A Writer's Liturgy

The pen you dlupped onto the paper last night straddles the page forlornly. The cursor blinks, insolently staring you down—what will you write today?

Sometimes you don’t know. Sometimes you do know but can’t paint your mind picture into words beyond juvenile stick figures. Or, sometimes, the writing’s on the page, but who cares?

Lord, You care.

You made us with a desire to write for you. And what we do for you is not pointless. Like Paul, we “do not run aimlessly; [we] do not box as one beating the air.” [1 Cor 9:26]

Ministry varies in type but the purpose is sure, like Paul’s: to “testify to the Gospel.” [Acts 20:24]

Help lift our “drooping hands” [Heb 12:12] through cloying melancholy. Clear our minds, so we can remember why we write.

Writing is often stalled starts, aborted jumps and stifled creeps, words fizzling out potency as they lie marooned in the spaces between writer and reader.

We don’t know who, if anyone, will read our words. We don’t know who, if anyone, will comprehend our words. Like beggars, we are surrounded but ignoried; recipients of a thousand scrolling glances but rarely seen.

You see us. Remind us human recognition is not the aim.

Maybe, our words will reach one reader or many. Maybe, their purpose is more to shape us. Honed by the insight borne of sketching inner impressions and thoughts into solid words and by the discipline of accepting the vagaries of human recognition after our words are formed, we grow in knowledge and resilience. You discipline for our good, so we may share in your holiness, not so we may gain fame (though we may).

But our thoughts betray us. “Why are there rave reviews of this piece? I could have written that!” Then, shortly after: “My writing is terrible, I should just give up.” We oscillate between feeling profoundly unique and supremely ordinary. Indignation we have no eagerly interested audience one minute then mortified at our measly attempts the next.

Lord, smash strangling comparison.

The ordinary is sacred. And people right next to us may be served by our words. Not everyone can be seen by many. Humans are too numerous, and our minds too small. Information overwhelms our drives, yet we are stuck in an endless loop looking for input.

Keep us present to those nearby. Keep us armed with your love to share with our neighbours.

Lord, fill us with love, active and fleshly.

Obliterate the devil on our shoulders. Obliterate the defiance in our minds and the distraction in our bodies that conspire to merge into terrible selves that stop us working for your glory. Turn our focus outward, not inward.

Keep us patient and focused on You.

The gravity drag of doubt and frustration pull us down. The lure of numb pleasure distracts. The world distracts. Beeps, ringtones, traffic. Tinny music assaults our ears when we shop; advertisements and media fill our heads with comparison and pulsing dread, making a dementing noise of their own. “Keep up, keep up,” “get there, get there.”

Why? Get where?  

Our aim is you. Whatever our special interests or styles, we write to draw attention to you, to open paths for the reader towards you.

Lord, give us strength.

Don’t let us succumb to creeping dark. Of melancholy, of comparison, of loneliness, or of nihilism.

Help us build bridges to you without thinking about how big they may be. Even if they are one-laned or currently deserted, keep us building.

Remind us we are not alone. You are here. 

We don’t need to control all. We called to act as your means, but we are not expected to control ends.

Take the offering of our words and use them as you will.