MY GLORIOUS HUMBLE CALLING, or WHAT I LEARNED FROM THE MAN IN LINEN

My first writer’s conference was a challenge. It wasn’t the speakers. It wasn’t the schedule. It was not the material presented. It wasn’t even the cost. It was getting over the mental struggle I faced every moment I thought about actually attending a writer’s conference. Beginning to hyperventilate, I thought “I am a fraud. I am not a writer. Who am I kidding? I should not be going to a writer’s conference. Writers conferences are for writers.”  The challenge was packing, getting into the car and standing at the registration desk of the Indiana Faith and Writing Conference. The conference definitely provided fodder for thinking, processing, using and hopefully, writing. However, like most professional conferences, IFWC also gave opportunity for consultation with published authors, editors and publishers.  Writing consultants, as in any profession, give good news and bad news. Every time I gingerly, apologetically, slid an essay across a table to be reviewed, I lied, “yes, I want honest feedback.”  What I received then was, of course, honest feedback.  This is good, this is not so good. This is effective. Hmmm…this is weak. Yet, for all the honest feedback (which I concede was wanted (sort of), needed and appreciated) I still walked away with many emotions: challenged, excited and wondering if I am called to write. Regardless of all the foregoing, at least I acquired a new arsenal of tools for my tool kit.

The very day after I returned from the conference, in midst of the challenge, wonder and excitement, I met the man with a writing kit at his side. “Perfect” I thought. He can help me wade through my mix of thoughts and fears. Believe it or not, a nameless, old man with a writing kit at his side helped me process all my takeaways from the conference.

This man lived in Jerusalem years ago, a lot of years ago, about 2600 years ago. He kept strange company as well: “six men…each with a deadly weapon in his hand.” (EZ 9:2) What caught my attention as I read this portion of Ezekiel was the description-“with them was a man clothed in linen who had a writing kit at his side.” Of course, it was the writing kit at his side which grabbed my interest. What did he write that would merit him a mention in the most popular, most read, loved and maligned book ever written? I knew I could learn from him. And, since I had just filled my own writing kit with new tools; I was ready to be taught. This is what I learned from the man in linen.

1. Writing is a calling. The man in linen hung out with six dudes armed with dangerous weapons. The man in linen’s dangerous weapon? A writing kit. The man was not called to be a guard by the altar or a bodyguard or fighter; he was not called to do the task of the six dudes. But he was called. “The Lord called to the man clothed in linen who had the writing kit at his side and said to him “Go.” (EZ 9:3)
2. Writing assignments can be very humble. The man was dressed in linen. He was equipped with state of the art writing implements. He was ready for the assignment, writing kit at his side. His assignment? “Go throughout the city of Jerusalem and put a mark on the foreheads of those who grieve and lament over all the detestable things that are done in it.” (EZ 9:4) Surely not, Lord. A mark? Wouldn’t a letter be better? A five paragraph essay perhaps? At least one or two pithy sentences? A mark? Okay, a mark.
3. Humble writing assignments can be deceptively profound and critical. The mark which the man in linen wrote throughout the city of Jerusalem protected those who bore his writing. “Slaughter old men, young men and maidens, women and children, but do not touch anyone who has the mark.” (EZ 9:6)
4. Obedience to the call is its own success. "Then the man in linen with the writing kit at his side brought back word, saying, “I have done as you commanded.” (EZ 9:11)

Do I write? Yes. Am I a writer? Maybe. The answer to that question is still waiting to be answered. For now, it is enough that I am clothed in linen, have a writing kit at my side, ready to hear, mark and obey.

OUTING THE CONFESSER

There is a reason confession usually takes place in out of the way, dark, closet like spaces. Who likes to really scream from the rooftops their foibles, flaws and sins? Thus, it was no surprise when a friend of mine recently came out in the privacy of my kitchen, and admitted in quiet, embarrassed, trusting tones, that she was a hoarder. Yes, a hoarder. I was surprised, but not shocked. I imagined my friend living like the people featured in extreme hoarder reality shows, dwelling underneath decades of old and useless phonebooks or clambering daily to get to her front door over thousands of empty jam and pickle jars. I pictured her zealously, in Scrooge like fashion, storing empty cans, jars, newspapers, flyers and flattened cereal boxes in her domestic landfill.

However, before you let your imagination wander to some weird headline like: Extreme Hoarder In Ohio Dwells Underneath Garbage or Ohio Hoarder’s Home Condemned, I should let you know that my friend, in her own words, is a hoarder of words. (She must have shared this with me in a moment of extreme self-denial, since she used words.) True. She is a self-confessed, self-identified hoarder of words. Not as in a collector of dictionaries, thesauruses and encyclopedias. She hoards her own words…which would not be so bad, I guess, except for the fact that the words she hoards are not a random collection and assembly of words which have no meaning. Her words are expressions of her life, on paper manifestations of her experiences, which while perhaps still random, have meaning.

Continuing in her low, quiet tones, my friend went on to admit that she was a hoarder out of fear-not fear that she would ever run out of words, (a scarcity mentality was not her issue). Her fear was that if her words ever came out, actually spoken, those words could be thrown out by someone who did not recognize the words’ value and worth. And, of course, because the words were and are articulations of her experiences, her life, rejection of the words would be received and experienced as rejection of her life. Her words, if actually put onto paper, became real, “flesh” as it were. Her words, reflections of her life and experiences of pain, joy, sorrow and delight, love and hate, kindness and meanness, gain and loss, would all become flesh. And once the word becomes flesh, it is subject to the judgment, misunderstanding, rejection and ultimately, denial of those who read the word. Those who interact with that word have the choice to pick apart, criticize, judge and demean the word that becomes flesh. The great thing about hoarding words is no one has the opportunity to reject your words.

I understood her fear. Because, on a grander scale with eternal significance, that demeaning and rejection, misunderstanding and denial of the word that became flesh actually happened over two thousand years ago when Jesus Christ, the Word of God, became flesh and dwelt among us and we beheld his glory. Yet we rejected him, misunderstood him, twisted his words, tried to trap him with his words, and nailed him to a cross, which ironically enough had the words King of the Jews, posted above His torn and bleeding head, because we could not tolerate the truth and poignancy of God’s word to us. 

My friend went on, looking for understanding and pardon to continue in her hoarding. Of course, I nodded sympathetically and compassionately, comprehending completely the fear of her words being devalued in such painful and wounding ways. It was no mystery why fear of rejection and misunderstanding would lead to hoarding of words. Who, in their right mind, would want to subject themselves to such possible rejection and ridicule?

As she poured out her verbal heart to me, trusting me to value her words, I was constrained to out her hoarding.  Though I could understand her thinking and her fear, I could not condone it. I could not. I could relate to her fear, but I was compelled to remind her as we shared a simple meal together, remembering as often as we did, that the eternal Word chose and dared to become flesh. That Word made flesh came into a world pouring out a life of love, mercy, compassion, forgiveness, and life itself, willing to be misunderstood, willing to be rejected, willing to be denied, willing to die, all for love’s sake. And because my friend is called to Christ, and to living as He did and does, I reminded her, with flawed and hesitant words, that her words too, must become flesh and be sent out to live among people who can, in her words, behold truth and grace, and find life.