I don’t know why I was surprised at the ask…I know what time of year it is.  We welcome yet another class of bright disciples of all ages and stripes to the seminary each year at this time, as the summer heat here in Washington tightens its hold on us all in that last gasp of summer’s torment I know so well.  I should know just by the weather that it is that time when I am asked to stand and speak to that new class about my philosophy as a writer and as an editor in the Writing Center.

Each year, after I have spoken, I am always shocked and disappointed with myself because I once again did not include my thoughts about what I consider to be the giant elephant in the room — the unasked and unanswered question, or, as I refer to it, the big why, that great existential question, why are we here. Why is writing so important to this journey that you, new presence in this place, begin here and now?  Why is it so important that we all gather here to talk about it?  Why is it so important that, from this moment on, it will keep many of us up at night?

I never, ever, remember to say what I have been thinking about all year.  I never remember to answer these questions that I ponder on my own time: why I am there, why I am doing what I do, why do I find myself living into an unexpected ministry (and make no mistake, this is a ministry), the ministry of writing. This year, I thought I would answer it before that fateful afternoon. I’m going to write (ha) my answer now, while none of those expectant souls have any idea who I am, and maybe I will remember just a little piece of my explanation when I stand to speak.

Every time I begin a discussion about the ins-and-outs of spiritual writing with someone, anyone, I remember a story from Diana Butler Bass’s book, Christianity After Religion. There, Bass reveals her love of flower arranging, how she learned to design floral arrangements from her father, a working florist, and how she still enjoys arranging flowers as a hobby.  She did not, however, become a florist as did her father and grandfather before her (even though that might have been the family expectation), just as she did not remain a Methodist in her faith life, the denomination that formed her youthful faith.  Did her parents fail in their teaching?  Was she too rebellious and therefore had to find her own way?  No, she concludes.  Her parents taught her the how of the florist’s art and business, and they taught her the how of being a good Methodist,  but they never taught her why she should do those things.  I’ve simplified her discussion somewhat, but it brings me to my own point. We are a people to whom why is important and yet, gathered together in a classroom, in this seminary, we never ask this most important question:  why, are we as Christians (and not just as seminarians), compelled to write and to write well?

As Christians, we are called to communicate — it is in the bones of our faith, in the very Scripture we read (try Deut 6:7, 11:19 and John 1:1, for a start). No, I don’t just mean preach a good sermon, although that is important.  Yes, those of you who go on to serve the church as leaders will write many a newsletter article and prayers and letters and reports and all manner of communications as you move through the world of church.  Lay and ordained, you will write.  That is the what, but why do you do it?  Because you have to do it?  Or is there some other motivator to this flood of words that you will generate as you move through churches and congregations and life?

Discipleship, at its roots, demands that we communicate about ourselves and our faith.  In some churches, that takes the form of testimony — the act of sharing our own, personal, raw stories and the ways those stories have brought us to where we stand now, as part of God’s community.  In other traditions, the idea of testimony is replaced by one of reflection, an art form that is a little less visceral, often more theological and intellectual as well as observational.   In the Episcopal tradition, that call to speak of our faith in word and deed is part of the baptismal covenant:  “Will you proclaim by word and example the Good News of God in Christ? (BCP 292)”

That’s right.  I’m going to the baptismal covenant already.  Because I would say to you all, those who sit in the chairs of the seminary classroom where I will meet you, and those who sit in pews elsewhere, those who sit next to you on the bus or train or plane — your ability to communicate clearly and in real world language not church jargon has everything to do with your ability to tell the story of your faith to the person that needs to hear it.    And I repeat, your ability to tell the story of your faith — not to show how smart you are, not to impress the professors or your bishop — but to tell the story of your faith in a way that the person before you needs to and can hear the story of love that is offered.  Your ability to craft that story has everything to do with your own life as a disciple and with your ability to make disciples of others.

It is so hard, in the face of the pressures of the world, in the face of course schedules and work schedules and finding a placement for field education and taking care of families and keeping your clothes clean and your body fed and exercised — it is so hard to resist the temptation to treat each writing exercise that comes before you in these next three years as just another item on the checklist between your awareness of your call and your ordination or whatever.  It will be even more difficult after you graduate. But please, I beg you, do it.  Resist that temptation.

Remember instead, that every word you write and speak in the name of faith has power.  It has the power to change the listener, and most of all, it has the power to change you.  Remember always that each word you place on paper is an act of personal formation.  Writing, my friends, even in the pressure-cooker of seminary, is a spiritual practice.  And held as such, it brings you ever closer to God.

And so, my personal answer to the question why?  Well, I, like Flannery O’Connor, know that writing helps me understand who I am.  When I am stuck, I free write.  I might even write a Haiku or two to get some simple words on paper.  But in the end, writing brings my spirit through my incarnated self, and it is at that moment that I have the very best chance to know the presence of God.   It is in the use of my imagination that I find truth, and, all writing, be it a paper for systematics or an exegesis paper on a biblical text or a poem about the blue sky above, requires the use of our greatest gift, our imagination.

C. S. Lewis wrote:  “Reason is the natural order of truth; but imagination is the organ of meaning (Mere Christianity).“  You, my friends, are here to make meaning, first for yourselves, so that you might be equipped to help others with that same task.  We all have that same responsibility to our own souls and to each other.

And that is why.  That is why I write.  That is why I will spend hours reading what you have written.  Imagination is a gift, creation is a responsibility — for one and for all.  And now, friends, I really know what I think.

**Addendum (08/17/2020): I realize that since the original writing of this piece we have come face-to-face with the unpleasant truth of Flannery O’Connor’s racism.  I make no excuse for those beliefs and I do not embrace them.  But, in 2018, like many, I only knew her as an inspirational writer, someone who is linked in the popular imagination to the phrase, “I write to discover what I know.”  And that is still a truth that I share with her, and with many other writers, even though I do not share so many other thoughts that she clearly had, because as I have stated above, now I have seen her views.  Perhaps if she had not died so young, her writing might have taken her to a deeper understanding of the oneness of all God’s creation.  Given what we have finally seen about her thoughts, there is some comfort in the idea that she would have been very uncomfortable with my use of her words here.