The Write Stuff

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Special thanks to the Christian Writers Guild for sharing Max’s talk.

We like to envision him as an old man with young eyes, wild hair, and a raging quill. He wrote by the light of a lamp in the lee of a shack with the fury of a prophet.  His pen could scarce keep pace with his thoughts.

“A revealing of Jesus, the Messiah.  God gave it to make plain to his servants what is about to happen.  He published and delivered it by angel to his servant John.  And John holds everything he saw:  God’s word—the witness of Jesus Christ!  How blessed the reader!  How blessed the hearers and keepers of these oracle words, all the words written in this book.”  (Rev. 1:1-2). 

The old apostle paused only to catch his breath and dip his pen.  He stood only to gaze through an open window into the just-opened heavens. If he closed his eyes it was only to rummage through his treasure chest of words for the one that fit the vision of an often-crowned Christ or a blood-dipped robe. No lazy verbs, no vanilla adjectives.  This gate glistened with pearls and streets spoke of gold. This was God’s revelation.  John was God’s revealer.  So John wrote.

So did Paul.  Yet, Paul wrote, not because of heavenly action, but because of congregational angst.  Titus needed direction, the Ephesians needed assurance.  Timothy struggled, the Corinthians squabbled and the Galatians waffled.  So Paul wrote to them.

How he made music with his words. He turned epistles into concert hall sheet music.  “Though I speak with the tongues of men and angels, but have not love, I have become as sounding brass or clanging cymbal.”  (1 Cor. 13:1) It’s as if he dipped his pen in honey. He could sound like a poet in the seventh heaven.

He could also sound like a pastor on Monday morning.  Tired, frustrated.  Beginning sentences and not finishing them. Starting a second thought before he finished the first.  Throwing out ideas in lumps instead of lyrics.  But that was ok.  He wasn’t writing the Bible.  He was writing to Philemon.  He wasn’t crafting epistles; he was solving problems.  Paul didn’t write for the ages; he wrote for the churches.  He wrote for souls.

So did Luke. Remember the early words of his gospel?

“Since I have investigated all the reports in close detail, starting from the story’s beginning, I decided to write it all out for you, most honorable Theophilus, so you can know beyond a shadow of a doubt the reliability of what you were taught.”  (Lk. 1:3-4 MSG)

We wonder who Theophilus was and where Theophilus lived and if Theophilus found it unusual to receive a two-volume letter.  We wonder what convinced Luke to rivet himself to his wooden chair near a shuttered window long enough to write a gospel.  What prompted Dr. Luke to exchange his scalpel for the pen, the crowds for the quiet corner?  When did he perceive his assignment as a kingdom scribe?

We wonder because we’ve wondered if God would use us to do the same. 

We know a Theophilus or two.  We’ve seen the confusion in Ephesus and heard of the troubles in Crete.  And we’ve felt the sands of Patmos beneath our feet, its fire within our hearts.  And we’ve written:  articles, blogs, books, stories. Not like Luke, Paul, and John.  But not unlike them, either.

We’ve had our moments of inspiration.  Sandwiched between hours of perspiration, for sure.  But we’ve had our moments—mystical moments of pounding heart and pounding keyboard. We’ve felt the wind behind our backs and sensed a holy hand guiding ours.  We, like our Creator, have beheld our creations and declared, “It’s good.”  (Or, at least, “It’s not so bad.”)  And we have asked:  Is this our call?  Our assignment?  To use words to shape souls?

I first ventured such a question beneath the balmy skies of Miami, Florida.  I was a rookie minister in 1979.  The church where I served published a weekly church bulletin.  Many pastors dread such assignments, but I came to cherish it.  Tuesday evenings became my notebook date-night.  I would retreat with pad and pen and sit until something happened.  Once a week I went into labor and delivered an idea.  Is there any sweeter moment than the writing of the final sentence?

Actually there is.  The appreciation thereof. When 80-year-old Edith Hayes thanked me in the church foyer for my article on prayer.  When Joe the boat builder gave copies to his crew.  When the pastor from California urged me to write for publication. I smiled for days.  It’s one thing to write.  It’s quite another to be read.

I came to believe this much:  good words are worth the work.  Well-written words can change a life.  Why is this? Words go where we never go—Africa.  Australia.  Indonesia.  My daughter was in Bangalor, India, last summer and saw my books in the display window of a shop.

Written words go to places you’ll never go.

…and descend to depths you’ll never know. 

Readers invite the author to a private moment. They clear the calendar, find the corner, flip on the lamp, turn off the television, pour the tea, pull on the wrap, silence the dog, shoo the kids.  They set the table, pull out the chair and invite you, “Come, talk to me for a moment.” The invitation of a lifetime.

Accept it. We need your writing. This generation needs the best books you can write and the clearest thinking you can render. Pick up the pens left by Paul, John, and Luke. They show us how to write.

For example:  they always delivered the bread.  We’ve been known to forget it. Denalyn called as I was driving home the other day. “Can you stop at the grocery store and pick up some bread?”

“Of course.”

“Do I need to tell you where to find it?”
“Are you kidding? I was born with a bread-aisle tracking system.”
“Just stay focused, Max.”
She was nervous. Rightly so.  I am the Exxon Valdez of grocery shopping. So, knowing that Denalyn was counting on me, I parked the car at the market and entered the door. En route to the bread aisle, I spotted my favorite cereal, so I picked up a box, which made me wonder if we needed milk. I found a gallon in the dairy section. The cold milk stirred images of one of God’s great gifts to humanity: Oreo cookies. The heavenly banquet will consist of tables and tables of Oreo cookies and milk. We will spend eternity dipping and slurping our way through … OK, enough of that.
I grabbed a pack of cookies, which happened to occupy the same half of the store as barbecue potato chips. What a wonderful world this is—cookies and barbecue chips under the same roof! On the way to the checkout counter I spotted some ice cream. Within a few minutes I’d filled the basket with every essential item for a happy and fulfilled life. I checked out and drove home.

Denalyn looked at my purchases, then at me. Can you guess her question? All together now: “Where’s the bread?”
I went back to the grocery.
I forgot the big item. The one thing I went to get. The one essential product. I forgot the bread.
Might we make the same mistake? In an effort to write well, let’s not forget the good news. In an effort to be creative, let’s also be clear.
Paul was clear: “God saved you by his special favor when you believed. And you can’t take credit for this; it is a gift from God”  (Ephesians 2:8 NLT). Way to go, Paul. You delivered the bread.

So did Luke. He made certain his pages bore these words: “Change your hearts and lives and be baptized, each one of you, in the name of Jesus Christ for the forgiveness of your sins. And you will receive the gift of the Holy Spirit” (Acts 2:38 NCV).

And John. Wouldn’t you love to have peered over his shoulder as he wrote:

“For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him will not perish but have eternal life” ( John 3:16 NLT)?

Behold, the bread. The church’s first writers remembered it. They made certain every reader received the non-parallel reservation, the defeat of death and the forgiveness of sins. They gave the bread. Don’t forget it. Entertain. Inform. Thrill and stir. But amidst your plots and word-pictures, don’t forget the bread.  John, Luke, and Paul delivered it.

They also wrote with their lives first. They lived the message before they scribed it. John was under fire for his faith. “I was on the isle, called Patmos.” Imprisoned for his passion. Rome locked him up because they couldn’t shut him up. And Paul? He did his writing and thinking about God in the middle and muddle of the world. On a boat crossing the sea or in a prison cell chained to a guard. It’s like he was jotting epistles on the back of envelopes, hurrying them off with urgency to needy friends. Luke, it seems, had two loves, Jesus and Theophilus, and he wrote fifty-two chapters in hopes that the latter would meet the former.

These writers didn’t inhabit ivory towers or quarantine themselves in a world of un-asked questions. “You know in what manner I always lived among you” (Acts 21:18) Paul said. Before he wrote about Christ, he lived Christ. He responded to a real world with real words. Let’s do the same.

Let your life be your first draft. Shouldn’t Christian writers be Christian writers? Love grumpy neighbors. Feed hungry people. Help a struggling church. Pay your bills, your dues, and attention to your spouse.  You’ll never write better than you live.  No book is good enough of overcome bad character. Live with integrity.

And when it’s time to write, cherish clarity. Good writing is clear thinking. Here’s a tip. Make it your aim to summarize the entire book in one sentence.  Distill the message into a phrase and protect it.  Stand guard.  Defy interlopers.  No paragraph gets to play unless it contributes to the message of the book.

Follow the example of John.

“Jesus worked many other miracles for his disciples, and not all of them are written in this book.  But these are written so that you will put your faith in Jesus”  (Jn. 21:30 CEV).

John self-edited. He auditioned his stories to fit the manuscript. He littered his floor with edited paragraphs.

Good writers do this.  They tap the delete button and distill the writing. They bare-bone and bareknuckle it.  They cut the fat and keep the fact. Concise (but not cute.) Clear (but not shallow). Enough (but not too much).

Make every word earn its place on the page.  Not just once or twice, but many times.  Sentences can be like just-caught fish, spunky today and stinky tomorrow.  Re-read until you’ve thrown out all the stinkers.  Rewrite until you have either a masterpiece or an angry publisher.  Revise as long as you can. “God’s words are pure words, pure silver words refined seven times in the fires of his word-kiln” (Psalms 12:6 MSG).

Ernest Hemingway espoused re-writing:  “I rise at first light, and I start by reading and editing everything I have written to the point where I left off.  That way I go through a book several hundred times, honing it until it gets an edge like a fighter’s sword.  I rewrote the ending of ‘A Farewell to Arms’  39 times in manuscript and over 30 times in proof trying to get it right.” 

I find it helps to read the work out loud.  First to myself, then to my dog, then to anyone who is kind enough to listen. I vary the locations of the reading.  What sounds good in the study must sound good on the porch.  What sounds good to me must sound good to my editors. I know. Editing hurts. So does a trip to the dentist. But someone needs to find the cavities.

Let editors do their job. Release your grip on the manuscript. A little red ink won’t hurt you.  A lot of red ink might save you. My most recent manuscript was returned to me sunburned in red. It bled like raw steak. Of its fourteen chapters, thirteen needed an overhaul. Two had to be trashed. I was depressed for a week. Yet, the book is better because of the editors.

And isn’t that our aim? The best book possible?  We need good books. We need your best book. Don’t give up. Be stubborn with your standard. Stay faithful in prayer. Don’t begrudge the hard work. Peter De Vries said, “I write well when I’m inspired and I see to it that I’m inspired at nine o’clock every morning.”

A framed quote greets me each time I sit at my desk. “You wanna write?  Put your butt in that chair and sit there a long, long time.”  Writing is not glamorous work.

But it is a noble work. 

There is a single mother who, tonight, is utterly exhausted. Three kids and long hours have taken their toll. She keeps a book on her bedside. She has only a few moments to read. She just needs a word, a phrase, a refined sentence to lift her heart. Would you write it?

Tomorrow a businessman will follow his daily routine. He will turn from the numbers on his screen to the words on a blog. He doesn’t need much, just an anchor-point, a reminder. Would you write it?

A teenager is looking for a book. Her friends fill their minds with stories of vampires, magicians, and goblins, but she wants more. She wants truth, creative truth. She wants hope. Hope on a page. Will you give it to her?

We need you to do this. We need your best work and it is work. But it is a valued work.  A worthwhile work.  A holy work.  May you do such a work.

May you, like John, depict the heavens. May you, like Paul, love the churches. May you, like John, connect with a Theophilus in your world.  May you pick up their pens and write for the soul.

Readers’ Digest, October 1968, “I Remember ‘Papa’ Hemingway,” by A. E. Hotchner, p. 151.

The Writer’s Quotation Book:  A Literary Companion, ed. By James Charlton.  New York, NY:  Penguin Books, 1992, p. 74.