Kim Fabricius’ transparent personal portrait finds resonance in me at that moment in the process of sermon preparation when the research is done and the mystery must be capture in feeble words. Thanks again, Kim.
I hate writing. I hate it because it is arduous and I am lazy. I hate it because it is terrifying – it threatens my identity – and I am a coward. I hate it because it makes me think – and because I don’t know what I think until I write it. I hate it because whatever I write I will have to unwrite, even to rewrite. I hate it because what I write will inevitably contain, minimally, a fair amount of bullshit. I hate it because some people don’t have a nose for bullshit and might mistake faeces for roses. I hate it because what I write may be taken down in evidence and used against me in court – and I don’t mean by the thought and morality police. I hate it because impelling it, willy-nilly, are the sins of vanity and pride. I hate it because it is often a self-deluded attempt at originality, or a self-serving excuse for inaction, or a self-righteous exercise in works-righteousness, as if writing could be redemptive – “Can poets,” asked Auden, “(can men in television) / Be saved?” The only reason why I write is because I cannot not write, because I am a recovering writer – and because it’s my job, if not my vocation. Because of the responsibility and the danger of it, I try to be careful. I’d try to be humble too, but if you try to be humble one thing you will never be is – humble. Any thrill, let alone joy, in writing are a mercy. Thankfully, God is very merciful.
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