Something True, Revisited

I have two blogs and rarely contribute to either one. Why is that?

It’s because I’m a writer. That’s what I do when I have time to myself. It’s what I do because I have no other choice. It’s how I see myself and how I want to be seen.

Of course, I want to be seen as more than that. I don’t want to be mistaken for some caricature. So I have a YouTube space so I can share educational videos, and I have a SoundCloud account so I can share music and sermons, and I have an Instagram account so I can share pictures. I enjoy these things. I enjoy making these things. I want others to see me as someone competent in these areas, too.

But I rarely contribute to any of these venues. Why is that?

Did I stop writing music? No. I stopped performing music in public, but I still make music for my kids and I on any given day you may catch me recording a voice memo of some new idea for a hook or a lyric.

Did I stop taking pictures? No. Now that I have kids, I take more pictures than ever. I never get tired of trying to capture a beautiful moment in nature, hoping to savor it beyond its given window of time.

Did I stop making videos? Well, I only ever do that in professional contexts. I make them for other people, not so much for my own purposes.

I could never stop creating. (Feel free to type me under your personality profile of choice. You’re probably not far off.)

So why do all of these accounts remain unused? Because of fear.

You see, right now I can enjoy the process of creating with little risk. I can enjoy the spark of discovery, the delight of insight, the turn of a rhythmic phrase as it dances with an image, and honor it for what it is. And I know God sees these things and delights in them, too. Occasionally I will share one with the kids or with my wife. Very rarely with a close friend.

But in so doing I content myself with a lesser joy. My passion has been to share these things with other people. In preaching, I can say “look at this amazing thing in the text!” In teaching, I can say “watch the unique way this idea flies back to its nest!” I write and speak because I want to share these treasures.

This is why I have always struggled with music. It is a deep passion, but I can’t separate myself from the work. I don’t know how to say “listen to this wonderful lyric!” without meaning in my heart “listen to my wonderful lyric!” I have been trying to work through this, and maybe it’s part of the answer to my larger problem.

By the “larger problem,” I simply mean the fear I mentioned before. I love to share, but. But. What if you don’t see the beauty? I’m so convinced it’s beautiful, so sure that if you saw what I saw, you would wonder at it, too, that it can only mean that I have failed to present it properly.

I have been losing my audience. People I used to count as friends have drifted away as the cultural currents push and pull. The same holds true for my seminary classmates, as politics has charged divisions that once posed no threat. And after leaving a church and leaving a job, after isolations and deconstructions, I want more than ever to share good, beautiful things. But I don’t want to stutter. I don’t want to trip. I don’t want to be the reason you miss the thing.

So somewhere along the way, I started writing for my critics. Because some days friends and critics are indistinguishable.

At first, I thought writing for my critics would make me better at this. But the truth turns out to be something I’ve known for a very long time: if you’re committed enough to your position, there is always a way to maintain it.

For a while I was searching for the right starting place. I wanted common ground that we could build from. If I could just establish that space and build from there, then maybe you could see the beauty of the thing. Or at very least maybe we could learn to talk with respect again.

But I found myself walking a path I’ve read about and never wanted to visit. I found myself knocking on the door of Descartes, thinking if I could just hold enough things at arms length conceptually, I could make peace and invite them all back afterward. But of course that’s not how it goes or how it could go.

No! That’s the way of the weak. I will try harder. I’ll find the answers and vindicate myself! I will tear and ball and pitch every idea with vigorous animosity toward its imperfections. I. will. share. nothing. Not until I’m sure it will be good enough.

This is how you remain silent for months. Be content to write for yourself, and kill anything that dares to recommend itself to others.

I can’t write for my critics by becoming someone they would approve of. I used to believe in common ground, but now I can no longer conjure the thought. It feels exhausted. Where you are, I cannot be. Where I am, you may not wish to be. Perhaps isolation was inevitable, with or without the pandemic.

I am only lately admitting to myself that trying to find the right starting point is a misguided quest. (Perhaps someone will say there is a way. Good! Let him take it.) Where was I going? I just wanted to share something of worth, something beautiful that struck me. I wanted to share it in a way that guaranteed you saw it, too. But of course that’s a fool’s errand. I can’t make you see. (I wrote that in a song over 20 years ago. Apparently even if you see, you may forget.)

So I want to go back to sharing. And I want to renounce the thought of seeking some artificial quarters from which to write.

Some will say it takes courage to share your writing, but I don’t want to risk cheapening the word. But sharing anything in public means you can’t control the way it is received. It may be ignored, unappreciated, misunderstood, or condemned. And perhaps you may be, too, by extension. But I have to believe that if something is worthy of sharing, it’s also worthy of the risk involved.

And what are the risks, really? That all my friends should prove to be critics? I don’t really fear that, and only by confronting the possibility can I put it to bed. That writing in an unscholarly way might bar me from a chance to do something more rigorous? That would be an odd punishment for so little a crime. That my convictions prove a clumsy fit to any community that I would want to join? Well, let’s just say if we can’t learn to live together, we’re going to die alone. (Thanks, Jack.)

So I’m going to try and go back to writing in public more often and with less calculation, to “say something true in public every day.” Then what will be, will be.

And what you will see, you will see.