Reading: What is a Good Christian Writer?

What is a Good Christian Writer?

By Adam Navis

I love books on writing. I own fifty-seven books related to writing. There are how-to guides, idea prompts, and books that outline fifty ways to plot your novel. My shelves hold books about creativity, inspiration, or the "spirituality” of writing. These books offer many things. For example, they offer the technical instruction that I may not have gotten in school (or wasn't ready for at the time). They provide inspiration, writing prompts, and suggest solutions to troubling plot points. They also offer reassurance against the voices in my head telling me that I don't have anything worth putting down on the page.

But these books are also a trap. They approach writing as if it is a single, uniform thing. As if writing can be deconstructed, ground into powder, digested, and reconstituted within us--a kind of literary tincture. I fall into their trap because I want so badly for this to be true. I want to be able to pick up a book on writing and find the one thing I've been doing wrong! When in truth, books on writing are a lot like books on weight loss: they can be fun, inspiring, and helpful, but they can also provide the feeling that you've taken a step toward accomplishing your goal when you haven't. In this way, they scratch the creative itch without requiring the hard work of actually writing. This can be equally true of attending conferences, forming a writing group, or promoting your work on social media.

There are other problems with these books as well. They make assumptions about the hierarchical value of different kinds of writing (literary vs. academic vs. popular). They frequently ignore cultural or socio-economic differences that influence the amount of time or support available to an aspiring writer. They sometimes make assumptions about goals, intended audiences, access to markets, vocabulary, tone, use of technology, and personal preferences. They make these assumptions because most aspiring writers are just like me: they want a simple formula for writing success. In order to provide it, books on writing need to overlook the specific needs, cultural differences, or individual situation of the would-be writer. It's the equivalent of providing a student with a standardized test when what they need is an individualized education plan (IEP).

Which is not to say there is nothing to be learned by studying the writers we admire. If we want to know what it means to be a Christian writer, we would do well to consider the work of writers like C.S. Lewis, Flannery O'Connor, Madeline L'Engle, and Joyce Carol Oates. Their books on writing should be included in any canon of what it means to write as a Christian.

However, to limit ourselves to these writers neglects the work of other great Christian writers--writers like Maya Angelou and Toni Morrison--who would qualify for consideration on their faith or literary merit alone. Further, there are Christians whose faith is harder to weigh down with the anchor of orthodoxy--people like David James Duncan, Paulo Coelho, or John Updike. And what of Thomas Merton, who is respected among the orthodox, but held some unorthodox views? He is a great writer, but should he be included? Is he Christian enough?

This means that in my quest to understand what a Christian writer should look like, I had two problems: first, that writing is not a single, uniform thing. And second, that the Christian faith is not a single, uniform thing. Therefore, if I wanted to study Christian writers, I had a problem of editorial selection: who gets canonized? Since there is no predetermined group of people who are inarguably good Christian writers, any grouping would be editorial--biased toward the preferences of whoever selects the group. If I'm setting the group and I haven't read Toni Morrison, I may not include Toni Morrison.

It was this dilemma that pushed me, in the spring of 2014, to undertake a two-pronged approached to understanding what it looks like to be a good Christian writer. The first part was to read as much as I could from successful Christian writers who had written or spoken on the writing process. However, before I could do this, I had to accept the limits of my selection process and therefore the limits of my conclusions. Secretly, part of me hoped that maybe I would be the one to find the literary key to unlock the secret to writing success. However, I could not forget that the only way to make definitive conclusions would be by ignoring outlier voices.

Where the first prong went broad, the second prong went narrow. It was an ethnographic study of the habits, attitudes, beliefs and practices of good writers at Western Theological Seminary, in Holland, Michigan. I chose this school because, first of all, as a student in their Doctor of Ministry program, I had access to students and faculty. Second, I chose them because they were Christians who were already doing a lot of writing. And third, it was a good context because there were structures available to compensate for my biases in selection[1] and questioning.^[2]

The reason I chose ethnography is because it was a methodology that did not seek to iron out all the wrinkles in order to present a conclusive statement. Rather, ethnography

[I]s a form of social research used by sociologists, anthropologists, historians, and other scholars to study living human beings in their social and cultural contexts. Participant observation is the hallmark of this kind of social research. Ethnographers go to the places where people live, work, or pray in order to take in first hand the experience of group life and social interactions.[3]

Ethnography names and accepts both the limits and the biases of the research. It also explores one specific situation; if there are insights that apply to other situations, those are left to the people in those situations. It is a methodology more concerned with description than prescription, and tries to create what Clifford Geertz in Interpretation of Cultures calls "thick description”: a rich, interconnected, multi-faceted picture of life in context.[4]

Within ethnography I used Robert O. Brinkerhoff's success-case methodology.^[5] This means the research went in-depth (qualitative) with a few, specially selected cases to create a "thick description”^[6] (ethnography) and by focusing on the instances where a desired characteristic (good writing) is present (success-case) it could identify the common and particular practices. Essentially, I asked a bunch of good writers what they thought about writing. Then I compared their answers with the wider literature on faith and writing. My thinking was that if I could find a resonance between the two sets of data, I would gain a clearer picture of what it looked like to be both a Christian and a writer.

The results were six characteristics:

1) Writers are people.

2) They read well.

3) They care about the craft of writing.

4) They embrace the vulnerability inherent in writing.

5) They write with their whole selves.

6) They write pastorally.

There was one characteristic that was present in the popular literature, but that was conspicuously missing from the research results.

7) That Christian writers write with a prophetic voice.

Writers are People

Somewhere in a café in Paris, sits The Writer. He is bent over his lineless journal, chain-smoking, and drinking wine, even though it's only early afternoon. People walk by and whisper to each other phrases like, "starving artist,” "misunderstood genius,” "commune with the muse.” The Writer is everything you are not. The Writer pals around with David Foster Wallace--erudite, academic, and ahead of his time. The Writer told Jack Kerouac to write On the Road on a mythical single scroll. The Writer is as reclusive as J.D. Salinger or Harper Lee. He saw J.K. Rowling's outlines for Harry Potter on bar napkins. He can outdrink Hemingway. The Writer is as self-destructive as Edgar Allen Poe or Hunter S. Thompson. He can match wits with Mark Twain. He can see the injustices of society better than Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, or Solzhenitsyn. The Writer is a real writer, because he embodies the craft. He is almost a different species--a demi-god above mortals. He is a Titan with a typewriter.

The Writer is also a myth. The myth of The Writer is as destructive as it is prevalent. It turns writers into members of a country club of the damned. It stops regular people from writing because they do not feel qualified; they assume they lack a certain je ne sais quoi to be a writer. It is bad when a critic crushes a writer's dream, but it is tragic when a writer sabotages herself out of fear.[7] Too often, original work is crushed under the weight of the writer's own sense of inadequacy.

The truth is, writers are just people who write. They contain within their ranks not only various personal preferences, but, like all people, they are affected by sickness, the weather, the seasons, hunger, thirst, or lack of sleep. They are busy raising families, paying bills and worrying about how long it has been since they changed the oil in their car. They have church obligations, diets they can't keep, and stiff backs in the morning. They have favorite television shows, sports teams, restaurants, and vacation spots. They are just as distracted by cute puppy videos on YouTube as anyone else.

Therefore, good writers are not something other. They do not have special access to the muse. They are not exempt from the pains or struggles of life. Even those people at the highest level of literature are a combination of talent, hard work, and luck. There are as many ways to write as there are writers. Michael Chabon (The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay, Telegraph Avenue) begins writing at 10:30 pm to accommodate his children. E.B. White (Charlotte's Web) needed silence to write while Stephen King (Carrie, The Shining) edits to heavy-metal music. Ray Bradbury (Fahrenheit 451) wrote everyday while Sheri Reynolds (The Rapture of Canaan) needs to take lengthy breaks from her writing schedule. Gary Schmidt (Ok For Now) has won the Newberry Honor twice, but still teaches college students.

This diversity of life-styles, personal preferences, and basic humanity showed up repeatedly at Western Theological Seminary. For example, there were people who majored in English as undergraduates,^[8] but others who focused on history, theater, music, international relations, or religion. Some people had been formally trained in composition, but others never held a passing interest in gerunds, participial phrases, or the correct use of a semi-colon.^[9] Students and faculty alike had time constraints, life circumstances, and personalities that created limits to their writing, but each also found their own unique way to write in the midst of life's messiness.

Good Writers are Good Readers

A universal truth is a rare thing, but this comes close: all good writers read. They read widely--not restricting themselves to the genre in which they write or wish to write. They read not only fiction and nonfiction, but also the sub-genres within each category: poetry,^[10] science fiction,^[11] travelogues,^[12] westerns,^[13] fantasy,^[14] young adult literature,^[15] and memoir.

They also read deeply. For example, within a genre, good writers know that part of being a good reader is finding the right books.^[16] This is not always as simple as ingesting the most popular books or reading the books on a course syllabus--a fact that became apparent to Michael, ^[17] a well-published professor, early in his career:

One of the things I noticed in my first few years of teaching is that most books assigned in seminary are not written for seminary students. They are written for other scholars because that's what the guild gives incentive for. And it's students trying to overhear what scholars are saying to each other. That's not actually very helpful.

Assigning academic texts and expecting students to write for non-academic audiences is a bit like teaching cellular biology and expecting students to be prepared to work as a zookeeper. This is why good writers manage their reading. They aren't suspicious of their reading, but they recognize that a book can be rich in content but poor in form.^[18] They recognize that a single book (or even several) has limits and therefore push themselves (and their professors) to find alternative voices or visions.

To this end, a couple of professors interviewed occasionally told students to learn from the text, but not to emulate an author's writing style.^[19] When students were struggling to grasp a difficult concept, they may offer an alternative text that is more accessible. However, they did this hesitantly, recognizing that new understandings usually require struggle. They wanted to balance "spoon-feeding” students with abandoning them to drown in a difficult text. One professor, Stewart, tried to expose students to a range of readings, he said that, "I have kind of the basic stuff. [Students] may not consider it basic, but things that are easier. Then I have what I consider "stretch” material. I want to stretch people a little bit, as well as give them things they can read and feel good about because they understand.”

Not only do good writers read, but they also know how to use what they read.^[20] While a lot of reading stems from curiosity--as opposed to looking for support for a pre-formulated argument--good writers are able to balance their own words with the words of others. Some good readers give their curiosity a long leash, even incorporating their wider, non-academic reading into their academic work.^[21] Bonnie, a student who was, in her own words, "a big fan of fiction,” always tried to find a narrative element to weave through her academic work.^[22] Some readers of poetry hoped their prose would have a lyric beauty. Tanya, a student close to graduation, explained her desire that, "even in academic papers, to have it not sound really stuffy and dry, but to have those papers have life and vibrancy. To feel engaging and like I paid attention to the words that I was using.”

Still, there were writers who kept their academic writing separate from their personal writing. They did this either because they were more comfortable within the parameters of academic writing or because they don't feel confident to incorporate a story without being moralistic or to use a poetic element without being sentimental. Robin, a professor who cares deeply about writing, admitted that, "I'm not so good at bringing in the stories, the human interest hook. That's why I feel more at home in the academic setting where you don't really need that hook. The hook is the thinker. And the person has to read it because it's in their field.”

That good writers are good readers is so prevalent among the wider literature it could almost be taken as gospel. Susan Sontag (In America) summarized this fact: "Reading, the love of reading, is what makes you dream of becoming a writer. And long after you've become a writer, reading books others write--and rereading the beloved books of the past--constitutes an irresistible distraction from writing. Distraction. Consolation. Torment. And, yes, inspiration.”

Anne Lamott (Traveling Mercies, Hard Laughter) represents many writers who found comfort in books starting at a young age.

I read more than other kids; I luxuriated in books. Books were my refuge. I sat in corners with my little finger hooked over my bottom lip, reading, in a trance, lost in the places and times to which books took me. And there was a moment during my junior year in high school when I began to believe that I could do what other writers were doing. I came to believe that I might be able to put pencil in my hand and make something magical happen.

Nevertheless, however much she wanted to "make something magic happen,” Anne Lamott still needed to do the hard work of writing. She still needed to work on her craft.

Good Writers are Craft Writers

Everyone can write, but not everyone can write well. Even for the most talented, good writing is really hard work. For experienced writers there are no synonyms. They can debate the differences between begin, ensue, and start. They stress over semi-colons. They study the tradition, the current trends, and the creative process. This is not something they do only on the weekends (though some may only have the weekends available to do it). There is a level of seriousness and professionalism to their work. Madeline L'Engle writes about honing her craft that,

[We must] let go whatever we may consider our qualifications. There's a paradox here, and a trap for the lazy. I do not need to be "qualified” to play a Bach fugue on the piano (and playing a Bach fugue is for me an exercise in wholeness). But I cannot play that Bach fugue at all if I do not play the piano daily, if I do not practice my finger exercises. There are equivalents of finger exercises in the writing of books, the painting of portraits, the composing of a song. We do not need to be qualified; the gift is free; and yet we have to pay for it.^[23]

Each writer interviewed admitted they have to "pay” for their writing. For example, Tanya admitted, "I think I pay attention to how it looks, how it sounds--instead of just dashing something off.” There were several points where writers took care with their work: in identifying the audience, selecting the right genre, and in polishing the details of grammar and punctuation.

It was a common sentiment among the students interviewed that they questioned for whom they were writing when they wrote academic papers. But even as a professor, Robin admitted that one of her biggest struggles as a writer was the struggle to understand her audience. Likewise, Michael noted how changing the supposed audience changes the elements of a piece, saying that, "a paper is not a paper is not a paper.” Meaning, that to write something for "the NPR crowd”^[24] is different than writing for blog readers, which is different than writing for a professor.^[25] A writer's intended audience will dictate the length, vocabulary, tone, use of the 1st person, citation requirements, assumptions, and the scope of the piece. When the audience is unclear it is hard to move forward in the writing process. Most often, when a good writer stalls in their writing or when their writing doesn't resonate, it is likely they are unclear about the intended audience for their work.

If the audience is clear, good writers know the strengths and limits of each genre and are able to work within them.^[26] In an academic context, most of the students were able to write a solid academic paper.^[27] But several noted how, when there was flexibility in permissible forms, they took full advantage to push the limits.^[28] While they recognized the importance of pairing the right form with the right audience, they also saw how digital media is making it easier to integrate photos and videos, solicit reader response through social media, and produce high-quality material at a low cost (and with little oversight). Michael saw a potential pitfall for a seminary that continues to focus entirely on traditional academic writing. Saying that,

I would like to see more graduates entering into writing of various sorts in their pastoral ministry. I do feel there needs to be more critical, theological reflection through some of the issues of genre and some of the traps that pastors can fall into. Social media has built-in genre limitations and I think people tend to think of it just as "words” or "digital information” and it's not. They're genres. And I think there is a place for it, but it's pretty hazardous too. I think pastors can really make mistakes if they don't understand what is inherent in these genres.

Some research participants struggled to understand their audience. Some had difficulty with particular genres of writing. But none were particularly worried about proper grammar, accurate punctuation, or proper citation. They simply assumed that these things were part of the craft of writing. Bonnie summed up the common sentiment by saying, "It is only after you have mastered those rules that you're allowed to take liberties...You have to master the rules, otherwise they master you.” Still, several students noted how the faculty's fanaticism for accurate citation caused an unproductive anxiety among the student-body. Franklin said that,

We spend so much time fighting about what footnotes to use. And what kind of citation. And there's anxiety about formatting but that's about the only thing. There's a regular sort of reminder, 'This is the kind of citation to use. This is the kind footnote to use.' I think students feel anxiety to make sure that their formatting is correct. I think, for whatever reason professors have given marks out, against bad formatting but then not so much about the actual content.

Still, even if they feel anxiety, good writers have a plan for how they are going to write. There are various methods for getting the job done, but most writers were aware of their own particular process. They recognized the limits of time, the relative importance of the piece, and the amount of energy they had available. Time management is critical to writing well. And yet, this was a struggle for both students and professors. A common reason writers in this context didn't get feedback on their work, do multiple drafts, or avoid easily correctable mistakes is because they hadn't budgeted enough time. Robin wished she got more feedback on her work, but admitted that, "part of [not getting feedback] is I'm not naturally inclined to do that, but another part is time. I'm usually scrambling to meet a deadline.” Any number of research participants could have said the exact same thing.

Good Writers Embrace Vulnerability

When I asked her about her writing process, Robin laughed and said, "The word 'anguish' comes to mind.” She was not alone in this sentiment. Many comments swirled around the emotional weight of writing. And while not everyone used the same language, most of it boiled down to an understanding that good writing requires some level of vulnerability.

First off, there is the vulnerability of the blank page. Tanya explained it this way: "there's something intimidating when there are no words on the page and there's plenty of other tasks in life to do. It feels like, "Oh no! There's this big thing I have to approach again.” It takes courage to step out onto the blank page, because you are accompanied by the fear that, this time, the words won't come. There's that whisper in your ear that anything good you've written in the past was a fluke and everyone will finally see you for the fraud you are. This state of fear is as true for the first year seminary student as it is for the successful writer.^[29]

But there is a second type of vulnerability that occurs: the vulnerability of sharing your work with other people. Penny summed it up well when she said, "It's one thing to write for yourself, where you sort of know your own language, but its another thing to have someone else read your writing and say, 'What does this mean?'” Likewise, Rose spoke about how, "If they're critiquing my writing, they're critiquing me. Sometimes I wonder am I going to be strong enough to take it if someone says, 'This is terrible! Your writing's horrible! This doesn't work!' There's always some anxiety. There's always some.”

Sharing your writing opens you to critique--both of style and content, but it also opens you to approval and praise, which can sometimes prove harder to accept. In fact, when participants were told that they were included in the research because they were identified as good writers, many reacted with surprise,^[30] disagreement,^[31] or qualification.^[32]

The necessity of vulnerability in writing is inarguable, but there are three different responses to this fact: paralysis, perfection, and feedback. Paralysis happens when a writer is so overwhelmed by the blank page that they can't even begin. All they can see is the potential futility of their effort, the enormity of the task, or the raw nerve they aren't strong enough to expose. They simply can't write.^[33] Even those writers who have learned to deal with writing paralysis still wrestle with blocks from time to time. One example would be Franklin, who had stopped writing anything beyond that which was required for class. He felt confident in his abilities, but he also spoke about the anxiety of sharing his writing:

Am I performing at a level appropriate? Am I growing? Am I improving? Am I writing at a level that [the faculty] think I should be writing at? That sort of productive anxiety. On my blog some of that anxiety gets pretty selfish and petty. Do people like me? Are people going to like this post? If someone stumbled upon this blog and read this article will they become a follower? Will they share this with others? I think that's some of the reason why I haven't been [writing] as regularly.

The second way that writers deal with vulnerability is by striving for perfection. They try to conquer the blank page by sheer force of will. Typically, this group has done well in school, getting good grades by writing to the expectations of their teachers.^[34] They might write a single draft of high-quality prose, but frequently will wait until the deadline to do so. By waiting until the last minute, they minimize the time for revision. For the perfectionist, it is better to have it done and out of her hands than have to accept that they might have been able to do better. ^[35] Robin is a self-identified perfectionist, "Most of the time, I have done very little revision. Usually I write, I get maybe a few feedbacks--because I'm detail oriented, I don't have a lot of typos--I hardly ever do revision.”

Now, perfectionism can come from a place of fear, but for someone like Robin, it can also come from a desire to do justice to the subject she's writing about. She explained how "there's a whole layer of anxiety around wanting to be faithful and accurate, not in just a legalistic way, but faithful to what God has revealed and feeling the weight of trying to represent really big doctrines.” And, as noted before, time management is always a concern for writers, so being able to handle a certain amount of work without needing extensive feedback can save time and energy. While all writing is improved by getting feedback, the reality is that there is not always time in a busy schedule to get extensive feedback. Of course, knowing when to handle something on your own and when to seek help is a skill all its own.

And yet, making time for feedback is the third way good writers deal with the vulnerability of writing. In this way, they move toward the vulnerability and make it helpful and productive. Yet, good writers do not share their work with whoever is willing to read it. Instead, they manage their feedback process^[36] by being deliberate about what kind of feedback they want,^[37] who they trust to read their work,^[38] and when in the process they're ready to share their writing.^[39]

Interestingly, many of the students in this research used faculty critique as the primary (often only) form of feedback,^[40] deferring to the faculty because of their expertise. Plus, the students believed that most of the faculty genuinely wanted them to succeed,^[41] even if, as Susan said, "it's easy to get defensive when you don't get a good grade on something.” Unfortunately, most of the feedback came too late, in the form of comments on a graded assignment rather than integrated into various aspects of the writing process--like brainstorming, outlining, research, drafting--where feedback might make a more significant difference on the final product.

This touches on one of the problems of trying to write well in an academic context: grading. Assigning a grade is a very definitive evaluation of a writer, one that reinforces a power dynamic which may actually work against vulnerability.^[42] If the only feedback comes from a professor, and then only at the end of the semester (through the simplistic form of a letter-grade), rather than through a semester-long participatory feedback process, then students will either be forced to develop systems of feedback outside the classroom or to write in a guarded way, adapting their style and content to the specific proclivities of each professor. Building faculty feedback into a course isn't always fun or easy, for either the faculty or the student, but when done well, it can build long-term writing skills and confidence.^[43]

There were two research participants who seemed more willing to embrace vulnerability than most. The first participant, Stewart, showed very little anxiety about sharing his work. He explained that he saw writing less as a quest for perfection than a necessary exchange on the road to understanding. He said,

I feel quite good about [feedback], but I also don't see it as having to have had achieved perfection. I'm interested to see how other people will interact with it. Whether or not it resonates with them. Certainly if they find errors, I'm interested in that. But also different ways that people might see things, which is always surprising to me, how everyone is looking at the world from very different lenses. It's always intriguing.

The other person was Jesse, a student who saw his writing as worship. He said that, "I write in a personal way. I prepare myself to open up to people and not be afraid. When I view [writing] as a gift from God--that God would be with me when I share pieces of myself--then [I've been], not rewarded, but definitely blessed in my vulnerability.”

It isn't just writers in this project who have some level of fear and insecurity about their writing. Writers everywhere carry pockets of vulnerability, fear, and insecurity about their work. Garrison Keillor writes that, "[Writing] can be pleasurable, but only if the material you write is good. If it's not, you're filled with self-loathing. If the material is good and funny, you still loathe yourself, of course.”^[44] Reflecting on her life as a writer, Susan Sontag wrote, "What you accumulate as a writer are mostly uncertainties and anxieties.”^[45] And John Steinbeck wrote that,

I suffer as always from the fear of putting down the first line. It is amazing the terrors, the magics, the prayers, the straitening shyness that assail one. It is as though the words were not only indelible but that they spread out like dye in water and color everything around them^[46]

But perhaps Anne Lamott paints the best picture of the vulnerability of writing:

[T]he bad news is that if you're at all like me, you'll probably read over what you've written and spend the rest of the day obsessing, and praying that you do not die before you can completely rewrite or destroy what you have written, lest the eagerly waiting world learn how bad your first drafts are.^[47]

Good Writers are Integrated Writers

Writing can feel like an insurmountable task. How then, do good writers do it? How do they find time to not only to pay their bills, raise families, maintain friendships, but also read books, work on the craft of writing, and pour out their heart? The answer is that they are personally integrated.

They do not see themselves as sometimes a writer, as if writing were a mask they could remove when it is inconvenient. They are a writer from dawn to dusk and in their dreams. Writing is not a box to be checked, but an expression of themselves, in some cases an artistic expression. The artistic element is significant because good writers know there is a difference between getting an "A” on a paper and being a good writer. Proper punctuation can get good grades.^[48] Writing toward the grading rubric can get good grades.^[49] A modest investment in craft can get good grades.^[50] But integrated writers believe that writing is important, not just for school, but because it is an expression of life and faith.^[51] Alice captured what many integrated writers feel when she said,

I learn about the world through writing. I might experience things in the world, but when I write, I sit down and I think about those things, what I've learned or what I felt, and through that I learn about what's going on or about my interaction within the world.

Most writers are deeply curious about the world. They use writing to help focus their attention on the world around them and make sense of their experiences. They are open to being surprised by what they discover, even when what they discover isn't pleasant.^[52] Therefore, writing is part of a larger posture of engagement^[53] that may also include teaching,^[54] lecturing, running a workshop, reading, or talking to friends and colleagues.^[55] Yet, there remains something special about writing that solidifies an ephemeral idea in a way these other methods do not. Rose spoke of how, "I think [it's] a continuing effort to know who I am, to have an honest engagement with myself, because I think if I'm not doing that [then] my writing isn't as good.” And Alice captured the interplay between good writing and self-knowledge,

If I'm engaging with myself, my writing overall will be better. My writing is going to be more honest, more aware. My writing isn't as shallow. If I'm feeling something and I'm trying to push it to the side or ignore it, it's [still] there, popping up. And that can hurt my writing.

Living integrated lives allows writers in a hectic academic context to look for ways to integrate their learning. Several people leveraged connections between their classes in order to save time.^[56] Some developed a meta-theme over a semester's work to be able to draw on the same research. Still others mentioned slanting an assignment toward their interests,^[57] even adapting an assignment's format when necessary.^[58] This was not done entirely as a matter of efficiency but because integrated writers are engaged with the world in a way that touches their hearts.

Just as integrated writers write from the heart, they also write to the heart.^[59] They try to connect with readers in a way that touches the mind and moves the heart. In this way, integrated writers assume an integrated reader. Stewart said that,

I think people are more driven by their desires than their minds. And their minds are usually used to backup their desires. So I think changing people's desires is just as important...So I think a lot about beauty and what beauty does in order to lead people into the next step, in whatever [I'm] doing through writing.

This style of writing--from the heart, to the heart--yields writing that is full of the writer's voice. A writer's voice is her style, the unique character that runs across her work. It may be a sense of wonder,^[60] detailed precision,^[61] or a sense of humor that is snarky^[62] even boarding on inappropriate.^[63] For Janet, giving her voice room to play was what gave her the courage to participate in a rigorous academic setting. She said,

I'm not going to be the best systematic theology thinker out there. I'm not going to be the best at remembering dates and events in history. But what I can do is take the things I have learned from those classes and give my voice to them. [I can] make them somewhat relevant for today.

This too, is in keeping with the wider literature of writers reflecting on writing. Silas House (A Parchment of Leaves) says that, "People always think that writers are smarter than other people. That's the biggest hoax in the world. I just think writers are the ones who are looking in different ways; they're observing what a lot of other people take for granted, and just writing it down.” If we're going to write well, it is going to take all we have to offer.

Good Writers are Pastoral Writers

In the seminary interviews, there was an understanding of writing that was not found in the wider survey, at least not with the same language: that good writers try to be pastoral writers. A pastoral writer tries to write in the same spirit of hospitality they would display when hosting a guest in their home or meeting someone for the first time. In the seminary context, many of the parallels people drew related to the church: the hospitality required when speaking from the pulpit, when serving the bread and the wine, or when baptizing a new believer.^[64]

Pastoral writers believe that writing can be a calling. They understand it to be God's will that they write. This belief could easily result in an attitude of arrogance, but more often people spoke against writing for self-promotion^[65] or writing to show how well they used words or how superior a writer they were.^[66] Instead, a pastoral writer writes to build a more expansive vision of the Kingdom of God. They may write critically, but with tenderness. Michael explained this,

I do not want to write with bitterness or anger or in any sort of self-protective mode. Let's be creative and gracious and assume the best of our readers--try to open up a more expansive vision of what God is doing. If I have to criticize people on the way, I will do it, but I'll try to do it graciously. And it's that positive constructive task which has got to drive it. I refuse to deconstruct without reconstructing, without giving an alternative vision that takes seriously the ministry concerns and tries to make a case for a more expansive positive vision.

This attitude of graciousness extends from subject to audience.^[67] Stewart explains how respect for his audience influences the way he writes, "I want people to know that I care. I care for my subject matter as well as my audience. And that I love what I'm doing...I think even a kind of gentleness with my intended audience. I want that to come out because, well, I'm a Christian.” In this way, pastoral writers approach their writing from a sacramental posture. They don't attempt to master or control a subject by their knowledge or their writing acumen,^[68] but rather honor and revere the deep theological and personal complexities of life.^[69]

Interestingly, Michael noted how trying to write more pastorally can actually make you a more pastoral person. He explained that,

There are different skills that will be developed through writing and these actually do relate to pastoral ministry. You can see it at any church council meeting or any general assembly, people who can't actually hear a perspective--other than their own--and express it in cogent terms. And certainly with theology it's a huge skill as well. It's a skill to find your own voice, but also to authentically hear the voices of others. And writing is a tool to help develop that skill.

Therefore, the good Christian writer will see what they do as a gift from God, but a gift meant for the good of other people. You don't need to be a pastor to write pastorally, but when you do, it can become an act of worship.^[70] Out of God's call to write flows the drives to read, to master the craft, to embrace vulnerability, and to live a fully integrated life. And all of this is done, not for our glory, but to build up the church. Robin said it well:

Communication is a gift. And it's a gift you can offer to others. Investing in that gift is part of your calling while you're a student. You may think, "I'm not going to write again.” but you will communicate. And you may have to write newsletters, or you may be preaching sermons, or you may be writing something more substantial. There are different ways of communicating and by focusing on your writing and investing in becoming the clearest communicator you can, you're offering a gift to the church.

What about the Prophetic Voice?

It made sense, given the seminary context, to find writers who saw their writing in terms of a pastoral call. But it was surprising, again given the context, not to find anyone speak of writing in terms of the prophetic voice. After all, the prophetic voice is based in the long tradition of the biblical prophets. Abraham Joshua Heschel, in his book The Prophets explains it this way,

The prophet is a man who feels fiercely. God has thrust a burden upon his soul, and he is bowed and stunned at man's fierce greed. Frightful is the agony of man; no human voice can convey its full terror. Prophecy is the voice that God has lent to the silent agony, a voice to the plundered poor, to the profaned riches of the world. It is a form of living, a crossing point of God and man. God raging in the prophet's words.^[71]

The prophetic voice in writing is that voice which beholds the world with clear eyes and whose heart cannot be still. The prophet speaks truth to power. It is the ability to look at something and say, "This is not the way things are supposed to be!” To stand on the proverbial street corner and use your words to shake things up, to make a scene, to ruffle feathers, rock the boat, roar like a lion. Anne Lamott says it this way,

We write to expose the unexposed. If there is one door in the castle you have been told not to go through, you must. Otherwise, you'll just be rearranging furniture in rooms you've already been in. Most human beings are dedicated to keeping that one door shut. But the writer's job is to see what's behind it, to see the bleak unspeakable stuff, and to turn the unspeakable into words--not just into any words but if we can, into rhythm and blues.^[72]

The prophetic is often the voice from the margins. The prophet is not overly concerned with stability, security, and the status quo, in fact, she is often looking to upset these things. Which is perhaps why this element did not show up in the research. It is not that students and faculty do not have anything to say about injustice, but that they feel the risk of ruffling the wrong feathers. Usually prophets are unpopular. Prophetic students risk their grade, while prophetic professors risk tenure and rank within the institution.

It is also significant that all research participants were--as are the majority of students and faculty--white Protestants. In America, the strongest prophetic voices in America have come from people of color like James Baldwin, Martin Luther King Jr., Maya Angelou, Toni Morrison; writers who offered a story that the world was not always ready to hear. Cornel West spoke about his writing,

I look at the world through the lens of the cross. That means I always start with the catastrophic. The horrendous, the scandalous, the monstrous...In America, you talk about the catastrophic, you talk about what? Indigenous people, slavery, women and patriarchy and domestic violence leaving scars. You talk about gay brothers and lesbian sisters taught to hate themselves. Talk about workers crushed by capitalist elites. It's the view from the bottom, up. It's the view through the lens of the cross. And that view is always a minority view within the Christian community.[73]

Surely the demographics of the context are significant. If the student (or faculty) population contained more voices that are typically marginalized, including women, racial minorities, or LGBTQ students, it might increase the chance of finding people who see the world and their writing through "the lens of the cross.”

But this raises another question: could an institution like a seminary be a place that fosters the prophetic voice in its students and faculty? Or do institutions require a level of cohesiveness within its body in order to function? Can the prophetic ever be allowed? Or does permission negate the prophetic voice? What is the difference between prophetic and petulant? Can the Christian writer write prophetically while depending on the institution (school or church) for promotion, certification, or livelihood?

One faculty, who did not participate in the initial research and who wished not to be named, believed there were ways an institution could develop the prophetic voice within itself, and that some theological schools were already doing this, saying that, "A number of theological schools have fostered the prophetic voice across their institutions through programs, curricula, pedagogies, hiring, careful admissions processes...through incorporating cultural competency into the certificate of fitness process, and by incentivizing current faculty to write and teach with a more prophetic voice.”[74] It is messy to encourage and develop critical voices, but doing so is not a secondary issue. Fredrick Buechner summed up the importance of the prophetic voice,

One wonders if there is anything more crucial for the preacher to do than to obey the sadness of our times by taking it into account without equivocation or subterfuge, by speaking out of our times and into our times not just what we ought to say about the Gospel, not just what it would appear to be in the interests of the Gospel for us to say, but what we have ourselves felt about it, experienced of it. It is possible to think of the Gospel and our preaching of it as, above all and at no matter what risk, a speaking of the truth about the way things are.[75]