Why I Write
Now in our eighth month of pandemic protocols, I have developed a routine and structure that relies to a certain extent on arbitrary rules. One of those rules: “I am allowed to watch whatever I want on t.v. if exercising.” All this to say… so, I was on the treadmill, catching up on Say Yes to the Dress…
On that reality show about Kleinfeld’s Bridal in New York City, we meet a bridal client who had once been a contestant on The Bachelor (yikes) and now works as a “lifestyle blogger.” Don’t get me wrong: I actually liked her, and she chose a rockin’ yet appropriate dress. Her job title got me thinking about the question, “If my weekly Medium essays were to be called a ‘lifestyle ‘blog’,’ then what is the ‘lifestyle’ I’m promoting?” In this 100th essay on this site, I answer that question with some thoughts on why I write.
I write in order that I might write more. In his book, Getting Things Done: the Art of Stress-Free Productivity (Penguin Books, 2001), David Allen writes about the importance of getting ideas out of our heads. He promotes and defends systems for capturing our thoughts: files, notebooks, software. I have come to believe that my brain is unwilling to give me good ideas unless I am ready to do something with them. Why would my brain throw good money after bad, as the saying goes? The more I write, the more new ideas come to me about what I want to write next.
I write because leadership is hard. I feel part of my calling as a minister is to give the gift of normalization. Whenever I have a student or colleague tell me about a dysfunctional leadership situation, and I say something about the dynamic that suggests to them that they are experiencing a pattern all leaders face, they get a certain look in their eyes. They realize they aren’t imagining things, their posture relaxes, and their eyes bespeak peace. They realize that the problem isn’t about them, it’s just that communities are weird, and leadership is hard.
That small shift in the countenance of a colleague who has learned anew that they are part of something bigger than the situation at hand — not failing and not alone — gives me the satisfaction ministers experience when they’ve brought comfort and healing. Fact: leadership is pretty tough, but so are we! Dysfunction is common, but resurrection in the form of surviving and even overcoming it is how the story really ends. This knowledge binds leaders together and renews their faith in a God who cares enough about our communities to transform them.
I write so that I notice wonder in the ordinary. We are surrounded by life-giving metaphors we don’t always see. A couple of days ago, I was humming “Puff, the Magic Dragon” to myself. It occurred to me for the first time that Jackie Paper might not have been amazed by ceiling wax, but sealing wax. I mean, what even is ceiling wax? How could I have thought Jackie showed it to his imaginary friend in the autumn mist? I wondered at my discovery, thinking, “Wow, it’s possible to have been wrong about something for a very long time. I should ‘blog about that.”
Duke University ethicist and theologian Stanley Hauerwas makes an argument for a Christian life based on the order that it provides. That order, such as what we find in the Christian liturgical year, takes us beyond the ordinary, into exploration of life’s cyclical and meaning-imbued complexity. Absent a higher order, he writes, we find ourselves paralyzed by disconnectedness, and life just feels like “one damn thing after another” (Resident Aliens, Hauerwas & Willimon, Abindgon Press, 1989). In seeing and sharing metaphors, we find both order and wonder.
I write to grow as a leader. I know precious few jokes about ministerial leadership development, but here’s one of them: “What’s the difference between 25 years of ministry experience; and one year of ministry experience, 25 times?” The answer: “Reflective practice.”
Okay, it’s not a very funny joke, but I like it nonetheless. Reflective practice is the intentional work we do to remember what we have gone through in leadership, examine and critique it, and invest the knowledge we harvest from reflection into our future leadership. Those who write about leadership development generally agree that we don’t learn from experience, but rather from reflection on experience. When I write about leadership, and take the risk of putting my own learning out in a wider sphere for public consumption, I capture and reinvest what are often hard-won lessons.
I write to challenge myself to tell the truth. One of my mentors, Harvard Divinity School’s Dudley Rose, encourages ministers to see therapists this way: “Telling someone the truth for an hour, once each week, makes it much harder to lie to ourselves.” Out of all that disturbs me about the present political moment, that which upsets and offends me most is that we have a US President who constantly lies, and no one seems to call him on it or care.
I feel that public indifference to lying leaders is incredibly cynical, as though we don’t think we deserve better. Lying leaders scare me not just because I don’t trust their words to me, but because I don’t trust their judgment. As Rose pointed out, if they’re lying to me, how easy must it be for them to lie to themselves? I care more about whether our leaders are truthful than whether I agree with them.
My preaching role model, the Rev. Janet Legro, gave me advice about preaching 25 years ago that has guided me ever since: prepare your sermon, then go back through it asking yourself, “Do you really mean that?” The exercise improves my sermon while also deepening my self-knowledge, conviction, and maybe even character. I reread my essays before posting them on Medium with the same discerning eye. Do I mean it? If not, I have to change it, and in changing my words, I know myself better and become more fully who I’m called to be.
On this occasion of my 100th Medium essay, I thank those who read my words. I don’t know who all of you are, but I feel accountable to you. That accountability is not one of my arbitrary rules; it’s a meaningful and inspiring discipline. Without you knowing it, you are giving me a sense of servanthood that is helping me to grow. I hope you find something in my words that resonates and maybe even helps you grow along with me.
