Download Prologue To Good Christian Writing

Allen, Leonard. Prologue to Good Christian Writing (On reserve).
Also published in six parts in Firm Foundation beginning Aug. 29, 1978. 95:551, 554, 567, 572, 581,
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A PROLOGUE TO GOOD CHRISTIAN WRITING (1)
"Sticks and stones can break my bones, but words can never harm me." Like me, you probably
remember this old thread-bare saying as the defense you used as a child against that foul-mouthed
kid down the street who delighted in hurling verbal missiles at you. It may have been useful then,
but unfortunately it is not true. Words, rather than being simple, harmless things, can have tremendous power--power both to destroy and to heal.
A tragic example of the power of the written word in the twentieth century is Adolf Hitler's
Mein Kampf, a book that was completed in 1926 and that served as the political bible of the Third
Reich from 1933 until the end of the war. In it Hitler spelled out in graphic detail the beliefs that were
directly responsible for the murder of six million Jews. By the outbreak of the war, five million copies
had been sold or distributed to the German people. Norman Cousins stated that "for every word in
‘Mein Kampf' 125 lives were to be lost; for every page, 4,700 lives; for every chapter, more than
1,200,000 lives." Such power in a book!
The problem for Christians, though, is not simply ignorance of this power. Most of us know
the power of words. We know it because we have been moved many times by clearly written ideas,
and because our lives have been deeply affected by the Word himself. What many Christians do not
know is how to use the English language with the skill of a craftsman. Such skill is not one of the
things that accompanies salvation; neither is it the dove that descends from heaven upon one who
decides to try his hand at writing, dashes off a few articles, and thinks he has been baptized into the
world of Christian journalism. [1]
Many writers have evidently not put out the effort to tap the power of words. They have not
adequately grasped the mechanics of language or seen their task as the meticulous shaping of words
into barbs that cling in the reader's mind. As a result, a sizable portion of our writing could be
described--to use the famous aphorism of John Kenneth Galbraith--as "the bland leading the bland."
The first section of this series explores the gap between our theory and our practice of
writing. It tries to broaden our conception of the writer's task by suggesting that a Christian writer
must first approach his task with a fully equipped mind, and then recognize that religious writing can
and should take a variety of genre. Part two points out that good writing depends more on hard work
than on sudden inspiration. It tries to dispel the notion that good writing is easy. Part three discusses
the relationship of meaning to writing style, noting that improvement in style is essential to
improvement in meaning. Part four urges the writer to see his work as a matter of stewardship--to
write with discrimination and publish with reluctance.
I. THEORY VS. PRACTICE
There has been a glaring inconsistency between the theory that compels us to spread the
word through writing and the actual practice of the craft of writing. In theory there has been great
emphasis on the power of the printed word. Such emphasis is commendable. It is a logical result of
the overwhelming fact that God recorded his decisive entrance into human history in written form,
and that this written word conveys the message of salvation. We have defended the propositional
nature of revelation in contrast [2] to revelation by subjective encounter, and we have been on solid
ground: We have reasoned that since God wrote, through inspired men, his will for our age, we can
do no less than utilize this powerful medium today. True! But our practice has not matched our
theory.
The work of building minds and honing writing skills, which is essential to unfold the Biblical
message, has not received adequate attention. No one, except maybe a few die-hard English teachers,
ever seems to get around to saying that good writing must be learned. Most people seem to feel that
any educated person can write and that special pains in that direction would be beneath the dignity
of a college graduate. The truth is that a college graduate--or a Ph.D. for that matter--can write well
only if he has taken the time and effort to learn to write. At the risk of bruising the ego, more
Christians engaged in the ministry of writing need to learn the lesson stated by Jacques Barzun: "The
truth is that simple English is no one's mother tongue. It has to be worked for. As a historian, I have
plowed through state papers, memoirs, diaries, and letters, and I know that the ability to write has
only a remote connection with either intelligence, or greatness, or schooling" (Teacher in America, p.
48).
Our record has proved all too well the simple fact--one many seem to have ignored--that
when one becomes a disciple of Jesus he does not automatically receive a skill in some specialized
field of ministry. Administrative ability is not born at baptism. Preaching skill is not the result of a
conversion experience. Facility with words does not suddenly blossom. The changed life that Jesus
[3] gives should generate a tremendous desire to improve one's abilities in areas of ministry that
seem promising, but it does not bring with it the skill itself. That comes through training, practice,
and hard work.
We might as well stop talking about all that power that can be packed in print if we are not
going to work seriously toward tapping that power. Our practice will never measure up to our theory
until we put out the effort required for any master craftsman to learn his trade.
The Life of the Mind
This rift between our theory of written communication and our actual practice results
partially from the common attitude that places doing far above thinking in our list of priorities.
Because good writing requires, above all, clear and vigorous thinking, the life of the mind must be
cultivated.
We need to learn in our time the lesson that Harris Kirk, a preacher of the past generation,
learned in his. He told of sitting in his study on a cold, wintry evening warming his feet by a fire. His
young grandson sat with him in silence. As time passed the boy's patience grew thin and he inquired,
"Grandpa, what are you doing?" "I'm thinking, my boy," was the reply. Not satisfied with the answer,
he asked again, more urgently, "But Grandpa, what are you doing?" Turning from the fire, Kirk said
slowly, "My boy, some times just thinking is doing." Until we learn the lesson that work for the Lord
always involves the work of reflection and study we will foolishly continue to learn our lessons the
hard way. [4]
With this requirement, though, we reach a major obstacle: vigorous thinking is, by all
observation, a rare and precious commodity. For most people, preachers included, sustained thinking
is dreary, uphill work often requiring a stimulus of crisis proportions merely to get it started. And
once begun under duress, the cerebral strain usually proves unbearable--the mind quickly signals
overload and reverts to its bland but comfortable pattern. A character in H. G. Wells' story, The
Croquet Player, expresses a typical yet tragic reaction. "I do realize," he says, "that the present world
is going to pieces; I'm ready to fall in with anything promising. But if I'm to think, that's too much.”
Many who are able to dig down a little into their psyches will discover that the hectic schedule
pulling them half-dazed through weeks of ministry has become a near fool-proof excuse to ward off
what is often the more difficult or unpleasant task of vigorous study. Or, once the study time has been
appropriated, the frequent interruptions may be subconsciously welcomed as a relief from the
grinding labor of sitting in a chair at a desk and thinking.
The life of study and reflection is not lacking in everyone, nor is it suited for everyone. Those
who have the propensity for a career of study are few. It is their gift. Many others prefer to take
smaller doses, organize their ministry around it, and emphasize more the promotional, personal, and
organizational aspects of the Lord's work. This may be their gift. Neither course must be set simply
by the desire to escape an undesirable task--the studious one needs the balance of personal contact,
the [5] less studious one needs a foundation of deep contact with the Word and the tools that unfold
it.
This distinction between gifts or capabilities is important. The writer should be the one with
the gift of study, one who can stand the rigors of unrelenting mental activity and who has learned
that thinking is doing. His craft demands that he have a penchant for study and a love of books that
far exceeds most others. His study equips him with an array of qualities that scarcely seem to fit in a
single man. He must speak with authority, yet without oversimplifying the complex and sometimes
open-ended issues of Biblical interpretation. He must blend logic with compassion, realizing that man
is more than mind. And he must have gained enough technical skill with words to avoid humiliating
through caricature the most profound and important message of the ages. It is not a task for the
uninitiated or for those who had rather talk than think.
Skip the Scholarship?
The gap between our theory and practice is particularly evident in the area of research and
scholarship. This time-consuming and exacting type of writing has been seriously inhibited by the
incongruous separation of doing and thinking discussed earlier. There has been a failure to balance
the vital footwork of ministry with a concomitant amount of foundational thinking. As a result, many
of our important tools of ministry--lexicons, theological wordbooks, exegetical commentaries, works
on philosophy of religion, and other important works--have been left to the scholarship of men whose
basic convictions we do not share. [6]
Now of course there is nothing wrong with using the fruit of other men's labor as long as one
is firmly grounded in the Scriptures; but danger arises when we are content to let others carry on our
deepest thinking for us. We live in a time of theological speculation and confusion. Scriptural
compromise is rampant. The validity of the plea for the restoration of undenominational Christianity
is challenged from every side, or worse, simply ignored. We cannot let Bible school quarterlies,
bulletin articles, tracts, and sermon outlines be the extent of our literary efforts; and they must certainly not be the extent of our thinking. Our intellectual foundations must not be those built by
outsiders.
Jack Lewis saw this need for scholarly work clearly when he recently stated: "We teach out of
books written by men with whom we disagree. The student studies out of books written from outside
our movement. . . . For the Restoration to remain vigorous and distinctive we need to provide those
capable of scholarly writing with the time and resources to write." ["The New Testament in the
Twentieth Century," Restoration Quarterly 18 (Fourth Quarter 1975): 215]
Next Week's article will begin a discussion designed to help close the gap between our theory
and our actual practice. The first move will be to erase the naive idea that writing is easy and that, for
gifted writers, moving sentences regularly flow from the pen like magic.
A PROLOGUE TO GOOD CHRISTIAN WRITING (2)
II. INSPIRATION VERSUS PERSPIRATION
One of the common delusions that is a barrier to the widespread improvement of our writing
ministry is the comforting but naive idea [7] that writing is easy. This view holds that gifted writers
are usually born not made, and that all who are fortunate enough to fall in this class must simply wait
for the inspiration to strike and the words to flow. Nothing could be further from the truth. Although
some may be blessed with a facility with words, all who achieve the ability to write sentences that
entice the reader with grace and power have resigned themselves, as Balzac put it, to "toil like miners
under a landslide."
We tend to resist the stark reality that inspiration seldom strikes without a past marked by
perspiration. We prefer to dream about some idyllic future when our creative springs open, our long
lost willpower returns, and our words flow as if by magic. Then will come, we dream, the book or
pamphlet that will take the forces of evil by storm or the sermon that will stir multitudes. And the
myth persists because we do not want to face the wearying truth that valuable ideas and quality work
result only from much toil and turmoil.
Francis J. McConnell gave a vivid illustration of this principle: "When I was in college, I
confronted one evening at eight o'clock a proposition in algebra on which I would be expected to
recite the next morning. I worked as hard as I could until midnight, and then gave it up. The next
morning as I was walking down the street, admiring the beauty of the spring foliage, the solution
suddenly flashed clear-cut into my mind. After I had made a perfect recitation in class, I asked myself
what sense there was in all that work the night before. So I made up my mind that with the next
problem I would not work till midnight, but would wait for [8] understanding to flash upon my mind.
Something detained the flash, with disastrous consequences to my record in the class. I was about
seventeen years old, but I have never forgotten the lesson which I learned then: the sudden
inspirations that amount to anything come from patient toiling which has not much flash or suddenness about it."
Wrestling with the Word
We need to be more hard-nosed and realize that in the task of good writing, as in the other
realms of Christian ministry, simple good will is not sufficient. "He's such a warm-hearted optimistic
fellow," we say of some faithful brother, "and he just loves to see the gospel spread." That is a
wonderful attitude. A radiant spirit will cover many errors and touch many people. But expertise that
stops with optimism, good wishes, and a few haphazard and untrained swipes at the opposition will
not get the job done. In the hours of physical crisis when a skilled surgeon is needed, the question to
be raised is not how sympathetic or enthusiastic is the doctor, but how great is his ability and how
extensive his training. He must bring with him skills sharpened through years of study and practice.
The Christian writer, too, cannot be sustained in his craft merely by sympathy for the cause, no matter
how great it may be--he will function adequately only through proper understanding of his tools, and
through practice, which involves toil mixed with pain.
The agony of creative work was well illustrated when a man once remarked to a writer he
supposed he liked to write. "No," was the reply, "writers do not like to write. They like to have
written." This reply, along with the testimonies of hundreds of other writers, [9] stands as a rebuke
to those who describe their writing or sermon building as a "sheer delight." The burden of one's soul
that comes from seeing man's needs as Jesus saw them, added to the difficulties of fitting words
together to express that burden, should create a struggle that, at times, seems inexorable.
How many of us have ever wrestled with writing words of life to the degree that Joseph
Conrad, for instance, wrestled in writing the words of a novel? He vividly recounts his agony: "All I
know is that for twenty months, neglecting the common joys of life that fall to the lot of the humblest
of this earth, I had, like the prophet of old, 'wrestled with the Lord' for my creation, for the headlands
of the coast, for the darkness of the Placid Gulf, the light on the snows, the clouds in the sky, and for
the breath of life that had to be blown into the shapes of men and women. . . . These are perhaps
strong words, but it is difficult to characterize otherwise the intimacy and the strain of a creative
effort in which mind and will and conscience are engaged to the full, hour after hour, day after day,
away from the world, and the exclusion of all that makes life really lovable and gentle--something for
which a materialist parallel can only be found in the everlasting somber stress of the westward
passage around Cape Horn."
Conrad was over-dramatic, you say, a bit too poetic. Maybe. But in honesty most of us would have to
acknowledge our laziness, our clumsiness. Oh, we write, we publish--quantity is not the whole
problem. Quality is missing too. We have not put forth the effort to do it well enough or to concentrate
our energies where they are needed. We have been outworked by many of the secular writers with
[10] their lurid stories, banal escapades, and political ruminations. Whether motivated by money,
fame, self-gratification, or love of knowledge, their relentless dedication to the craft has shamed us.
New Testament Christians, who write to spread hope, declare wholeness, to describe a miracle, to
spread the Word that surpasses all others, have usually made writing an afterthought to be done on
the time that can be squeezed out of a busy week--if it is done at all.
"What I Have Written, I Have Written"
A line from Samuel Johnson points toward the source of much of the trouble with our writing.
"What is written without effort," he said, "is generally read without pleasure." It was his way of saying
that easy writing makes hard reading. It suggests, conversely, that easy reading results primarily
from hard writing.
What makes good writing such hard work? What is the key to better writing? The key to good
writing--if one ingredient can be singled out--is revision, which refers to the work of combing through
the rough draft time after time, honing the message into an irresistible form. The writer's goal is to
gradually fashion out of his stream of ideas and raw research the arrangement of words that will
project his message most clearly. It is often an excruciating task, one causing many writers to give up
before the job is done. Good writers, because they realize both the importance of their message and
the difficulty of expressing it well, are reluctant to ever stop revising; mediocre writers are content
with a few swift corrections, feeling much like Pilate when he said, "What I have written, I have
written." [11]
To improve this work of spreading the Word, Christian writers need to understand that
rewriting is the essence of writing. We must convince ourselves that we are working in clay, not
marble, that we are writing on paper, not carving eternal words in granite. Only then will we
understand that in a first draft we are merely creating a substance to be carefully molded in
successive drafts. It may help to know that Blaise Pascal, a man of undisputed genius, reportedly
rewrote his famous Provincial Letters ten to fifteen times, and that James Thurber and E. B. White
were known to rewrite their work eight or nine times. I suspect that most Christian writers are not
that dedicated to their craft.
Sean O'Faolain, writing from the vantage point of a mature, successful writer, tells us how he
learned this lesson: "I saw myself scribbling away madly while the printer's devil stood by my desk
picking up the pages of genius and running off with them to the printing press while the ink was still
wet. I must have been very young then. When I got down to the business of writing I found that half
the art of writing is rewriting, and I would be happy if I achieved two hundred words of lapidary
prose in a day" (Introduction to The Finest Stories of Sean O'Faolain). Although we may sometimes
hear of a masterpiece written swiftly in a burst of creative genius, most great writers who steadily
produced quality work were painstaking craftsmen who had learned the lesson of rewriting.
Any Christian who expects to do substantial writing of lasting quality must have the patience
and endurance for hard work. He must find time for deep study and thought. If the mental discipline
can not be adhered to and adequate time cannot be appropriated, the [12] writing should be left to
others who meet the requirements. We will do justice to the message of Jesus only when we learn
that good writing depends much more on perspiration than on inspiration.
Next week's article will discuss the relationship of meaning to writing style, noting that
improvement in style is essential to improvement in meaning.
A PROLOGUE TO GOOD CHRISTIAN WRITING (3)
III. FORM VERSUS CONTENT
The Christian communicator is not concerned solely with content or solely with form; he
must give attention to both form and content. By content I mean truth--facts, data, propositions. By
form I refer to matters of style--organization, clarity, unity, and vocabulary. Truth is of prime
importance, but form is of prime importance in getting the truth across. Getting the facts straight and
getting the facts out should not be our sole concern, for what if we get them straight and get them out
and nobody is interested? Too often Christian writers have the facts but not the phosphorescence of
the message. They disseminate literary skeletons, thoroughly bleached, and without a trace of flesh
and blood. The truth may be plain but not compelling.
We should be shaken to our sense by the fact--proved all too often by careless craftsmen-that saving truth can be expressed badly, that it can be muddled, unintentionally distorted or simply
made dull. Some writers seem to operate on the principle stated by Alexander Pope in his usual
sarcastic tone, that "dullness is sacred in a sound divine." In other words they seem to imply that
discussion about God's will, as long as it is scriptural, grants a writer immunity from the usual
demands of written composition. The truth of God can also be written so that it sparkles. Our hands
hold the key. [13] Our abilities make the difference.
The Shape of the Gospel
Communication of the faith depends upon the shape Christians give it in their lives. When we
carry out the charge to spread the Word, the message is proclaimed through a person whose own
response to Christ will be a tremendous factor in the transmission process. Experience verifies the
fact that the gospel spreads chiefly as the result of dedicated Christian people who daily follow the
Master and touch the lives of their peers. Quality of life, not just hard fact, has been the catalyst, which
indicates that faith passes from person to person, not just from mind to mind or computer to
computer. Much of our writing, then, becomes a matter of presenting a person--the God-man Jesus
Christ--to other persons, and not just a recitation of facts about Jesus. It means, further, that the writer
himself gets mixed up in the process; that, in fact, he cannot remain incognito, for something of
himself always escapes into his work, revealing his deepest convictions and biases. This, in part, is
what Paul meant in 2 Corinthians 4:7, when he said, "We have this treasure in earthen vessels, that
the excellency of the power may be of God, and not of us."
This fact, which must either send us to our knees or drive us to despair, has tremendous
implications. For the writer, it means serious attention to the matter of style, for style is the manner
in which words are used. Style refers to the sound that words make on paper, whether lyrical or
plodding, whether coldly logical or blood-warm, whether concise or rambling. Style gives shape to
the gospel. [14]
Style can be defined on two levels. It refers, in one realm, to vocabulary, to the correct use of
words, to grammar; but in a separate realm, which is deeper, broader, and in a sense more important,
it refers to the system of emotions and thoughts that characterize a writer. On one level style is rules
governing the use of words; on the other it is organic, involving the writer himself.
The deeper level can be understood by first clearing up a common misconception. We say of
some speaker or writer, "Wow! He really has style," by which we mean he has eloquence, a disarming
command of words, clever organization, or some charming eccentricity. The truth is that all writing
has style, although it may well be pedantic style, dull style, or lifeless style. "Style" does not refer just
to ornate prose littered with an impressive number of flowery adjectives or to alliteration gone to
seed.
Most people, though, seem to have the idea that style is applied ornament, a garnish to be
added once the facts are compiled. But style has no separate existence. Content must not be
considered without form. The message cannot be considered without the manner. They are not
merely closely related, they are one. H. H. Farmer said, "The means and the content, the preaching
and the message, are indissolubly one and cannot be separated from one another" [The Servant of
the Word (New York: Charles Scribner's Sons, 1942), p. 14]. Writing from a different perspective, J.
Middleton Murray noted that style is "not the clothes a man wears, but the flesh, bone, and blood of
his body. Therefore, it is really impossible to consider styles apart from the whole system of
perceptions and feelings and thoughts that animate them" [The Problem of Style [15] (London:
Oxford University Press, 1922), p. 10]. A writer's style reflects his inner being. Concerning the writing
style of Paul, Erasmus said, "Paul thunders and lightens and speaks sheer flame." His words were
powered by his convictions.
The second level of style, dealing with the more tangible aspects of English usage, clamors for
attention because raw conviction is not enough. At the heart of the writer's task is the dictum of Cato
the Elder: Rem tene, verba sequentur, "Lay hold of the substance, the word will follow." This advice,
with its ramifications, is true, and essential for vibrant, convincing work; but we have often stopped
here and used the advice as an excuse to neglect matters of style and form--things that must come by
study and practice, not raw enthusiasm. Understanding, insight, and enthusiasm do not guarantee
correct expression, although they are essential for it. Force must be given form; facts must be shaped
and clarified. Vague general ideas, even ideas held with great conviction, need to be sharpened into
barbs that cling in the reader's mind. Otherwise, they merely diffuse into some ethereal void.
Lack of proficiency in this second, more tangible level of style betrays the writers who insist
on going to work equipped only with their convictions. Many people have deep convictions, but very
little ability to phrase them in words that do them justice. As Samuel Johnson put it, "Every man has
often found himself deficient in the power of expression, but with ideas which he could not utter, and
unable to impress upon his readers the image existing in his own mind." The problem occurs
frequently in unskilled writers who, having written passionately out of deep conviction, are surprised
[16] to find their work flat and unconvincing. They confuse the quality of the conviction with the
quality of the finished work, and are puzzled when the readers don't share the same feeling.
The problem is highlighted in the case of poetry. It is designed to express strong feeling, but
succeeds only when a skilled craftsman can capture the feeling in concise form. Feelings may run just
as deep in the writer of doggerel as in a poet like Robert Frost or William Shakespeare; the difference
lies in the technical skill with words.
The Artistic Touch
Writing is primarily a craft that has to be learned just like any other craft. The painter learns
to paint by study and then by applying paint to canvas day after day, year after year. His apron
becomes spotted with a thousand shades of color, smeared and dropped from the mixing board as he
searched for just the right shade. A woodcarver, to learn his craft, must knife his way through
countless blocks of wood, leaving behind piles of shavings and marred, misshapen figures. There are
no overnight successes, no sudden masterpieces--only shaping, blending, smoothing. Patience. The
pigment, blended by a master, releases its secret. The wood is trimmed and shaped to form a statue.
Slowly the image emerges.
A writer unfortunately must stick to words. They are his medium. He envies the painter his
bright colors, the woodcarver his shapeless blocks. Words haunt him--words more complex, more
varied, more colorful than paint, more pliable and easily wasted than the sculptor's marble. In the
hands of a novice they are dull and lifeless; for a word craftsman they live. [17]
The word craftsman should develop a feel for a good sentence, for a smooth balanced
paragraph. He should pay attention to the cadences and sonorities that distinguish moving prose
from merely informative prose. Readers read with their ears as well as their eyes. They listen for the
sound of words. They have an aesthetic sense that responds to the poetic touch, which means in part
that the good prose writer must be part poet. He doesn't let his sentences move along at the same
plodding gait that will lull a reader to sleep. Instead, he uses variety: he reverses the order of a
sentence, alters the length from short to long or vice versa, or substitutes a fresh word for one that is
over worked. Many writers are too lazy to scrap the first word that comes to mind and replace it with
a more interesting choice.
This poetic touch provides the sparkle, the sting, the irony, the touch of humor that one gets
from an article or book; it is the ephemeral quality of good writing that persuades and attracts, but
that cannot be traced simply to correct grammar or impeccable logic. It is a mystery--a mystery
appreciated and studied by all sensitive writers dedicated to their craft.
To illustrate both the power and mystery of good writing style, E. B. White suggested
rewriting some familiar quotation that has survived for years, like Thomas Paine's sentence, "These
are the times that try men's souls." It is prose but has the sound of poetry to it. How long, he asks,
would Paine's sentiment have endured had he used some other construction? For example:
Times like these try men's souls.
How trying it is to live in these times!
These are trying times for men's souls.
Soulwise, these are trying times. [18]
Each variation is grammatically correct and expresses the same idea, but each is marked for oblivion.
The difference lies in a feel for the right combination of words. It is the artistic touch. Alexander Pope,
in a few lines from his Essay on Criticism, captures this sense of writing as an art form:
True ease in writing comes from art, not chance,
As those move easiest who have learned to dance.
'Tis not enough no harshness gives offense,
The sound must seem an echo to the sense.
Next week I will begin discussing some of the more tangible elements of good writing style.
A PROLOGUE TO GOOD CHRISTIAN WRITING (4)
Last week's article emphasized that a writer must attend to both content (truth) and form
(style). It distinguished two levels of style: (1) the system of emotions and thoughts that motivates
and shapes one's writing, and (2) the correct use of the English language. This article further
discusses the second level of style, pointing out some basic elements of correct English usage.
1. Be Concise--Omit Needless Words
There is a kind of grandiose style that went out with the bustle. It consists of long involved
sentences cluttered with pompous adjectives and modifiers. H. G. Wells characterized it well when
he said that the writing of Henry James--known for its verbosity and complexity--reminded him of "a
hippopotamus trying to pick up a pea." This old-fashioned style is not bad because it is old-fashioned;
it is bad because it cannot compete with the concise prose demanded by the modern reader. Printed
words are cheap, and a fat style is too easily ignored. To say that the style of Campbell or some other
writer of [19] the nineteenth century Restoration Movement is no longer suitable for imitation is not
to cast reflection on the truth of their work; it is merely to say that shorter, streamlined sentences
communicate the message better in our day.
But even a style marked by simple sentences can be infected by wordiness. Clutter is the
disease of modern writing too. It attacks our sentences like a leach [sic], draining their energy and
leaving them tired and anemic.
Wordiness infects writing in many ways: something is "gigantic in size," "Triangular in
shape," or "pure white in color"--as if the reader could never make such a deduction for himself. Some
writers evidently follow the policy of never using one word when three work just as well; so they
have "due to the reason that" instead of "because," "in a manner similar to" instead of "like" or "as,"
and "in the event that" rather than "if."
Other phrases to prune ruthlessly include "the question as to whether" (whether), "there is
no doubt but that" (no doubt), "he is a man who" (he), and "this is a subject that" (this subject).
Sentences containing "case," "character," and "nature" should be trimmed if possible. For example:
"The preacher's lesson was dull due to the nasal character of his voice and the abstract nature of his
ideas." (The preacher's lesson was dull because of his nasal voice and abstract ideas.)
Another attack on simplicity and clarity comes from the dreary clauses announcing what a
writer is going to do next. There is "I might add," or "It is interesting to note that," or "It should be
pointed out." If you might add, then simply add it; if it is interesting to note, then do your best to make
it interesting; if it should be pointed out, point it out. Don't annoy your readers with mush. [20]
The writer who examines every word he puts on paper will find a surprising number that
don't belong there. Take the adjective "personal." How often have you read "she is a personal friend
of mine," or "my personal physician."? I suppose it is used to distinguish the "impersonal friend"
and the "impersonal physician." The "personal friend" has come into our language to separate him
from the "casual friend," an act that debases both language and friendship.
Another word appearing frequently but doing little work is the adjective "real." "In a very
real sense there is a strong tendency for real Christians to be influenced by television immorality
and other real problems." "In a very real sense" is meaningless, and the rest of the sentence is
insipid. Delete other lazy phrases like "with regard to," "in connection with," and "in terms of."
When you write ask yourself if every word is doing useful work. Train yourself to bristle at
lazy words and padded sentences. Trim. Cut. Revise. Then trim some more.
Jesus was a master of precision and simplicity. He did not say, "It is always well that those
who possess by nature the capacity for hearing and interpreting human speech should pay diligent
attention to what is, from time to time, being uttered in public discourse." Instead he said, "He that
hath ears to hear, let him hear" (Matt. 11:15). Pascal noted that "Jesus Christ said great things so
simply that he seems not to have thought about them, and yet so clearly that we see exactly what he
thought about them. Such clarity together with such simplicity is wonderful" [Pensees 309 (Penguin
Classics Edition, 1966].
2. Use Active Verbs and Concrete Nouns
Verbs do more work than any other part of speech. They provide the movement, the action.
Nouns supply body and because they are [21] the simplest part of speech are the easiest to use.
Together they determine the force and clarity of a sentence. Passive verbs and abstract nouns evade
precision and commitment; active verbs and concrete nouns paint pictures and stir up excitement.
The verbs a writer chooses should be as active as the context will allow. Sometimes, of
course, an active verb does not mean what he wishes to say; the weakness or vagueness of a passive
verb may represent accurately a reservation in the writer's mind. But good writers prefer active
verbs to passive.
The writer can often change passive voice to active without much trouble. Such a change
adds force and action. Instead of writing, "the elders were decisive about the question of . . .," write,
"the
elders decided to . . ."; instead of "We had a meeting," say "We met." "The rousing sermon
was observed by Tom with amazing indifference." (Tom observed the rousing sermon with amazing
indifference.) "It was brought to my attention by the elders that more preaching was needed on this
subject." (The elders told me that more preaching was needed on this subject.) The change to active
voice improves each of these sentences.
Good verb usage depends, though, on more than the simple choice between active or
passive. Energy often lies in small shades of difference. We might say "He moved," and it would be
stronger than "He was in motion." But context permitting even greater strength could be added
with "He crept," “He wandered," or "He rolled." The last three verbs are more specific and colorful.
Jesus' speech demonstrates the use of active words. He did not pontificate about
reconciliation, but he did say, "Go and be reconciled to your brother" (Matt.5:24); he did not speak
much about [22] prayer, but a great deal about praying; he did not call men to love humanity, but to
love their neighbor and their enemy. His language was both active and specific.
The first rule for nouns is to be concrete. Abstract nouns are the refuge of writers who are
either timid, lazy, or fuzzy in their thinking. The lazy writer finds it easier to label the general
category than to search out the particulars. He speaks about Man, not to men about men. The
writing lacks vividness because it is always talking about It and not about you and me. It does not
paint word pictures through the use of detail.
How many times have you read something like this: "In his missionary travels around the
world Dr. Spears has encountered many diseases in various countries and various environments." A
good writer would have said: ". . . Dr. Spears encountered about 2,000 diseases in 55 countries and
in environments ranging from ice floes to tropical rain forests." The extra effort to supply facts of
time, place, number, color, size, shape, smell, weight, speed, and a myriad other details transforms
dull work into work with drawing power. The effort pays off in readability.
Besides leading to dull reading, abstractions easily distort the truth. George Orwell, in his
famous essay "Politics and the English Language," warned us to be suspicious when words do not
call up pictures in our minds. "Millions of peasants," he wrote, "are robbed of their farms and sent
trudging along the roads with no more than they can carry: this is called transfer of population or
rectification of frontiers. People are imprisoned for years without trial, or shot in the back of the
neck or sent to die of scurvy in Arctic lumber camps: this is called elimination of undesirable
elements." Abstract language [23] is the language of propaganda and falsehood. It is also the
language of obscurity. Compare Orwell's rendering of Ecclesiastes 9:11 to the original: "Objective
consideration of contemporary phenomena compels the conclusion that success or failure in
competitive activities exhibits no tendency to be commensurate with innate capacity, but that a
considerable element of the unpredictable must inevitably be taken into account." Original: "I
returned, and saw under the sun, that the race is not to the swift nor the battle to the strong, neither
yet bread to the wise, nor yet riches to men of understanding, nor yet favor to men of skill; but time
and chance happeneth to them all." The Biblical version succeeds by calling up mental pictures.
Abstractions cannot be avoided--they are essential to communication; but they can be
minimized and thoroughly mixed with picturesque language. The writer should remember the
words of James Stewart: "Truth made concrete will find a way past many a door when abstractions
knock in vain."
The fifth article in this series will discuss an additional principle of style and suggest some
books that Christian writers should study.
A PROLOGUE TO GOOD CHRISTIAN WRITING (5)
Last week's article discussed two basic principles of good English style: (1) Be concise--omit
needless words, and (2) use active verbs and concrete nouns. This article adds a third principle, and
then defends what some Christians may view as an overemphasis on minutiae or a quibbling over
words. The basic premise is that improvement in style is essential for improvement in meaning.
[24]
3. Minimize the Use of Qualifiers
Concrete nouns and active verbs give vigor to a sentence, but adjectives, adverbs, and
participles give quality to the nouns and verbs. These qualifiers, when used well, add precision to
the sentence and create subtle distinctions of meaning. But modifiers give us the greatest trouble
because they are inherently weaker parts of speech. They are qualities rather than actions and thus
do not contribute to the action of a sentence. Used indiscriminately they make prose weak and
lethargic. They work like calories, stuffing a sentence into obesity; therefore to keep sentences trim
and fit modifiers should be counted like a weight watcher counts calories. A writer must not allow
adverbs and adjectives to smother the effect of a strong word.
Too often self-sufficient verbs are weakened by redundant adverbs. A careless writer,
enthused by the power at his command, writes, "Sarah clenched her teeth tightly when the minister
spoke." He wants us to know she did not clench them loosely. Another writes that "the stereo blared
loudly"--suggesting the interesting possibility of "blaring quietly."
Writers abuse adverbs in other ways. One writer referred to a woman who was "unusually
hideous" and to a "tremendously tall skyscraper." Both "hideous" and "skyscraper" need no
modifier. The trauma of a broken marriage can be communicated without writing that "her divorce
was an especially devastating experience." To modify with accuracy a writer must know the force of
the word to be modified. Being "rather unique" is no more possible than being "rather pregnant."
"Unique" like "pregnant" denotes an absolute state not subject to modification. Again: "After twenty
years of neglect, the tiny con-[25]gregation had disappeared completely." Could it have done so
incompletely?
Many adjectives are also unnecessary. Untrained writers like to use them to spice up their
work, so they have stately elms, frisky kittens, sleepy ponds, gnarled oaks, and a long list of other
clichés. Such self-indulgence by the writer only creates obstacles for the reader.
Good writing is trim and confident. Don't say, "This verse is quite clear," say "This verse is
clear." Don't write that you are somewhat annoyed or sort of tired or rather confident. Be annoyed.
Be tired. Be confident. Avoid the frequent use of "little" except to indicate size. Watch for words like
"may," "perhaps," "tends to," "tries to," "seems," and "probably." We should all be a little more
careful with qualifiers because it seems that they probably tend to weaken one's writing and may
give it an uncertain sound.
The last word on style, of course, has not been written. An adequate treatment of English
style must be reserved for the large number of manuals in any good library. My point is that the
writer must use them. He must study the use and misuse of words. Many books are available; some
are better than others. The best, in my opinion, is The Elements of Style, 2nd ed. (Macmillan, 1972),
by William Strunk and E. B. White. Other helpful books include: H. W. Fowler, A Dictionary of
Modern English Usage, revised and edited by Sir Ernest Gowers (Oxford, 1965); Jacques Barzun and
Henry F. Graf, The Modern Researcher, revised edition (Harcourt, Brace & World, 1970); Jacques
Barzun, Simple and Direct: A Rhetoric for Writers (Harper & Row, 1975); Steward LaCase and Terry
Belanger, The Art of Persuasion: How to Write Effectively About Almost Anything (Charles
Scribner's Sons, 1972); [26] Donald Hall, Writing Well (Little, Brown, & Co., 1973). These books--or
others like them--should be on the shelf of every serious word craftsman. Some provide quick
reference during the act of writing, while others are for periodic study and reflection.
A Time to Quibble
In answer to this call for more acute and painstaking concern for words some will say that
the Christian should not spend his time on trivia, especially since he faces such huge and urgent
demands on his time. The reaction might be, "You are just quibbling about words--stop wasting
your time and ours." And of course the critics would be partially right--all this concern for words is
quibbling, whether about decimals in mathematics, grains of drugs in prescriptions or the meaning
of a Greek preposition. The proper question is whether or not the precision produced by quibbles is
justified.
The answer is obvious. An essential truth can hinge on a single word. Edward Gibbon
ridiculed the Christian world for splitting over an iota during the Christological controversies of the
fourth century; but the bitter controversy he spoke of between those who maintained that the Son
is of like substance as the Father (homoiousios) and those who contended that he is of the same
substance (homoousios) cannot be resolved or dismissed with the charge that it is trivial. The
distinction matters.
There are some that don't. For instance, the question whether we should say "He got in
touch with her" instead of "He contacted her" is obviously a trivial one; but when many such
"trivial" decisions are made in the course of writing they set the style of the work, and as suggested
earlier (article three in this series), the style of writing cannot be separated from the meaning.
When style is neglected the [27] truth content of writing will be clouded or distorted.
The relationship of form to content, of style to meaning, was well-stated by Donald Hall: "A
change in style, however slight, is also a change in meaning, however slight" (Writing Well, p. 54).
This means that the need for precision with words extends to the form or style of our writing, and
that how we write is nearly as important as what we write. It means that every sensitive writer,
when facing a new project, should ask, "What style will best communicate this aspect of God's Word
to this particular audience? Should I use short sentences or long?" It will make a difference. "Should
I lean toward a flowery, academic style, or should I make my sentences sharp and pungent?" The
decision will make a difference in the meaning. "Should I use words like sanctification, atonement,
and propitiation, which sound religious but mean almost nothing to many people, or should I
express these concepts in common words that have greater emotional connotations?"
Communication depends on such choices.
The word craftsman needs to understand, for instance, that true synonyms do not exist, that
words similar in meaning carry different connotations. He must search for the exact word, the word
with the precise shade of meaning he intends. The verbs "to emulate," "to imitate," and "to ape"
illustrate how words listed as synonyms in a thesaurus differ in meaning: "To emulate sounds
fancy; also it usually implies that the imitation involves self-improvement. 'To imitate' is neutral,
except that everyone knows that an imitation is not the real thing; inferiority shadows the word. 'To
ape' is to mimic, and to be comical or mocking about it" (Hall, Writing Well, p. 28). If you meant to
say that a young preacher emulated a well-known [28] evangelist, but carelessly used aped instead,
you would grant the young man the grace of a gorilla. Precision matters. There is a time to quibble
over words, especially when those words are bearing the good news of Jesus.
The final article in this series will emphasize the need for stewardship in our writing. It will
suggest three steps a writer should take to improve his craftsmanship.
A PROLOGUE TO GOOD CHRISTIAN WRITING (6)
IV.THE RIGHT TO WRITE
Writers, like speakers, must earn the right to address a large audience of thinking people,
and this process of qualifying for the task never ends because no one ever attains perfection. Even
after one has qualified himself through study--years of study--the skill to communicate that
knowledge must be studied as well. For the person choosing to communicate through writing, at
least three things are essential.
(1) The good writer must first be an avid reader. He should read widely in the books that
are considered masterpieces of English style: the King James Bible, the speeches of Winston
Churchill or Abraham Lincoln, the works of Shakespeare, or others. The reading should be varied
enough to make him versatile, to help him see how words can bring people to life, as in biography,
or capture a feeling, as in poetry, or expound a text, as in Biblical commentary, or propound an
argument, as in essay. Such reading is indispensable, because gradually one acquires the manner of
the reading he admires. Only in good reading will you acquire the feel for a good sentence [29] that
helps you know, sometimes without plausible explanation, when the words are not right. It will
help you learn the devices that keep the reader going smoothly and recognize the shades of
meaning that words can carry. Through your reading you should become a word collector, adding
new words to your arsenal, and finding new uses for old ones. "Words must become ever present in
your waking life, an incessant concern, like color and design if the graphic arts matter to you, or
pitch and rhythm if it is music, or speed and form if it is athletics" (Jacques Barzun, Simple and
Direct, p. 6).
(2) A writer learns to write well by studying how to write. A craftsman worthy of his
profession knows words because he has taken time to study them. No matter how much general
reading he does, adequate skill cannot be gained through osmosis; he must take time out to gain
some technical knowledge. The skilled writer has learned, for instance, the difference between a
compound and complex sentence, between a coordinate and subordinate clause; he knows how to
recognize a split infinitive and a dangling modifier, and how to diagram a sentence. Not that he
diagrams every sentence or calls every clause by name--he is too skilled for that; he has read
enough good writing and reworked enough bad writing (mostly his own) to know what is right.
Such a feel for correct sentences begins with the study of composition. Manuals like those
mentioned in the previous article can provide competent instruction.
(3) A writer learn to write well by practicing his craft. Like most other skills, writing is best
learned by practice--in this case, by the act of putting words on paper. As in athletics, some people
have more natural ability than others, but with practice every level [30] of skill can be improved.
For the beginning writer who is serious about this work, it is a good idea to write something every
day; after all, writing is no less serious a skill than piano, basketball, or golf, and everyone knows
that concert pianists and professional athletes prize their daily practice. Though difficult to acquire,
the habit of regular writing produces naturalness. It helps the kingdom of words and sentences
become familiar territory.
Good and Bad Writing
Good writing results from learning to recognize bad writing, just as joy is defined against a
background of pain. A writer can develop only as quickly as he learns to see bad writing. The
trouble is that the badness of bad writing is usually not visible to the writer himself. John Ciardi
spoke the truth when he said that "it takes a man of rare taste to recognize his failure against all the
promptings of the ego that allow the tasteless to go on producing--and cherishing--miserable stuff"
(On Writing and Bad Writing," Saturday Review, December 15, 1962). Anyone can write a poorly
crafted article or book; and having written poorly as all writers sometimes do, one man can admire
it forever while another may attack it in disgust. Hope lies with one able to see and admit his failure.
In most cases criticism of someone's writing is pointless. Powered by a fierce ego and the
blindness to faults that accompanies it, he does not see much if any room for improvement. And
that is understandable. Even bad writing is often powered by intense emotion, and the bad writer
can easily confuse his original emotion or conviction with the quality of his writing. He may see only
what he intended to write, not what he actually wrote. [31]
One of the most hopeful signs of improvement is a writer's dissatisfaction with his best
efforts of the past. He knows the power of words, but finds it elusive; he yearns to write sentences
that move with the vigor of a mountain stream in March, but he records more failures than
successes. He feels he must write, but recognizes that he is unable to write. Such struggle, which
may border on despair, is healthy. It opens the door to growth. It enables him to accept criticism,
both from himself and from others, and that is the key to improvement.
The proper attitude for self-criticism was described by Samuel Butler: "Think of and look at
your work as though it were done by your enemy. If you look at it to admire it you are lost. . . . If we
look at it to see where it is wrong, we shall see this and make it righter. If we look at it to see where
it is right, we shall see this and shall not make it righter. We cannot see it both wrong and right at
the same time" [The Notebooks (London: Jonathan Cape, 1926), p. 106]. This sense of almost hostile
detachment aids self-criticism. Good writers must be passionately committed to their subject and at
the same time maintain a cool, analytical distance. Commitment sparks the message, detachment
helps the writer hone the form of the message. Without the distance weakness or failure will
seldom be observed.
Because all good writing is self-taught, self-criticism must come first; it should be followed,
though, by criticism from other writers. This criticism should be solicited from outsiders because
they can approach the work with a degree of detachment and objectivity that the writer himself has
lost in the struggle of composition. When the criticism comes the writer must understand that it is
not a reflec-[32]tion on his intelligence or his commitment to Jesus, but only of his technical skill
with words which, like any other skill, can be improved. When responsible criticism of his work no
longer angers or insults him he can be sure he is maturing as a writer. That certainly does not mean
he should accept all criticism without a fight, but it does mean he is not personally affronted.
Sitting on Your Eggs
Good writing is a matter of stewardship. The writer who rests in his mediocrity, spewing
out words unguarded and undigested, will be called to account for his carelessness. The saying of
Jesus that we
usually apply to the spoken word also applies to the written: "I tell you, on the day of judgment men
will render account for every careless word they utter; for by your words you will be justified, and
by your words you will be condemned" (Matt. 12:36-37). The Wise Man also had a word for the
writer: "Do you see a man who is hasty in his words? There is more hope for a fool than for him"
(Prov. 29:30). Beza expressed the spirit of stewardship well when he said of John Calvin, "Every
word weighed a pound."
Instructions for the writer are clear--think longer, revise more carefully, publish less. There
should be a certain reluctance about publication, where the writer asks, "What right do I have to
demand the attention of 20,000 readers? Have I earned the right to write? Am I presenting the truth
clearly and making a significant contribution?" Good stewardship demands that substandard words
produced by slipshod craftsmanship not be foisted off on the reading public. [33]
Careless writers cheapen words. Through their carelessness they are saying to the reader,
"These words were not terribly important to me, so I don't expect them to be terribly important to
you." It promotes indifference on the part of the reader, who thinks, "If you didn't take pains to
write it, why should I take pains to read it?" As a result of hasty, haphazard writing, words lose their
power. People ignore them. One reader reacted this way: "The mimeograph machine. . . enables
every bore to spread his dullness across the earth and so mutilate and cheapen words that they
become hated--or worse, unnoticed. The mimeographed tripe that comes across my desk and slides
rapidly into the wastebasket is simply terrifying" [Gerald Kennedy, While I'm on My Feet (Nashville:
Abingdon Press, 1963), p. 23].
A good steward of words has his file of unpublished manuscripts. All of the great writers
did. It is part of his development as a writer. Only the cream of his early work has been selected for
mass circulation. Much of the unveiled material may be satisfactory, but the author is not content
with work that is only satisfactory. He knows there is already too much second-rate work around,
and that enough readers have been irritated by articles printed while still in the rough stages.
Good stewardship demands that writers live with their material before they attempt to
communicate it. Robert Louis Stevenson, commenting on how his mind functioned in the creative
process, said he would "sit a long while silent on my eggs." Someone wrote of Leon Uris: "Among
the marks of this young ex-Marine's devotion to his craft is the painstaking research that precedes
the actual writing of [34] his novels. For Exodus he visited many countries of Europe, traveled more
than 12,000 miles within the borders of tiny Israel alone, then spent a year building a novel out of
the material he had unearthed . . . So it was with Mila 18. Uris steeped himself for months in the pitiful reminders of brutality--and heroism--which still haunt the scene of the crime in Warsaw or
linger ineradicably in the minds of the few who survived the disaster. Then he began to write."
(Book-of-the-Month Club Bulletin) Uris understands that there are no short-cuts to effective
writing. Some Christian writers do not. They write too much, they rush, when instead they should
be sitting on their eggs, shaping and nourishing the message. Patience is also one of the Christian
virtues.
A Craftsman's Conscience
Every writer must nourish deep within his soul the admiration of excellence. He should be
controlled by a disdain for shoddy work and be trained to cringe at inept expression. Good writing
should be a matter of conscience.
If we understand the teachings of Jesus at all, we cannot help but see his disdain for
shiftless, make-it-do people. He talked about the patch on an old garment, the overuse of old
wineskins, the folly of a half-filled lamp, and a house without adequate foundation. A writer takes
seriously Jesus' charge to "be perfect, as your heavenly Father is perfect" (Matt. 5:48); he takes it so
seriously, in fact, that were it not for his knowledge of God's patience and mercy and that God uses
"earthen vessels" and not other, he would abandon his writing in despair. The audacity of his task
overwhelms him. He is [35] comforted only by the promise that "God will supply every need…
according to his riches" (Phil. 4:9). The Christian writer must set his standards high, even though it
means permanent dissatisfaction. We need more writers who intend to produce masterpieces,
writers willing to study long enough, research deeply enough, and write carefully enough, that the
finished product will not simply join the growing heap of mediocre works.
To have a masterpiece, we must pursue the skill required to write one; and we must not be
disappointed to learn that such skill does not come easily. It cannot be gained from a quickie course
in journalism or creative writing; it cannot reach an adequate level through study of one or two
books; and it will not be perfected simply by having some overwhelming idea or experience to
share. All of these will help but none will suffice. The only thing that will be sufficient is a burning
desire to communicate the Word more powerfully through words, coupled with a rugged
intellectualism that seeks constantly to improve the skills of the craft. From this perspective will
come the courses, the reading, the study, the continual practice, the careful scrutiny of words. And
the search for improvement will not end. It cannot. For the message that originates in the infinite
God and plumbs the depths of the enigma which is man will never, so long as it is entrusted to
earthen vessels, be perfectly communicated or reach completion.
The last word will sound harsh to some writers--and it should. Shaped by the ideals of Jesus
and unable to be at peace with mediocrity, the craftsman's conscience forces him, at last, to accept
the ultimatum of John Dryden, "Learn to write well, or not to write at all."
Leonard Allen
1102 Hollywood Blvd. #3
Iowa City, Iowa