The Witching Hour

I don't write about writing much, probably because I don't think of myself as a real writer. I try to keep this blog focused on issues of faith and Christian living. But that always intersects with the ramparts that hold up the theme, and that is the act of writing itself. So it may deserve a little in memoriam post of its own.

Despite the fact that I have been writing without pause for over twenty years, I will usually refer to myself as 'a guy who writes,' and not a writer. Anyone who wants to be a writer sees it as a blessing endowed which holds the key to unlocking their dreams. Anyone who knows what it means to be a writer (ie, one who writes) knows that is is really a curse which has you under compulsion, a compulsion you often beg in earnest to be taken from you. If you find yourself in bed at 3am, consider yourself blessed.

I don't know any other way to be, any other way to live, but I will tell you this: writing is a shameful exercise. We rightfully recoil and seek to cover up someone who disrobes in the public square. And yet those who write, who are urged forward by silent muses, do it all the time, for the public and in the public square, for all to see. It's almost like a koan: if a writer writes his words, and there is no one to read it, does it make a sound? I'm not a journaler. I have no use in writing secret words for my eyes only. I write to be read. The depths of my pride and exhibitionism know no bounds.

Every writer knows they are at heart a kind of fraud, or at least that is the fear. Aren't we all, in some way or another? Don't we all curse the day we were born, at some point? But here's the rub, and the honest truth: I don't like who I am. It took a searing private message from a virtual stranger taking me to task to remind me of this. It was something I was grateful to receive, but man did it sting, and in the best most humiliating way possible. Social media is both a blessing and a curse. I want to do the work God has set before me and honor Him in that, but that public exhibitionism so inherent in writing--about everything--often bleeds into this work, and it shows up there. It's not enough to do something for the greater glory of God in obscurity--I need to make it known to the world. Because everything in life you see as a story, because you see opportunities to write and exhibit and make sense of your life as narrative in everything you do, when you end up doing the work God calls you to, you write about it shamelessly. You hope it is for the benefit of others, you want your light to shine before others, but pride is pernicious, and the capacity for self-deception runs deep. When you are filled with doubt in the dead of night, there's no one to turn to. The people you love most are asleep upstairs, the friends you rely on for building up and support have retired to their respective beds, and the God you serve is silent in the vigil hours. My wife has heard me lament ad nauseum: why can't I be normal? What is wrong with me, and how can you stand to be married to me?

In reading the words of the prophet Jeremiah tonight, I found some solace--not because of anything prophetic on my part, but because his lament is one I have uttered myself.

O Lord, You have deceived me and I was deceived;
You have overcome me and prevailed. 
I have become a laughingstock all day long; 
Everyone mocks me. For each time I speak, I cry aloud; 
I proclaim violence and destruction, 
Because for me the word of the Lord has resulted
In reproach and derision all day long. 
But if I say, “I will not remember Him Or speak anymore in His name,”
Then in my heart it becomes like a burning fire 
Shut up in my bones; 
And I am weary of holding it in, 
And I cannot endure it.
For I have heard the whispering of many,
“Terror on every side!Denounce him; yes, let us denounce him!”
All my trusted friends,
Watching for my fall, say:
“Perhaps he will be deceived, so that we may prevail against him
And take our revenge on him.”

But the Lord is with me like a dread champion;
Therefore my persecutors will stumble and not prevail.
They will be utterly ashamed, because they have failed,
With an everlasting disgrace that will not be forgotten.
Yet, O Lord of hosts, You who test the righteous,
Who see the mind and the heart;
Let me see Your vengeance on them;
For to You I have set forth my cause.
Sing to the Lord, praise the Lord!
For He has delivered the soul of the needy oneFrom the hand of evildoers. 
 Cursed be the day when I was born;
Let the day not be blessed when my mother bore me! 
Cursed be the man who brought the news
To my father, saying,“A baby boy has been born to you!”
And made him very happy.
But let that man be like the cities
Which the Lord overthrew without relenting,
And let him hear an outcry in the morning
And a shout of alarm at noon;
Because he did not kill me before birth,
So that my mother would have been my grave,
And her womb ever pregnant.
Why did I ever come forth from the womb
To look on trouble and sorrow,
So that my days have been spent in shame?"
(Jer 20:1-18)

As Monsignor Pope said of Jeremiah, the best kind of prophets are the reluctant ones.  Nobody should want to be a spiritual director, or a prophet, or a writer, or a guider of souls, or a person of influence. As Msgr Pope writes,

"Prophets suffer because they love and care for the ultimate well-being of God’s people, not merely their present comfort. They suffer because they do not fit into tidy political or tribal categories. They speak for God, who transcends such groups. Yes, although the prophet is totaliter aliter (totally other), the human cost is high, and he comes to resemble Christ on the cross. The prophet’s own notions of grandeur must be crucified. The idea that most people will ultimately accept the truth must be crucified."

This is not my issue, because I am not a prophet or called to that task. But my struggle to simply avoid sin, as well as self-recognition and affirmation, is burdensome. It's the 3am dawns, when you've been up most of the night wrestling and then the embarrassing compulsion of being driven to write about it, as you do with everything, drives home an even deeper truth of how tied you are to the world, how amateur in the spiritual realm, how sensitive to criticism, how unable to sit with tension, how unsure, how weak, how prideful, how effeminate in the need to express and how far from the strong and silent type you are, how unwilling to do what is arduous and uncomfortable, how quick to complain and seek out consolation.

And yet...

And yet despite all that, I do not doubt God's love for me at 3am, steeped in sin and pride and worldliness. As much as I lament with Jeremiah the day of my birth, I also read the words of David and share the quiet acknowledgement of His wonderful deeds, His intricate creations.

O Lord, You have searched me and known me. You know when I sit down and when I rise up; You understand my thought from afar. You scrutinize my path and my lying down, And are intimately acquainted with all my ways. Even before there is a word on my tongue, Behold, O Lord, You know it all. You have enclosed me behind and before, And laid Your hand upon me. Such knowledge is too wonderful for me; It is too high, I cannot attain to it.

Where can I go from Your Spirit? Or where can I flee from Your presence? If I ascend to heaven, You are there; If I make my bed in Sheol, behold, You are there. If I take the wings of the dawn, If I dwell in the remotest part of the sea, Even there Your hand will lead me, And Your right hand will lay hold of me. If I say, “Surely the darkness will overwhelm me, And the light around me will be night,” Even the darkness is not dark to You, And the night is as bright as the day. Darkness and light are alike to You.

For You formed my inward parts; You wove me in my mother’s womb. I will give thanks to You, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made; Wonderful are Your works, And my soul knows it very well. My frame was not hidden from You, When I was made in secret, And skillfully wrought in the depths of the earth; Your eyes have seen my unformed substance; And in Your book were all written The days that were ordained for me, When as yet there was not one of them.

How precious also are Your thoughts to me, O God! How vast is the sum of them! If I should count them, they would outnumber the sand. When I awake, I am still with You.

O that You would slay the wicked, O God; Depart from me, therefore, men of bloodshed. For they speak against You wickedly, And Your enemies take Your name in vain. Do I not hate those who hate You, O Lord? And do I not loathe those who rise up against You? I hate them with the utmost hatred; They have become my enemies.

Search me, O God, and know my heart; Try me and know my anxious thoughts; And see if there be any hurtful way in me, And lead me in the everlasting way. (Ps 139)

He knows my anxious thoughts. He searches me and knows my heart, even when I don't know it, or am caught off guard by it. He knows everything about me, and has a plan for me--yes, that grand narrative lens I see the world through as a writer, as a Christian, as a sojourner. When I try to keep it in, keep the screen clean, the page blank, my bones groan. Please leave the thorns in my ribs, if they be for Your purposes, since your grace is sufficient (2 Cor 12:9). See in me, Lord, if there be any hurtful way in me. And don't leave my side, even in the dead of night. My sin is ever before me. When I am awake, let me still be with You.

Please pray for me.