandma to come and live with their family. This invitation displaced Billy from his room and, to make matters worse, Grandma’s treatment medications caused a foul odor in his now confiscated personal space.

The next day, Billy and his mother had an exchange. He was complaining about the living arrangements and his mother was pleading with him to lower his voice and have grace. Billy did not lower his voice though, in fact, he said even louder, “But Mom, Grandma stinks!”

Just then, Grandma walked around the corner with tears streaming down her cheeks. She had heard every word of their conversation.

Billy felt terrible. He begged Grandma’s forgiveness. Grandma didn’t say a word. She simply went upstairs into Billy’s room and emerged again quickly with a pillow and a pair of scissors in hand. She motioned for Billy to follow her outside.

As they stood together in the gentle breeze, Grandma took the scissors and cut open one side of the pillow. She reached in and grabbed a handful of tiny, white down feathers. With a sweep of the hand, she threw the feathers into the air. They danced and moved in the breeze, dotting the green grass with their white kisses.

Seriously…I remember the Bible Time speaker using that exact phrase: “dotting the green grass with their white kisses.” I’m obviously paraphrasing most of this, it was twenty years ago, after all, but I remember that phrase. I was hanging on every word.

Grandma turned to Billy and said, “Billy, go and get all the feathers and put them back in the pillow.”

“But that’s impossible, Grandma. There must be a million of ‘em!”

“That’s true, isn’t it, Billy?” She continued, “Billy, those feathers are like words. Once you release them, you can never retrieve them. They will go where the wind takes them. And the good or harm that they do can be forgiven, but it cannot be taken back.”

I have no idea what the speaker’s main point was. I assume it was something about controlling our mouths, but that story put the fear of God into me in regard to words.

That is why I fear writing.

Words matter. Words are powerful and intrusive. Words have the ability to bless or curse, to comfort or destroy, to breathe life or suffocate. Words come in so many forms, so many variations, so many links to so many other words that have so many of their own forms and variations.

As someone in pastoral ministry, words are what I do. The spoken word --that’s something I can handle. Those words are expressed from me to a person or audience and there is an ability to read the listener’s response. At any point in time, I can teach something different or call the person with whom I had the conversation to clarify a statement made.

The written word is completely different. I have no idea who is going to get their eyes on the stuff that I write and no way to gauge their response to my writing. It is a complete loss of control and a call for judgment on whatever it is that I put on paper and there is no ability within me to dictate who sees the words and who does not.

In college, I wrote a term paper about U2 and pop culture that I thought was pretty good, so I submitted it to a periodical for consideration for publication. The article was turned down, not because of my writing style, but for lack of worthy content. Reading over that paper again recently, the editor was right – that paper sucked. The words I would write now are so different from the words I wrote then.

So, the question is: if I am so afraid of writing words, why am I writing this essay? That is a good question. And Jesus has provided me with a good answer.

The New Testament says that Jesus is the Word. I think what that means is that as the Word, and all my words are wrapped up in His Word. As the Word, He realizes reality and defines definition. He controls all blessing and cursing, comforting and destroying, life-breathing and suffocation. God’s singular Word puts an end to my words and, to quote the Psalmist, “all peoples stand silent before Him.” My attempts to explain myself, write a poem, recite a monologue, call a friend, discipline my kids, preach a sermon, or write this essay are all pieces of me trying to engage my reality. The fact that Jesus is the Word in which all words hold together and have purpose means that my reality is contained within His Reality, and that is something in which I can rest…sort of.

I still am worried about people reading my stuff and hating it. But more than anything, I am worried about me reading my stuff and hating it. But the fact that Jesus is the Word is explained by speaking of Him as “full of grace and truth.”. The truth may very well be that the paper I wrote in college was lousy, but there is grace to redeem that. And there is grace to allow me to be who I was then, and grace to permit me to be who I am now. Once I began to equate Jesus’ grace with the eternality of His Word-ness, I felt a release from my fear of writing.

The reality of His grace is that He did comb the yard on His hands and knees with a pair of tweezers, placing every feather back in the pillow. He took Grandma’s hurting heart and healed it. He took my shame-filled spirit, poured His grace over it, and simply said, “Neither do I condemn you. Go and sin no more.” And He does that for me myriad times a day in ways that are seen and unseen.

So I am choosing against my fear of writing. I still believe words hold incredible power, but I believe even more that the Word is incredible power. And, something even more comforting for this tenuous writer, the Word is full of grace.